#cameron winter

I find out by accident. I’m looking for my phone charger in her bag. Mine’s dead and hers is right there on the counter. I pull out her phone instead of mine. The screen lights up with messages from Max. My drummer. My friend.

I thought you said you guys broke up?

We did, she replied. He just won’t accept it. He’s so clingy. Never gives me space. Never gives me what I need.

I should be furious. I should be throwing things, calling her out, demanding explanations. But instead, I’m staring at the screen with my heart hammering against my ribs, and I realize with a sudden, dizzying rush that I’m painfully hard.

The image of it floods my brain. Her in Max’s bed, his hands on her, her lying to him about us, lying to me about where she’s been. The deception should sting, but it doesn’t. It just makes the whole thing hotter. She thinks she’s playing us. She has no idea what she’s in for.

I put the phone back exactly how I found it. I don’t say anything at dinner. I don’t say anything when she kisses my cheek and tells me she’s going out with friends, knowing exactly whose bed she’ll end up in tonight. I wait.

The next morning, while she’s in the shower, I find Max’s number and call him.

He answers on the second ring. “Hey, Cam. What’s up?”

He sounds normal. Friendly. Completely unaware that I know exactly how well-acquainted he has become with my girlfriend’s body.

“Hey, Max,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “I was wondering if you could come over later. Maybe around eight? Just to hang out, have a few drinks.”

“Uh, sure,” he says. “Everything okay with you guys?”

“Yeah, everything’s great,” I lie smoothly. “I just think it would be good for the three of us to spend some time together. Bond a little.”

He hesitates, but then agrees. “Sure, man. See you at eight.”

I hang up and smile at the bathroom door, listening to her sing in the shower.

She’s wearing that black dress I like, the one that rides up too high when she bends over. She’s been extra affectionate all evening, guilty conscience probably, and I let her curl up against me on the couch, her head on my shoulder, while we wait.

The doorbell rings at exactly eight.

“Expecting someone?” she asks, frowning.

“Yeah,” I say, sliding out from under her. “I invited Max.”

Her face goes pale. I see the panic flash in her eyes, trying to determine whether he’s said something, whether she’s been caught. She stands up, smoothing her dress, trying to look innocent.

I open the door. Max is there in his leather jacket, holding a six-pack, looking relaxed. He steps inside, and I lock the door behind him.

“Hey,” he says to her, giving her a quick hug that she returns stiffly.

“Hi,” she says, her voice too high. “What’s... what’s going on?”

I walk to the kitchen and grab three beers, cracking them open and handing them out. Max takes his, still oblivious, chatting about some new synth pedal he’s been looking at. She’s barely listening, her eyes darting between us, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I let her squirm for a minute. Then I lean back against the counter and take a long sip of my beer.

“So,” I say casually. “I found something interesting today.”

Max looks up. “Yeah? What’s that?”

I pull out my phone and read the texts aloud. “I thought you guys broke up? We did. He just won’t accept it. He’s so clingy. Never gives me space. Never gives me what I need.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Max’s face drains of color. He looks at her, then at me, panic setting in.

“Cam, I swear, I thought, she told me you guys were done, I never would have…”

I hold up my hand, cutting him off. “No, no I’m not mad about it,” I say, and I can see the confusion replace the fear on his face. “I just wanted to know if you wanted to help me fix her attitude.”

Max blinks. “Fix her... attitude?”

I push off the counter and walk toward her. She’s frozen, her beer trembling in her hand. I take it from her and set it down, then cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me.

“See, she thinks she can play us,” I explain, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “She thinks she can lie to both of us, keep us separate, have her fun without consequences?” I glance back at Max, giving him a slow, deliberate smile. “I think that’s pretty fucking hot.”

Max stares at me. “You’re... not angry?”

“I’m turned on,” I correct, my hand sliding down to grip her throat, not hard, just enough to make her breath hitch. “The idea of her sneaking around, spreading her legs for you while she’s still mine? It gets me off. But the lying?” I tighten my grip slightly, and she whimpers. “That needs to be addressed. Don’t you think, Max?”

