Page 34 of Caden & Theo
“Damn right I did.”
I walk him back toward the bed, barely looking, just going by memory with the sound of his breath in my ear. We tumble onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and a shared laugh that cuts too close to a moan. My twin bed creaks.
He’s beneath me, curls sprawled on my pillow, grinning up like I never left.
I hover over him, chest brushing his. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” he whispers, tugging me down again.
We kiss slower this time. Still hot. Still hungry. But full of something else too. Like we’re remembering who we are together. Relearning skin, pace, and rhythm.
I shift my weight, groaning softly when our hips align. He’s hard. So am I. But it’s not frantic. Not yet. Because all I can think about is how much I missed him. His mouth, his lips, the way he wraps around me like he belongs there.
He adjusts his legs around my waist and pulls me in, locking his ankles behind me. The movement draws a gasp from both of us as we grind, clothes in the way but friction thick and full.
I break the kiss and glance down at him. I brush his cheek with my hand. His eyes are glassy and warm.
“Happy birthday,” I murmur, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
Theo grins, breath catching. “I turned eighteen.”
“I’m sorry I missed it.”
“I’m not,” he says, voice rough. “Because I’m here now. And we can celebrate.”
My breath hitches as I dip back down, kissing the edge of his grin.
We slowly rock together, aching, the grinding of our hips turning into something that feels dangerously close to too much. His fingers are in my hair, tugging enough to make me bite my lip. My hands roam his ribs, his back, tugging up the hem of his hoodie to get to skin.
“Caden,” he gasps.
“Yeah?”
“You’re—God—you’re gonna make me?—”
I push my hips down again, just once, and he arches beneath me, trembling. I can feel the tension in every part of him, the way he’s holding back just like I am.
But we don’t rush.
I kiss his collarbone, his neck, that spot just under his ear that makes him squirm. “You’re so hot like this,” I whisper. “You don’t even know.”
“Idoknow,” he says breathlessly. “You tell me every time we kiss.”
We laugh softly into each other’s mouths, still grinding, still clothed.
I pull back to see his face. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, lips red and wet. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And he’smine.
We’re tangled in each other, breathless, pressed so close, there’s no space left between us. His legs around my waist, his hands in my hair, my mouth moving against his like I’ve been desperate for it—because I have.
Six weeks is a long time when every part of you wants someone. And I want him. God, I want him.
His hoodie’s off, and his tee’s shoved up around his ribs. My sweats are hanging low on my hips, and all I feel is heat—his skin, his mouth, his breathy moans in my ear every time we grind together. We’ve done this before, touched and kissed and gotten each other off more times than I can count. But this? This feels different. This is six weeks of missing and texting andnot touching. Of late-night calls with hands shoved under blankets while whispering,“I wish you were here.”
Now heishere. And I’m not wasting a second.
He’s hard against me, shifting his hips in just the right way. I press down, and he gasps, throwing his head back as his back arches off the bed.
