Page 48 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

“A what?”

“A. Fucking. Runner.” I spit the words. “You run away and leave me hanging when I need you. And I needed you, Cole. So fuck off and go back where you came from.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” I reach behind me, hand fumbling for the doorknob.

He reaches past me and clicks the lock shut.

And then his hand just hovers there, pressed against the door, while we both breathe hard.

“I hated every second of being away from you,” he says, voice low, frayed. “I couldn’t paint. I couldn’t sleep. I thought leaving would make it easier. It didn’t. So if you need to hit me, scream at me—do it. But I’m not leaving you alone.”

“You already did,” I whisper.

He leans in. “Then let me prove I won’t.”

I expect the kiss to come fast, but it doesn’t. He just looks at me. And that pause—his restraint—sets my whole body on fire.

I grab his collar and kiss him first.

He groans against my mouth, catching me off guard as I push him back, flipping the power between us. I guide him to the edge of the desk, facing the mirror.

I can see us in the mirror, the truth of this pressed between glass and shadow.

His hands tighten on my hips, but he lets me take over. I shove his jacket off his shoulders, then roll my hips against him slowly, deliberately.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” I murmur.

“Tell me you still feel that way once I’m done with you,” he breathes.

He spins me around, kissing me harder, and lifts me onto the desk. The mirror reflects everything—my flushed skin, his mouth trailing down. He slides my shirt over my head, unclasps my bra, and runs his tongue along my collarbone, then lower.

When he reaches my breasts, he cups them both in his hands and groans.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.”

He takes the right nipple in his mouth first, then shifts—slowly, reverently—to the left. His tongue circles the metal of the piercing before pulling it between his lips, warm and wet. I arch my back, gasping, and he does it again, slower this time, his eyes never leaving mine in the mirror.

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs, flicking the tip of his tongue against the ring.

“Yes—fuck—yes.”

He kisses a trail down my stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my shorts and tugging them down, along with my panties. He drags me to the edge of the desk again, kneelsbetween my thighs, and grips my hips like he needs them to breathe.

“Spread your legs wider,” he says, his voice guttural.

When I do, he lowers his mouth to me, tongue flicking over my clit in one slow, teasing pass. Then another. Then deeper. His tongue moves with maddening precision—flicking, circling, flattening—until my whole body’s trembling.

He grips my thighs tighter, holding me open, and buries his mouth in me. The sounds he makes—needy, unfiltered—match my own. I buck against his face, moaning his name, and he groans into me, sending vibrations up my spine.

“Look at me,” he says roughly.

I force my eyes open, meeting his through the mirror just as he sucks hard on my clit. My hips jerk. I cry out. My hands grip the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing holding me to Earth.

When the orgasm hits, it’s shattering.

I fall apart on his mouth, calling his name, legs clenching around his head. He doesn’t stop. He keeps licking through it, drinking every last second of it down.

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