He goes straight for every sensitive spot, like he knows my body better than I do—exact pressure, exact rhythm—driving the sound of my moans into his palm.
When his tongue dips lower, I moan and clamp my thighs around him. He doesn’t pull back, just presses in deeper, slow and deliberate, his nose brushing my clit.
I move against him, not letting him go.
I know I should ease up, but I can’t—and he clearly doesn’t care either. His hand grips my hip, pulling me down against him, deeper.
His hand slides under my shirt, pinching my nipple while his mouth tightens on my clit.
“Reid!” I jerk, coming hard.
The orgasm stretches on because he doesn’t stop.
Not when I cry out. Not when I beg.
Not even when a second wave hits.
Only when I collapse, weakly pushing at him, does he finally pull back.
The sight of him almost sets me off again.
There’s too much between us for me to ever be unaffected by him. Our bond is messy, ugly, perhaps even damaging—but in moments like this, it almost feels worth it just to have him next to me again.
Which is exactly why I have to leave.
I don’t know why I thought I could be around him and not fall back into old patterns.
And now comes the part where I have to say it.
“You should?—”
He lifts a hand, stopping me, eyes closing briefly. “I have things to say.”
I almost smile. He’s stiff, awkward, still wound tight with leftover tension. “Then say them.”
He tries. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. Then shakes his head and heads for the bathroom, muttering, “I can’t think with you all over my mouth.”
A second later, the tap runs.
He’s in there a full minute. When he comes back, his hair is wet, water still dripping from his face like he stuck his head under the spray.
But he looks steadier.
Still hard, though.
“I came here to tell you…” He exhales. “Look, I didn’t plan any of this.”
“I know,” I say. “I pushed more than you did.”
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t want it,” he says. “But that’s not why I wanted you here.”
“Then why did you?”
He drags a hand over his face. “Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I didn’t do it for me—I was a mess. I didn’t care what happened to me. But I was dragging you down with me. I treated you like shit half the time, and I didn’t even understand why. I kept pushing you away, acting like…”
“Like I didn’t matter,” I say quietly.
His expression tightens. “Yeah. Like that. But you did matter. You still do, and this isn’t me making excuses. I was selfish. A coward. An idiot. The only decent thing I did was leave you alone.”