Page 150 of Not Another Yesterday
“Holy fuck,” I whisper, not even trying to hide the desperation in my voice.
I kneel behind her, dragging my hand from her shoulder along her spine, slow and deliberate, like I’m tracing a path of worship. I settle at her hips, hands resting there as I take a breath, trying—and very much failing—not to lose my mind.
“You want it like this?” I ask, even though we both know the answer.
She gives the barest nod, followed by a breathy, desperate, “Yeah.”
I line myself up, guiding myself with one hand while the other rests gently on her waist. And then I pause. Just for a second.
Her doctor said it was safe. That I wouldn’t hurt her. That I wouldn’t hurt the baby. But there’s still a part of me—a loud, terrified part—that worries I could do damage just by wanting her too much. By needing her the way I do.
So I go slow, shaking with restraint as I push forward, easing into her inch by inch, every part of me tuned to her, the smallest shift in breath, the slightest sound. My body screams at me to possess her, to bury myself deep, to let go completely. But I don’t. I can’t. I won’t hurt her.
Cat’s impatience, however, tells me she doesn’t care for careful. She exhales sharply, hips pressing back, greedy for more. I give it to her—still steady, still mindful—until I’m fully, deeply inside her, surrounded by heat and softness and that impossible closeness that makes the rest of the world fade away. I hit the edge of her, the very limit of what she can take, and stay there.
“God, Cat,” I breathe, the words rasping from my chest. “You feel… fuck.”
She makes a sound—half-gasp, half-moan—and I pause, just to let myselffeel. The way my hands tremble on her hips, not fromhesitation, but from how vulnerable I am, how completely undone. How utterly, deeply, unconditionally in love I am.
I start to move, each thrust a long, deep stroke meant to savor her. To honor her. To hold her gently from the inside out. She moans, her fingers gripping the sheets, her back arching. I glide my hands over her waist, down to her hips, grounding myself in the feel of her skin, in the way her body yields and takes me in again and again.
But it’s not enough for her.
She pushes back into me harder, meeting my thrusts, trying to take more. Her breath stutters, her voice ragged. “Harder, Ran. Please,please—just…” she moans.
Her desperation undoes something in me.
She doesn’t want careful. She wantseverything. And she wants it now. Feral. Wild. Needy.
I grip her hips tighter, let go of the tension coiled in my spine, and give her what she’s begging for. My pace breaks. No more holding back. My body answers hers thrust for thrust, deeper, harder, meeting every roll of her hips with mine. She moans like she’s lost in it, hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her breath breaking on every exhale.
She’s taking what she needs, and fuck, Iwanther to.
She moans loudly, no care that the walls are paper-thin, no care who might overhear, like shewantsto make her pleasure known. Like she’s claiming it.
There’s no hesitation left. No fear. Just this rhythm we fall into. Sweat and skin and breath and need. Her body, wrapped around mine. Her moans, her heat, her strength. The way she commands it, commandsme. Not with words, but with her body, with the way she opens for me, the way shetrustsme to meet her right here, in the thick of it.
Every thrust is a vow. Every gasp, a prayer. This isn’t just sex. It’s devotion. It’s trust. It’s everything I’ve never known how to ask for. And somehow, still, everything she gives me freely.
Friday, June 23rd
Cat
I wake up warm, tangled in sheets and memory and the delicious ache of satisfaction still pulsing under my skin.
Despite the obscene hour we finally passed out, I feel… good. Great, actually. I feel rested and loose-limbed and sore in a way that makes my toes curl just thinking about it. My thighs ache. My lower back. Even my hips where his hands held me so tightly last night. It’s the kind of soreness that doesn’t ask for relief. It begs for a repeat.
But the bed is empty next to me.
Ronan’s already up.
Of course he is.
He never seems to need sleep the way I do, and lately I seem to need twelve hours plus a nap to be functional.
And I also need more of Ronan just to feel sane.
Wanting him isn’t new by any means. I’ve always wanted him. But lately it’s not just want. It’s need. Deep in my bones. In my blood. There’s a low, constant hum of desire threading through my days, tugging at the edges of my thoughts like a live wire. Sometimes all it takes is a glance. Sometimes it’s nothing, maybe just the memory of his voice, the smell of his skin, the way his hand looked on the curve of my thigh last weekend.
