My jaw goes slack at his dirty words. “No,” I gulp.
“I like that,” he says, then does it again.
“Shit,” I gasp in response and let my head fall to the bed.
He circles his tongue around my back entrance, then licks back down to my clit and flicks. When he presses his fingers a bit in between my cheeks while he sucks my clit, I nearly lose consciousness.
I hear the faint sound of a condom wrapper being ripped before I feel his cock line up at my entrance. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough that I know it will leave marks. Then he slams into me all the way. Gone is the gentle nature that he exuded last night. Replaced by a man completely unhinged.
The aggressive, dominant side is equally as satisfying. He fucks me hard and fast with no restraint. Every curse, every growl, even when he pulls my hair and increases the tempo … it all does something to me.
Each thrust opens up a side of me that I did not know existed. A sexual desire that seems to have been dormant for years, waiting for this man to unleash it.
The quiet afterward feels different than it did before. Not heavy. Not awkward.Just … settled.
Colton is stretched out beside me with one arm bent behind his head while the other rests loosely across my waist. His thumb drags slow, absent-minded circles over my skin, like he hasn’t fully come back to himself yet. The sheets are twisted around our legs, the air still warm, the city muted beyond the glass.
I let myself stay there longer than I probably should.
There’s something calming about the way he breathes. It feels steady and unhurried. Like the fact that neither of us is reaching for a phone or glancing at the clock. It feels intentional, like we’re both choosing to sit in what we did instead of rushing away from it.
I trace my fingers over his chest, following the familiar rise and fall of his breathing. The gesture feels intimate but also natural.
He turns his head toward me, eyes already open.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod. “Yeah. I just … needed a second.”
His mouth curves into a faint smile. “Take all the seconds you want.”
We stay like that for a while. No conversation. No pressure. Only the hum of the city and the soft intimacy of shared space. It’s the kind of quiet that usually makes me uneasy. The kind that invites too many thoughts, which haven’t been my friend for the last two years. But right now, it feels right.
Eventually, reality nudges its way back in.
“I should probably head out,” I say softly. “It’s Sunday. If I don’t do laundry and groceries today, I’ll spend the entire week regretting it.”
He exhales through his nose, amused. “You make that sound ominous.”
“It is,” I say. “Sunday prep is serious business.”
He rolls onto his side to face me, propping himself up on one elbow. His gaze drags over me slowly, openly, like there’s no part of me he feels the need to rush past.
“Thank you,” he says after a beat.
I blink. “For what?”
“For trusting me,” he says simply. “For staying.”
The words settle deeper than I expected. I swallow, nodding once. It’s like we know this is a leap for both of us. Me being this intimate with another man. Him being this intimate at all.
“You’re welcome.”
We get dressed slowly. No scrambling for clothes. No awkward dance around each other. When we reach the door, he pulls me in again, one hand warm at my lower back, grounding and familiar already.
The kiss he gives me is unhurried and deep.
“That was the best date I’ve ever been on,” he murmurs against my mouth.