I watch understanding dawn in his eyes. The fear melts away, replaced by something hungrier, darker. He sets his beer down and moves closer, standing behind her so she’s trapped between us.

“You’ve been a bad girl,” Max murmurs against her ear, and I feel her shudder. “Lying to me. Lying to him. Making us both think we were the only one.”

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, her eyes wide and glassy. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know how to, I wanted both of you, I just didn’t know how to ask,”

“So you manipulated us instead,” I finish. “Tried to keep us separate. But here’s the thing, sweetheart, we’re not mad. We’re just going to teach you a lesson...”

I kiss her then, hard and possessive, my tongue sweeping into her mouth while Max’s hands slide up her sides, finding her breasts through the thin fabric of her dress. She moans into my mouth, her body going pliant between us.

“Take off your dress,” I tell her when I pull back. “Now.”

Her hands shake as she reaches for the zipper. The fabric pools at her feet. She stands there in her underwear, exposed, caught, and I can see her pulse hammering in her throat.

“Look at you,” I say, stepping back to admire her. Max’s hands are still on her, kneading her breasts, his mouth on her neck. “So desperate for attention you had to go behind my back. Couldn’t just ask for what you wanted like a good girl. Had to lie. Had to cheat.”

I circle her slowly, watching Max’s hands roam over her body. “But since you chose to be bad,” I continue, stopping behind her and pressing my chest against her back, “we’re going to put you in your place. Show you exactly who you belong to. Both of us.”

I unhook her bra and let it fall, then slide her underwear down her legs. She’s naked now, trembling, her nipples hard, her skin flushed.

“On your knees,” I command.

She sinks down immediately, looking up at us with those wide, desperate eyes. Max and I exchange a glance, some silent understanding passing between us, and then we’re both unzipping, freeing ourselves, presenting ourselves to her.

“Open your mouth,” I tell her.

She does, and I guide myself between her lips, groaning as her wet heat surrounds me. Max moves beside me, and she takes him in her hand, stroking him while she works me with her mouth.

“That’s it,” I praise, my hand fisting in her hair. “Show us how sorry you are. Show us how good that mouth is when you’re not lying.”

She moans around me, the vibration sending sparks down my spine. Max tilts her chin toward him, and she switches, taking him deep while her hand wraps around my base.

We take turns like that, using her mouth, watching her struggle to take us both. She’s messy and eager, tears streaming down her face, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“Enough,” I say finally, pulling her up by her hair. “Couch. Now.”

We move to the living room. I sit down and pull her over my lap, her ass in the air, her face pressed against the cushion. Max stands in front of her, his hand stroking himself as he watches.

“You need to learn,” I say, my hand coming down hard on her ass. She yelps, her body jerking. “That you don’t lie to us. You ask. Nicely.”

I spank her again, and again, watching her skin turn pink. Max reaches down and threads his fingers through her hair, holding her steady.

“Do you understand?” I ask, my hand smoothing over her heated flesh.

“Yes,” she sobs. “Yes, I understand, I’m sorry,”

“No you’re not,” I say, and I lift her hips, positioning her above me. “But you will be.”

I thrust up into her in one hard movement, and she cried, her hands clawing at the couch. She’s so wet, her body gripping me tight, and I groan at the feel of her.

Max moves in front of her, and she takes him into her mouth again, her body stretched between us, filled at both ends. I grip her hips and start to move, setting a brutal pace, each thrust pushing her forward onto him.

“You wanted this,” I grunt, snapping my hips up. “Admit it. You wanted us both.”

She moans around Max’s cock, the vibration making him curse and tighten his grip on her hair. He starts to fuck her mouth in time with my strokes, and we find a rhythm. Pushing her between us, using her, claiming her completely.

