Page 102 of Twisted Shot
The way she looked bent over for him when they made love again, moaning into the pillow, her body arching like she needed him more than air. The way she cried out his name when he hit just the right spot. It’s burned into him now. Etched into his bones like scripture.
He wants her like that every day. Every night.
Forever.
The thought is enough to make him hard again, and forces himself to breathe through it. Because now isn’t the time for another round, no matter how badly he wants her.
She’s leaving.
Tomorrow, she flies back to Toronto. Back to her job. Her real life. And even though they’re wrapped up together in the softest moment imaginable, he can already sense the distance settling between them like fog creeping under the door.
Theo presses a kiss into her hair and exhales.
“I should probably go,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Let you get some sleep.”
Mila stirs against him, lifting her head just enough to meet his eyes. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to either,” he says honestly. “But you’ve got an early flight.”
She frowns, her fingers drifting over his chest like she’s sketching him into memory. “I could come back. This weekend. I’ll drive down after work. It’s only a few hours.”
His heart vaults at the offer, swelling with a hope so fierce it almost hurts—until the truth slams back into him, cold and merciless.
“I won’t be here.”
A tiny crease etches itself between her brows. “What do you mean?”
“Road trip,” he says quietly. “We leave Thursday morning. Gone for a week.”
Mila pulls back slightly, eyes searching his face. Her voice comes out softer, smaller. “I just got you. I don’t want to be apart already.”
The ache in his chest blooms like a bruise beneath the skin.
“I’m not going anywhere, Mila. You’ve got me.”
Her eyes shine in the low light. “You promise?”
“I swear,” he whispers. “You’re mine now.”
He means it. There’s no version of this life now where he lets her go.
Theo dresses slowly.
He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to leave the warm tangle of sheets or the soft, sleep-heavy shape of Mila curled in bed. But time’s marching forward, indifferent to how badly he wants to stay.
His hands work methodically as he buttons his shirt and slides his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, his thoughts caught in the haze of hours before. In the way she gasped his name, the way her nailsdragged down his back, the way her eyes shone when he told her she was his.
He bends over her before he goes, pressing one last kiss to her shoulder. She rolls onto her back, still bare beneath the sheet, her hair mussed, her lips parted in protest.
“You really have to go?” she whispers, eyes glassy with sleep and something like disappointment.
“I do,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “But I’ll text you tomorrow.”
She nods, wordless, then slips from the sheets and pulls on a T-shirt, the hem skimming her thighs as she falls into step beside him. Barefoot, she pads through the hush of the hotel carpet to the door.
“I’ll miss you,” she whispers, and the softness of it carves him open.
His hand grips the handle, pulling the door open, but he can’t make himself leave. He spins back and claims her mouth in a fierce, desperate kiss, studying the taste, the shape, thefactof her. His hand cradles her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone, and when their mouths deepen together, when their breath tangles in the quiet hush of the hotel hallway, he feels everything in him settle for one perfect, fleeting second. He wants to burn her kiss into memory. To keep it safe for the nights he knows are coming, the ones that will be cold and heavy and far too quiet without her.
