Page 161 of Kentrell

My lips parted, but I didn’t speak. Didn’t moan. Just… breathed.

Let it all in.

The stretch of him.

The weight of him.

The quiet pressure of morning light breaking through the curtains and spilling across the bed.

His arm curled tighter around me as he sank in fully, groaning low in my ear like the relief was everything he needed.

I reached back, brushing my fingertips along his thigh as he started to move—deep, steady rolls of his hips that kept us close, connected.

No words.

No rush.

Just that slow, perfect rhythm that melted every edge off the morning.

And in that silence, in that soft grip of his hand on my stomach and his dick stroking every nerve I had—I realized something dangerous.

I was already addicted to the way he touched me.

His strokes stayed slow.

Deep.

Like he was savoring it—savoringme.

Each thrust rolled through my body like a wave, pulling soft gasps from my lips and curling my toes beneath the blankets. His hand was still on my stomach, holding me in place. Keeping me where he wanted me.

Where Iwantedto be.

I tilted my head slightly, and he kissed the back of my neck. A soft hum rumbled from his chest. I could feel it more than I heard it. His hips flexed again—slow, thick, perfect.

God.

It was too good.

Too easy.

Too much.

And that’s when the thought crept in.

What happens when we leave tomorrow?

I blinked slowly, trying not to ruin the moment, but it slipped in like a draft through the door. Quiet but cold.

When we go back to the city… does this stay the same?

Will we still wake up like this?

Will he still want me like this?

My breath hitched.

Not from his stroke—but from the ache blooming in my chest.

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