She comes first, her body clamping down on me so hard I see stars, her moans muffled by Max’s cock. I don’t stop. I keep pounding into her, chasing my own release, watching her face, flushed, tear-streaked, utterly wrecked.

“Please,” she gasps when Max pulls back to let her breathe. “Please, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good…”

“You’ll be perfect,” I agree, my voice ragged. “Our perfect girl. No more fucking lies. Just this, just us.”

“Yes,” she sobs, nodding frantically. “Yes, yes, I promise…”

Max groans, his hand tightening in her hair. “Cam…”

“Do it,” I tell him. “Show her who she belongs to.”

He comes with a shout, spilling across her lips and chin, and the sight of it, her all messy and used and covered in him, pushes me over the edge. I bury myself deep and follow, my orgasm ripping through me as I hold her hips.

After, we collapse onto the couch in a tangle of limbs. She’s between us, shaking, her makeup ruined, her body marked. I stroke her hair back from her face while Max finds a blanket to drape over us.

“Are we...” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “Are we okay?”

I tilt her chin up, making her look at me. “We’re okay,” I say softly. “But next time you want something? You ask. No more sneaking around. No more lies. Understand?”

She nods, her eyes wet. “I understand.”

We're on the bed, propped up against the headboard with pillows stacked behind us, my back pressed flush against Cameron's chest. The afternoon light filters through the curtains in thick, honey-colored stripes, catching the dust motes and turning them golden as they drift through the air. The full-length mirror hangs on the wall directly across from the foot of the bed, positioned perfectly to catch us both in its frame. Our reflection clear and unavoidable, every movement mirrored back at us.

His right hand has been between my legs for what feels like hours, though it's probably only been twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of slow and deliberate torture, two fingers working deep and steady, curling just enough to brush that spot inside me that makes my breath hitch and my toes curl. I'm soaked, embarrassingly so, and he hasn't stopped commenting on it, his voice low and conversational against my ear like he's discussing something mundane while his fingers ruin me.

"You're dripping," he murmurs now, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. I feel the vibration of his voice more than hear the words, my whole body attuned to every point of contact between us. His fingers slide out slow, deliberately, and I whine at the loss, my hips chasing his hand, trying to keep him inside me. He ignores me, bringing those same fingers to his mouth to suck them clean, watching my face in the mirror the whole time. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and when he pulls his fingers out with a wet sound that makes me flush darker, he smiles, all crooked and knowing.

"Tastes good, too," he says, and then he's turning my face toward him, his hand sliding from my jaw to cup the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss that's deep and slow and devastating. His tongue slides against mine, tasting me, tasting himself, and I moan into his mouth, my hand coming up to grip his wrist. When we break apart, he's breathing harder, his forehead resting against mine for a moment before he guides my face back toward the mirror.

"Don't look away," he reminds me, his voice gentle but insistent. "I want you to see what I see."

I whimper, the sound high and needy in the quiet room. My left hand has found his knee, gripping tight, but my right hand has been wandering, restless and seeking. I can feel him against my lower back, hard and obvious even through the layers of his jeans and my thin cotton dress. Every time I shift, even slightly, I feel the length of him press more firmly against me, and it's making me dizzy.

I reach back with my right hand, fumbling for the button of his jeans, but he catches my wrist before I can get there. His left hand, which had been resting on my hip, moves to intercept me, fingers circling my wrist and pulling my hand away from his body and back to my own thigh.

"Uh-uh," he says softly, his mouth still at my ear. He presses a kiss to my temple, lingering there, his breath warm. Then his lips trail down, finding the curve of my neck, and he sucks, soft at first, then harder, drawing the skin into his mouth until I'm gasping, my head falling to the side to give him better access. "No, baby. This is about you."

"But I want," I start, my voice rough and broken already, and he makes a soft shushing sound against my throat, his teeth grazing the spot he just sucked, his hand on my wrist guiding my palm to rest on my own knee instead.

