He presses his forehead to mine. “I missed you every second. Every day. Every single fucking minute since that night.”
I’m speechless, but he doesn’t expect me to muster a reply. Just pulls me into his arm and hugs me. Long and hard. The gesture is overwhelmingly sweet, excruciatingly heartwarming. The way he wraps me up and holds me tighter than ever before. This is so much more than lust. This is missing someone. I want to fight the current, the wave of feelings washing over me, but as I stand here, head against his chest, I think I’d rather let it sweep me away.
He breaks away from me, and suddenly… I can’t think of one single reason not to kiss Haze fucking Adams.
You deserved someone better, he said.
And I know.
Right here.
Right now.
There’s no such thing as someone better.
I lurch forward and kiss him again. He grunts in relief at my initiative. His fingers run through my hair; mine run everywhere. He lifts me up into his arms and bands my legs around his waist. He squeezes my ass, plastering me to the locked bedroom door. A whole year and it still feels natural, as necessary as breathing, laughing with your friends, making mistakes, and trying again. As essential as being alive. When he yanks my shirt over my head, I know exactly why I kept on rejecting Matthew.
I didn’t want to sleep with Matt.
I wanted to sleep with Haze.
My bra is off within seconds. His mouth latches onto my nipples, my neck, my earlobe, and I’m so sensitive to his touch I could cry. He tugs at my leggings, resting me down to render their removal easier. I’m the one undressing him now. We never stop to discuss what’s going to happen next. That would require thinking, and we’re operating on pure instinct.
We’re both only in our underwear by the time I’m back up into his arms, bare skin against the freezing door. Impatient, I slide his underwear down with my feet, or at least try to, and he laughs. God, I missed that laugh. He tosses it down his legs and kicks them off with one move. Then he slips my underwear to the side and slides his length up and down against my center.
Holy fuck. I can’t believe this is happening on the second time I’ve seen him in a year.
We’re both so eager, desperate, that I can’t help but wonder if it’s been as long for him as it has for me. I haven’t had sex once since we broke up. Has he? He toys with me, just relentlessly teasing my sweet spot and watching our bodies connect with a smug grin on his face.
Then he puts me out of my misery.
He grips a fistful of my hair and jams himself inside me with a calculated, powerful thrust. I almost cry out at how much I missed this, and from the look on his face, he feels the same. He doesn’t move, just groaning as he kisses me deeper, like he wants to relish in every single detail, every sensation this moment unfolds. Like he’s been waiting for this forever. And he has.
We both have.
When he begins to move, I wonder if someone standing outside could hear our bodies slapping against the door.
“Fuck, I’m not going to last,” he immediately admits, working my neck. I let out a loud moan unintentionally, and he grins, covering my mouth with his hand as he continues to squeeze in and out of me. I almost forgot there was a party raging upstairs.
Quickly, he swaps the hand on my mouth for his lips, and I kiss him back. Of course I do. With every quiver and moan his mouth blocks, he thrusts harder. Until eventually he breaks away from me and searches my eyes for an answer. What’s the question? I don’t know, but the blue of his eyes is all it takes to send me spiraling.
Fuck, I still love him.
I never stopped.
“I love you.” He lifts my right leg higher and plunges back into me. I swallow a moan.
I don’t say it back.
I can’t.
I physically can’t.
My body won’t let me. It screams, “Don’t you dare.”
“You don’t.” My throat tightens.
He thinks he does. But he doesn’t.