Page 111 of Twisted Shot
Mila snorts, tossing a throw pillow at Jesse’s head. “Please. If we were locked in a supply closet, you’d have found a way to interrupt that, too.”
Jesse catches the pillow with one hand and bows. “You wound me. I’d give you at least fifteen minutes.”
“You’d barge in asking where the scissors were,” she says, rolling her eyes.
They settle in, Mila curled into the corner of the couch with her legs tucked under her. Theo takes the edge of the armchair. Jesse scrolls on his phone, rattling off food orders like it’s any other night. They agree on sushi for her and tacos for the guys, though Mila groans dramatically at Jesse’s usual order.
“Do you ever eat a vegetable if it’s not prepared by Nat?” she asks, mock-disgusted. “I swear your palate stopped evolving at age four.”
Jesse only smirks. “Vegetables are crunchy sadness.”
Mila rolls her eyes.
And Theo—he sits there, dark and simmering and possessive, his hands itching to close the space between them and make her his.
After the most painful two and a half hours of Theo’s life, Jesse’s gone. He made sure of it, sending him off with a casual, “Why don’t you go catch up with Carter and Tristan.” The look Jesse shot him said he knew exactly what was about to happen the moment the door shut behind him.
Now, Theo leans back against the wall, watching Mila tidy up packets of soy sauce and taco wrappers like she doesn’t feel his eyes crawling over her skin.
“You’ve been driving me insane since the second you got here,” he says, voice a low burn.
She looks over her shoulder slowly. “And?”
“AndI’m done waiting.”
He moves toward her as if the pull is magnetic. When he kisses her, it’s with a hunger that makes time irrelevant, his hands tangling in her hair, gripping tight as his mouth claims hers. She melts against him with a whimpering sound that goes straight to his spine, and he drinks it in like it’s the only thing that could keep him alive.
Theo spins her, guiding her back until her back meets the wall. His body crowds hers, arms bracketing her in so there’s nowhere else to go. His mouth finds her throat, lips dragging slowly over her skin.
“You’re so fucking soft,” he whispers, biting gently at her pulse point. “I’ve been thinking about how you’ll sound when you come. Wondering if you’ll fall apart easy for me, or if I’ll have to make you beg.”
She gasps as his hands slide beneath her shirt, palms rough against the curve of her waist. “What do you want?” she breathes.
“Everything,” he says, and means it. “Want you spread out on my bed, looking up at me like I’m the only thing in the world that exists. I want to make you feel so good you forget how to speak. Want to hear you say my name until your voice breaks.”
She draws him in with a kiss that is slower this time, deeper, drenched in heat and aching want, her mouth exploring his like she intends to taste every secret he has ever kept.
With a tug of her hand, Mila pulls him towards the stairs. Their bodies press together as they stumble toward the bedroom, tripping over shoes and shedding layers in frantic, clumsy movements. Her fingers fist his shirt, pulling it over his head while his hands find the waist of her jeans and yank them down with unrestrained urgency. Breathless laughter spills between them, soft and gasping, and when they finally hit the bed, he’s above her, staring down, memorizing her.
“God, Mila,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You’re perfect. Fucking beautiful. I want to touch every inch of you, learn every sound you make.”
“I don’t want condoms,” she says softly, fingers reaching up to brush his jaw. “I got tested after Richard. I’m clean.”
The name slams into him like being struck with cold steel, and something uncoils in Theo’s chest. He needs to erase the knowledge that Richard ever touched her.
“Don’t say his name.” He leans down, growling in her ear. “Not when I’m about to fuck you so good you forget heever existed.”
Mila squeals as Theo grabs her thigh, dragging her leg up around his waist as he leans in.
“I get tested every year. I’m clean too,” he murmurs, forehead resting against hers. “And I’ve never wanted anything more than to feel you. Just you.”
When he pushes into her, it’s slow, careful—but the sound she makes, the way her eyes flutter, the way her lips part in stunned pleasure—it breaks something in him.
“Fuck, Mila…” he groans, pressing deeper. “You feel unreal. Like you were made for me.”
She clutches at him, nails raking down his back. “Don’t stop. Please.”
He sets a rhythm—deep, controlled, relentless. He talks her through every second, every thrust laced with words that drip like molten heat.
