Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
I take a breath. “Do I want you?” I say. “Yes. Have I thought about this for longer than is reasonable? Also yes. Am I scared? Kind of. Am I going to let that stop me?” I step closer, pressing my body fully against his, leaving no space for doubt. “No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
Something in his expression breaks.
In a good way.
He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks and finally got the all-clear. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Okay.”
He kisses me again, and this time there’s no question in it. His hand finds mine, fingers weaving, and without breaking the kiss he walks me backward, guiding, careful not to let me trip. My heels bump the rug, the doorway, the narrow hall wall. We fumble and laugh into each other’s mouths, breathless and clumsy and so damn alive.
He kicks the bedroom door shut behind us with a quiet thud.
The sound echoes in my chest like a seal on something I can’t name.
He backs me toward the bed, slowing at the last second so my knees hit the mattress gently. I sink down, pulling him with me, and we topple together in a tangle of limbs and covers.
He catches most of his weight on his arms, braced above me, giving me space, not pinning, not trapping. “How’s your anxiety level now?” he asks, voice rough, eyes searching mine.
“Somewhere between meltdown and transcendence,” I say. “It’s weird, I kind of like it.”
His mouth kicks up at the corner. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You adore me,” I remind him, breathless.
He drops his head, nuzzling my nose with his. “Yeah,” he says against my mouth. “I really, really do.” Then he kisses me like he’s claiming the words.
Like he’s claiming me.
His mouth is hot and sure, every brush of his lips a careful, thorough exploration. His hands settle at my waist again, fingers sliding under the hem of my shirt just enough to touch skin.
I shiver.
His palms are warm, calloused from too many keyboards and too many late nights with other people’s code. They glide up my sides, slow and reverent, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. He pauses at the line of my ribs, as if asking another silent question.
I answer by arching into his touch, my own hands skimming under the back of his shirt, fingers splaying over the flex of his muscles.
He makes a low sound in his chest, half groan, half something softer that hits me straight in the center.
We move together, the kiss deepening, our bodies adjusting almost automatically—finding angles, fitting closer, layers of barrier turning into annoyances.
He pulls back just enough to look down at me.
The lamplight from the hallway spills in under the door, painting him in soft gold and shadow.
“You’re sure?” he asks again, like he can’t stop verifying, like I might glitch any second and disappear.
I cup his face, thumbs brushing the edge of his jaw. “I’m sure,” I say. “Knight, I chose this. I’m choosing you. I want you to choose me back.”
His breath shudders out. “I already did,” he says. “I just… didn’t know if I was allowed to keep you.”
That’s it.
That’s the sentence that pushes me all the way over the edge.
“Idiot,” I whisper, kissing the word into his mouth. “You’re stuck with me.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating against my lips, and then there’s no more talking for a while.
Clothes become… negotiable.
Not in a frantic ripping way, but in a slow, deliberate unwrapping. Every inch of exposed skin feels monumental, like a reveal in a game I’ve been playing blind for years.
His hands are patient, careful, always giving me time to stop, to breathe, to change my mind. Every time I don’t—every time I pull him closer instead—I feel the last of his restraint unravel.
He touches me like I’m something he’s wanted for a long time and never thought he’d get to keep. Like he’s memorizing textures and sounds for safekeeping.
I touch him back with the same hunger.
He grips his dick, stroking it as he brings it closer. “You want this?”
I want to tell him desperately. That I’ve wanted him like this for so long it hurts. Instead, I smile. “Yes, please,” I beg.
He fists his dick, pushing it at my entrance. I hiss as he pushes deeper inside me.
The world shrinks to the press of him, the heat of him above me, the way we fit together without any room left for fear between us.
He murmurs my name against my skin like a prayer he doesn’t believe in.
I say his like a promise I absolutely do.
Time fractures.
There’s only this:
His breath, ragged in my ear.
My fingers pressing into his shoulders.
The way he says tell me if anything feels wrong even when everything feels impossibly, terrifyingly right.
We cross that last threshold together, not with dramatics or high drama, but with a shared, shaky exhale and a whispered yes that echoes between us like an oath.