We stay locked together, him inside me, so deep inside me I might burst.
Bit by bit, I get used to the pressure.
To the sensation of him inside me.
It’s different. Really different.
But in a good way. In a fucking great way.
He drags his lips down my collarbone. Over my chest.
He takes my nipple into his mouth. Sucks softly. Then harder. Then it’s that gentle scrape of his teeth.
“Fuck. Holden.”
He pulls back. Drives into me again.
Then again.
I bring one hand to his head. Dig my fingers into his hair. Tug just hard enough.
He looks up at me, his green eyes filled with bliss.
It’s so beautiful.
It’s perfect.
It’s everything.
He brings his lips to mine. Kisses me hard.
His tongue slides into my mouth.
His hands dig into my hips.
With each thrust, he moves a little faster, a little harder, a little deeper.
Until he finds a rhythm.
Fuck.
It’s too much.
It hurts.
Then it doesn’t. It’s just a lot. So fucking much.
I dig my nails into his back.
Suck a breath through my teeth. Force an exhale.
He slows for a moment. For long enough I catch my breath.
He looks down at me, waits for my nod. When he starts again, the pain is gone.
It’s still a lot of pressure.
But a good pressure.
A fucking great pressure.
He drives into me with those steady strokes.
His body stays pressed against mine.
The rest of the world disappears as we move together.
Bit by bit, that sense of too much fades. The pressure is just right.
It’s fucking perfect.
It’s so fucking good.
He drives into me again and again.
Then his posture changes. His kiss gets more aggressive. His nails dig into my skin.
He pulls back to groan my name.
Then he’s there.
Pleasure spills over his expression as he comes.
He thrusts through his orgasm.
It feels so good, the pulsing of his cock. So different but so fucking good.
When he’s finished, he untangles our bodies. Presses his lips to mine. “Give me a minute.”
I nod okay.
He stands. Moves inside. Straight to the bathroom.
The water runs.
Then it turns off.
A moment later he returns. No longer hard. Or sheathed in a condom.
But still naked.
Still incredibly inviting.
“You have another one in you?” He offers me his hand.
“You can go again?”
“No.” His laugh is soft. “But I have a hand.”
“You—”
“Want you to come on my hand.” He pulls me up. “Or my face.”
Oh. My cheeks flame. “Later.”
“Later?”
“I’m kinda… spent.”
His smile is easy. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” We’re going to do this again tomorrow.
Best day ever.
Best year ever.
Best birthday ever.
Holden pulls my body into his. “You still want to skinny dip?”
My lips curl into a smile. “Definitely.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Holden
I blink my eyes open. Roll over. Away from the brightness.
It’s not enough. The blinds are up. The wall is all windows. I’m in an east facing room.
Sunlight floods the space.
Casts shadows over the opposite wall.
I reach out to the other side of the bed, but it’s cold. Empty.
I slept here alone. Daisy insisted. She’s right—there’s no reason to start a fight with Oliver—but it still feels off.
Sure, we aren’t doing anything wrong. But he won’t see it that way.
And I—
Fuck, I’ve gone insane.
Officially lost touch with logic.
Not that it was my strong suit to begin with.
I toss off the covers. Head to the bathroom. Piss. Wash my hands. Brush my teeth.
Toss an extra four tissues on the trash can. To cover the condom sitting at the bottom.
It’s out of sight, more so now, but it feels like it’s shining.
Like it’s screaming Holden Ballard has no concept of loyalty.
I know it’s bullshit, that whole bros before hoes, I won’t sleep with your sister just because you say so thing.
But I did agree. I meant it. And now—
I can’t say I regret last night. I don’t. Fuck, the thought of Daisy’s blue eyes brimming with pleasure—
Of her thighs squeezing my hips—
Her nails digging into my back—
I’m never going to regret that.
Fuck, if it somehow got erased, if she came to me right now, the two of us sober…
I don’t know what I’d say.
My cock answers for me. Fuck, her groan is melted into my brain. I need to step into the shower. Fuck myself now.
It’s the only way I’m going to survive today.
But there’s music downstairs. One of Oliver’s favorites. Some moody, mumbly shit that wants to be grunge even though it’s half as good.
He’s awake.
I need to be somewhere else.
I pull on running shorts. Head downstairs.
My best friend is lying on the couch, half-awake, t-shirt pulled over his eyes.
“Drink too much?” I don’t wait for an answer. I head straight to the kitchen. Fill two glasses with water. Bring him one.
He tosses his shirt aside. Squints just enough to reach for the glass. “Why’s it so bright?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“No fucking way.”
I nod way. “Time difference.”
“Yeah.” He finishes his glass in one go. Drops it on the coffee table. Leans back. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“What about you?”
He groans as he grabs a pillow, holds it over his eyes. “Didn’t make it to my bed.”