Page 55 of Letting Go

I should stop this. Ishouldstop this.

But instead, I reach for the buttons on his shirt.

And when he pulls me up onto the counter, sweeping aside a bag of dog treats like it’s nothing, I wrap my legs around his hips like I’ve wanted to since the first phone call.

This isn’t smart. It isn’t slow. It isn’t clean.

But maybe it doesn’t have to be.

His mouth is hot on my throat, and I tilt my head back like I’ve forgotten I even have a spine. My fingers slide under his open shirt, sliding it off his shoulders, running my fingers over the hard lines of his stomach. Smooth skin, warm and taut, and; yep, tattoos. My fingertips trace the curve of ink, and he shivers. Actually shivers.

“I didn’t think we were doing this,” I breathe, right before he kisses me again. And then I’m not thinking at all.

“We’re doing this,” he says into my mouth. “Unless you say stop.”

But I don’t. I won't.

The countertop is digging into the backs of my thighs, but I don’t care. His hands are under my shirt now, fingers splayed wide, thumbs brushing the sides of my ribs in a way that makes my entire body hum. It’s been so long since anyone touched me like this.Wantedme like this. Not out of obligation or routine or some kind of marital pity, but like theyseeme.

Caden sees everything.

And right now, I want to be seen.

I grab his shirt and slide it off his shoulders, he lets out this growl of a laugh that sounds like it’s scraped from somewhere deep.

My tongue traces his lips, biting at the bottom one and he lets out a breath like that undoes him, like he didn’t expect me to take the lead. His hands slide my shirt over my head. I’m not wearing anything underneath; having escaped bra jail when Hannah left.

His breath catches, and for a second, he justlooksat me. Like reverent, open-mouthed awe.

“You’re killing me,” he says, voice rough.

“Good,” I whisper, and then his mouth is on my skin.

He works his way down with maddening slowness, tongue flicking the edge of my breast, his hands holding me in place like I might fly apart otherwise. I press my heel into his back, arch into him, and moan when his teeth scrape lightly, just enough to sting.

It’s chaos now. Limbs and heat and clothing disappearing one reckless, delicious layer at a time.

Somehow, we stumble to the couch, yes, the one I swore I’d burn, and collapse in a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing. Roxy lifts her head from the rug, watching us with zero judgment, while the puppy snores in a heap of blankets nearby. The absurdity of it almost breaks the tension, until he slips on a condom and slides inside me.

And then everything stops.

The air thickens. The world sharpens.

It’s not just sex. I knew it wouldn’t be.

It’s need and history and something that feels terrifyingly likehope.

I grip his shoulders, wrap my legs tighter, meet every movement with a desperate rhythm of my own. It’s fast, then slow. Deep. Not perfect. Too much. Not enough. I lose track of where I end and he begins. And for the first time in years, I don’t feel hollow. Or forgotten. Or like a placeholder in someone else’s life.

I feelwanted.

Seen.

He kisses my collarbone, his muscular body pressing me into the sofa as he thrusts, hard. Evey rub of his pubic bone against my clit sends a jolt of electricity through me.

When I come, it’s with a gasp so raw I surprise myself. He follows right after, holding onto me like I’m the last real thing in the world.

And when it’s over, neither of us moves. We’re slick and tangled and boneless, heartbeats racing against each other like a song on repeat.

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