"I know what you want, know what you need," he murmurs, and there's a smile in his voice, fond and teasing. He kisses his way up my neck, finds my jaw, nips at the corner of my mouth before turning my face toward him again for another slow, deep kiss. His tongue slides against mine, lazy and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world. When we break apart, his eyes are dark, his lips swollen. "But I want to watch you. I've been thinking about it all day. How you'd look, all spread out and pretty, trying not to come while I tell you how gorgeous you are." His hand leaves my wrist and slides back up my thigh, fingers trailing fire along my skin. "Can you give that to me? Can you let me have this?"

I nod, helpless, already acquiescing because he asked so sweetly. He rewards me by shifting his hips slightly, grinding his erection more firmly against my back, and I gasp at the pressure. But then his hands are moving, both of them, sliding under my dress to hook into the waistband of my underwear.

"Lift up," he whispers against my ear, and I do, just enough for him to work my panties down my thighs, my knees, pulling them off completely and tossing them aside. I'm bare now under my dress, exposed and vulnerable, and he makes a soft sound of approval, his hands sliding back up my legs, spreading my thighs wider, holding me open.

"Good girl," he whispers, and then his right hand is moving again, reaching for the little silver bullet on the nightstand. I watch in the mirror as he retrieves it, as he holds it up where I can see it, his left hand still spread against my inner thigh, keeping me open, keeping me exposed. "You know what this is?"

I nod again, my throat too tight to speak. The vibrator is small, sleek, innocent-looking, but I know exactly what it can do.

"Say it," he prompts, teasing. He leans in, his mouth finding my neck again, sucking another dark mark into my skin while his left hand holds me steady, holds me open. I can feel the pull of it, the heat spreading under my skin, and I gasp, my head falling back against his shoulder. "Use your words, sweetheart."

"Vibrator," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, and he hums against my throat, satisfied, his teeth grazing the fresh hickey before he pulls back to look at me in the mirror.

"Good. And where does it go?"

I whine, high and frustrated, my hips lifting slightly off the bed in invitation. "Cam, please,"

"Where?" he insists, softer but firm, and he brings the toy to my inner thigh, presses it there just below where I need it, the vibrations traveling through my skin in maddening waves. His left hand keeps me spread, his fingers digging slightly into my skin, holding me open for him, for the mirror, for everything. "Tell me where you want it."

"My," I swallow hard, my face burning as I watch myself in the mirror, my legs spread wide, his hands holding me open, his mouth already working on another spot on my neck, sucking hard, marking me. "My clit. Please, my clit…"

"There's my girl," he murmurs, approving, and he finally, finally, presses the toy against me, no barrier now, the vibration concentrated and shocking. I cry out, my back arching, my head trying to fall back, but his mouth is still on my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point, his right hand keeping the vibrator pressed firm against me.

"Don't look away," he reminds me, his voice rough against my skin. He pulls back from my neck, his chin wet from kissing me, his eyes dark and focused. He turns my face toward him again, kisses me hard and deep, his tongue sliding against mine in rhythm with the vibrator, and when we break apart he's breathing hard, his forehead against mine. "I want you to see. Look how pretty you are."

I force my eyes open, forced to stare at my own wrecked reflection. My hair is tangled, spread across his shoulder in dark waves. My lips are parted, swollen from his mouth, my cheeks flushed a deep pink that spreads down my neck and chest. I can see the marks he's left, dark and blooming on my throat, my shoulder, claiming me. His left hand is still spread against my inner thigh, holding me open, fingers digging into my skin, while his right hand works the vibrator slow and maddening.

"Feel that?" he asks, his hips canting forward slightly, grinding himself against my lower back in a slow, deliberate roll. I can feel how hard he is, the length of him pressing insistently through the denim. "Feel what you do to me? Just from sitting here, letting me play with you?"

I nod, frantic, my hips rolling up toward the toy, but he pulls it back just enough to deny me, circling my inner thigh instead, the vibrations teasing and indirect. His mouth finds my neck again, sucking another mark, his teeth grazing the skin, and I whimper, my hand finding his hair and tangling there.

