Page 197 of A Million To Fall

I grin at his mischief, and even though that kind of help wasn’t my original intent, I don’t hate how my body responds to the hunger in his eyes as they drift lazily down my body.

It’s been months since I’ve felt Boston, though I’ve imagined his hands on me hundreds of times since he ended things between us. I’m almost giddy with desire as I lead the way into the master bathroom.

I turn on the shower, the water hissing to life behind me. When I turn, Boston’s standing in the bathroom, just watching me. Where there was heat in his gaze only a moment ago, there’s now an openness, an almost childlike incredulity.

I step toward him, slow on purpose, until I’m close enough to feel his body heat. “You okay?”

He breathes a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Just… trying to convince myself you’re really here.”

A smile spreads across my lips. “I am. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He studies me, almost like some part of him still expects to wake up and find out this was just another dream.

“And you know what else?” I tilt my head up until our mouths are only an inch apart. “I love you. And I choose you.”

He stills.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” he whispers.

“How long?”

He shakes his head, eyes locked on mine. “Exactly as long as I’ve loved you.” He smiles softly. “My whole life.”

My breath hitches and I seal my lips to his. Slow at first. Soft and unhurried.

He keeps my pace, not rushing this moment. Just the sensual dance of our tongues, the careful caress of hands on skin.

I strip my clothes first, holding his eye contact the entire time and, god, I love how he responds. Not with words, but with every expression, every reaction. His pupils dilate when my bra falls to the floor, and the rise and fall of his chest turns shallow and ragged when I finally step out of my panties.

Then I turn my attention to him, undressing him slowly, methodically. Not just because of the sling binding his injured arm to his chest, but because there’s something delicious about the anticipation, the quiet ache that builds with each inch of skin revealed.

I peel his zip-up hoodie back from his good shoulder first, then carefully ease it away from the immobilized arm. His skin is warm, slightly damp with the steam building in the small space. My fingers graze down his chest, tracing the ridges of his lower abs, and his breath stutters.

When I lean in and flick my tongue over his nipple, he groans. The sound—low and guttural—makes its way straight to my core where need is already pooling.

“You okay?” I murmur, lifting my gaze to his.

He nods, eyes heavy.

“Good,” I whisper, and slip my hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers. I curl my fingers around his length.

He’s already hard.

I stroke him, slow and steady, and his lips part with a shaky inhale. His core tightens as his hips shift, but he doesn’t take more than I give.

“Skye…” he breathes, voice raw, composure fraying when I circle my thumb over his tip.

I lower myself onto my knees in front of him, pulling his sweats and boxers down. His eyes are dark, tracking my movement. Mine are upturned, locked on his while I gather my hair in a ponytail.

The bob of his Adam’s apple makes me smile.

When my hair is tied back, I grasp his erection, then lick the crown once. God, he’s delicious, addictively masculine.

His head tips back against the wall with a low thud. I see it in the tension of his jaw, the flex of his thighs—every inch of him is trying not to fall apart already.

I take him into my mouth, shallow at first, sucking gently. His breath hitches and his eyes slam shut.

The next pass is deeper, tighter. Then slower again. A swirl of tongue, a soft kiss to the underside, a flick over the sensitive ridge of the head.