Page 13 of One Room Vacancy
His mouth doesn’t falter, not once. He knows my body too well for that, knows the exact pressure to apply, the way to curlhis tongue and slip his fingers inside me like he’s done it a hundred times before, because, well…he has.
My orgasm hits sharp and fast, a snap of heat behind my eyes, and I come with a gasp that sounds too much like his name.
He doesn’t stop right away, draws it out instead—slow and soft now, gentle licks as I ride the wave, like he wants to make sure I feel it. Like he wants to take care.
Like that’s not the most dangerous thing he could do.
When I finally go still beneath him, he rests his forehead against my thigh for a second, breathing hard. Then he lifts his head and climbs up the bed toward me.
I expect cocky. I expect smug.
But what I get is careful.
His hand finds my face—just his fingertips brushing along my jaw—and then he kisses me. Slow, deep, messy with affection.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough.
I blink at him. Then laugh, once—short, breathless, but not because it’s funny.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
His brow furrows. “Do what?”
“Pretend you’re checking in on me like this is something it’s not.”
His hand stills on my cheek.
“I’m not gonna break, Gabe. You don’t have to look at me like I’m about to cry or catch feelings or tattoo your name across my ass.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but doesn’t.
“I’m fine,” I add, sharper this time. “So stop acting like I’m not.”
His expression falters, just for a second, that subtle shift in his eyes, the one where he stops being whatever this soft versionof him is and slides back into the version I know, the one who knows how to compartmentalize.
“Okay,” he says, voice easy again. “You’re fine.”
“Damn right I am.”
He nods, like we’ve come to some kind of agreement.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of his pants and tug. “Then shut up and fuck me already.”
That gets a real smile.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
He leans in again, mouth catching mine in a kiss that’s hotter now, heavier, like we both just dropped the last of whatever guard we had left.
Only difference is?—
He’ll pick his back up when this is over.
Mine’s already gone.
He kisses me like the conversation didn’t just happen, like my deflection didn’t cut him, even if I think it might’ve.
His hands are rougher now—not unkind, just focused. Determined, like he’s grateful to have permission to stop pretending this is anything but what I said it is.
