Page 40 of Depths of Desire
I wouldn’t have stopped now if the room had caught fire.
He leaned in again, fingers sliding through my curls, and kissed me like he was sure now, like it wasn’t just about desperation anymore. His mouth slowed, melted, grew reverent. The heat didn’t leave. It only shifted, more devastating for its tenderness. Like he wanted to remember how this felt in every nerve.
His hands framed my face, rough from pool chlorine and training. Mine were on his hips, guiding him forward, anchoring myself to the one thing in the world that felt right.
There were still too many clothes between us.
But this?
This was everything.
He kissed me like there was no such thing as later.
And I kissed him back like there’d never been a before.
The way he moved against me wasn’t frantic anymore. It was focused and measured, just so typically Oliver. Every shiftof his hips, every inch of contact was deliberate, testing how we fit, learning it all over again, even though we both knew. We remembered.
His nose brushed mine when he pulled back slightly, his mouth just hovering above mine, like he couldn’t bear the thought of space but needed a second to breathe. Our chests heaved in tandem. Sweat slicked the small of my back. His hand found it and pressed, lifting me closer against his body.
“I kept telling myself it was the only time,” he murmured.
I slid my hand up his spine. “Then stop lying.”
A low sound left his throat, part laugh, part growl. He kissed me again, this time slower, wetter, deeper, like he wanted to memorize the shape of my mouth with his own. His palm cupped my cheek, his thumb dragged across the corner of my lips, and I bit down gently, just to taste the tip of his finger.
He inhaled sharply and bucked forward.
I knew that sound. I knew that reaction. It was everything.
The grinding got more intense. His breath stuttered as he rocked into me, friction building between layers of fabric that barely concealed how hard he was. I felt the curve of him through his sweats, thick and hot, dragging along the front of my pants in a rhythm that made my head fall back against the floor.
My hand gripped his hip, keeping him close, keeping him there.
“Oliver,” I breathed. “You don’t have to stop.”
“I’m not going to,” he said. “Not this time.” His voice cracked at the edges. All of his control was coming apart. And God, it was beautiful. He leaned in, mouth at my ear, his breath warm and uneven. “You make me feel like I can’t hold back. Like I’m going to lose it if I stop touching you.”
“You don’t have to hold back,” I told him. “Not with me.”
And he didn’t.
His hands roamed over my chest, my ribs, and the slope of my stomach. He explored like it was the first time, but with the hunger of someone who already knew what he’d find.
We rolled. He was beneath me now, head tilted up to catch my kiss, his hips lifting to meet mine again and again. I set one hand beside his head, the other running over the smooth skin of his abdomen, tracing the line just above his waistband. He groaned when I did. His jaw flexed. His knuckles went white against the carpet as he fisted the edge of his shirt, desperate for something to anchor him.
My body was on fire, but my heart was worse. The tenderness of it all. The ache.
Because this wasn’t just desire anymore.
It wasn’t even an obsession.
It was a need. Honest, terrifying need; the kind that made your hands gentler, even while your body screamed for more.
I pressed our foreheads together.
“I’ve missed this,” I said, the words raw in my throat.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered back.
