But reading it?
Imagining it?
Nothing—nothing—prepared me for this.
For the way my body reacts without permission.
For the way I arch into him, chasing something I can’t even name.
For the sounds that slip from me—soft, helpless, real.
He feels it. I know he does.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, blown wide, like there’s no world outside this room.
Like I’ve become the only thing that matters.
And that—that wrecks me.
Because I see it.
That same intensity.
That same edge.
That same almost-dangerous focus.
And instead of running?
I lean in.
I choose it.
My hands slide up his chest, over the ink and heat of him, feeling the solid reality of his body beneath my palms, grounding myself in him the same way he’s grounding himself in me.
“You’re going to be the end of me,” I whisper, not even sure if I mean it as a warning or a confession.
His mouth curves slightly—not a smile.
Something sharper.
“Nah,” he murmurs. “This is just the beginning.”
And then he kisses me again.
Deeper.
Slower.
Like he’s not rushing this.
Like he’s savoring it.
Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me—and has no intention of stopping.
The city glitters behind us, silent witness.
The music in my head crescendos.