He kisses the inside of my thigh once, then again, and the simple tenderness of it is somehow worse than hunger would be. Then his mouth finds me.
I break, but not all at once. In waves. My fingers lock in his hair. My knees tremble. He licks me slowly first, like he’s learning me all over again, and then with more purpose, more pressure, until my breath turns ragged and I stop being able to think in full sentences.
“Please,” I whisper.
He hums against me, the vibration dragging a helpless sound out of my throat. One arm wraps around my thigh and holdsme open for him. I feel utterly possessed by the care of it, by the certainty in the way he touches me, like my body is not a problem to solve but a place he already knows how to worship.
The room falls away. The wedding, the ambulance, Ethan, the lies, all of it.
There is only his mouth and the wall at my back and the fact that I’m trembling so hard I can barely stay upright.
He slides two fingers over me, teasing, not entering, just gathering more wetness, making me feel exactly how far gone I am for him. Then his tongue circles my clit and I cry out before I can stop myself.
“That’s it,” he says softly. “Give it to me.”
I do.
The orgasm comes fast and fierce, tearing through me so hard my legs nearly fold. I come with both hands in his hair and his name in my mouth, hips shaking, body wide open and helpless under the steady, devastating work of his mouth.
He doesn’t stop until I’m oversensitive and gasping. When he finally rises, he kisses me once more, tasting me on his own mouth, and for a second I let myself sink into him completely.
Then the room comes back, along with the horror of what happened.
I’m still shaking when it hits me. I just came. Hard. In a side room at my ex’s wedding weekend while his father was on his knees in front of me.
My knees feel weak. My skin is too hot. My skirt is still bunched in my fists. For a second I can only stand there against the wall,breathing like I’ve run a mile, staring at him in stunned silence as he rises to his feet.
He looks at me once, then drags his thumb over his mouth and licks the taste of me from it. The sight nearly knocks the air out of me all over again.
This man is impossible.
This man is dangerous.
This man is going to ruin me.
“This can’t happen,” I say, and my voice comes out broken enough to embarrass me. I try again. “We can’t do this.”
He doesn’t move back. He stands close, one hand braced beside my head, his face calm in that infuriating way it always is when mine is falling apart.
“I’m pregnant,” I say.
The words come out like they should stop him. Like they should end this. Reset the room. Restore some kind of order to the morning.
Instead, he glances down once, briefly, then back up at me. “I can see that.”
My breath catches.
What is wrong with this man? Why is he so calm? So steady? Why does everything about him feel even more dangerous when he lowers his voice instead of raising it?
I let go of my skirt and drag it down with clumsy hands. “No, I mean it. I’m pregnant. You can’t just…” I shake my head, stillbreathless, still trying to find the floor under me. “You can’t do that and act like none of this means anything.”
His eyes stay on my face. “I am not acting like it means nothing.”
That should help. It doesn’t. Because there’s something in his tone now that reaches much deeper than lust, and I don’t know what to do with that. Lust I understand. Lust is simple. Lust is what happened on the plane. Lust is what just happened with his mouth between my legs while the house on the other side of the door went on pretending to be civilized.
This feels like the opposite of simple.
I press my back harder against the wall as if it might steady me.