"So impatient," he tsks, his mouth curving against my shoulder. He kisses his way up my neck, finds my mouth again, his tongue sliding against mine slow and deep, his hand still holding me open, exposed. When we break apart, his eyes are dark, his breath hitching slightly when I grind back against him. "You're not usually this whiny, are you? Just because I'm taking my time?"

"Cameron," I breathe, and it's a whine now, high and needy, my hand finding his knee and gripping tight. "Please, I need,"

"What do you need?" He brings the vibrator back, presses it firm for three perfect seconds right where I need it, and my eyes roll back, my mouth falling open on a silent gasp. He takes advantage, his mouth finding mine again, his tongue sliding against mine, swallowing my sounds. When we break apart, he's smiling, his thumb tracing my swollen lower lip. "This? Or do you need to come? Because you're not ready yet. You're not there."

"I am," I insist, desperate, bucking my hips, and he laughs, low and warm, vibrating against my spine. He turns my face toward him again, kisses me deep and slow, his hand still holding the vibrator against me, and when we break apart he's breathing harder, his eyes dark.

"You're not," he contradicts softly, clicking the toy up a notch. The buzz fills the room, louder now. His mouth finds my neck again, sucking another mark, his left hand spreading me wider, holding me open for the toy, for his eyes, for the mirror. "You're close, but you're holding back. I can feel it. You're thinking too much."

My right hand wanders again, sliding back behind me, searching for him, for the button of his jeans. I want to feel him, want to wrap my hand around him and make him feel as crazy as I do. But he catches my wrist again, his left hand leaving my thigh for just a moment to intercept me, to pull my hand back to my own body.

"No, baby," he repeats, gentler this time, his fingers threading through mine and squeezing. He brings my hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to my palm, then to my wrist where my pulse is hammering. "This is about you. Let me give you this. Let me take care of you."

"But you," I try to protest, my voice cracking, and he turns my face toward him, kisses me again, deep and slow and devastating, his tongue sliding against mine until I'm breathless. When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine, his eyes meeting mine, dark and serious.

"I'm fine," he murmurs, his lips brushing mine as he speaks. "I'm better than fine. I'm exactly where I want to be." He kisses me again, softer this time, a brush of lips. "Just focus on feeling good. Can you do that for me?"

I nod, helpless, and he rewards me by pressing the vibrator firmer, by grinding his hips up against my back in a slow, steady rhythm. His mouth finds my neck again, sucking another mark, his teeth grazing the skin, and I gasp, my hand gripping my own thigh hard enough to leave marks.

"Look at yourself," he prompts, his voice dropping lower, honey-sweet. He pulls back from my neck, his chin wet, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "Look at those marks. Look how pretty you are, all marked up and spread open for me."

I shake my head, or try to, but his right hand tightens on my jaw, keeping me still, keeping me looking. The vibrator presses closer and I moan, the sound breaking in the middle. He leans in, his mouth finding mine again, his tongue sliding against mine, swallowing my sounds, and when we break apart he's smiling, his thumb tracing my swollen lower lip.

"Come on," he coaxes, cruel and gentle at the same time. "Two words. Not hard."

"I, " My voice cracks. "I can't…"

"You can." He clicks the toy higher, the buzz intense now, and my hips jerk up involuntarily. His erection is insistent against my back, a hard line of pressure, and when I grind back against him he groans, his hand faltering on my face for just a second. He recovers, his mouth finding my neck again, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the skin. "Fuck, see? You don't even have to try. Just sitting here, whining, and you're wrecking me. Now say it."

"I'm pretty," I gasp out, desperate, but he shakes his head, clicking the vibrator down again to the lowest setting, the change so sudden that I actually cry out in frustration. He turns my face toward him, kisses me deep and slow, his tongue sliding against mine, and when we break apart he's breathing hard, his eyes dark.

"Nope," he says, almost sing-song, his thumb tracing my cheekbone while his left hand holds the toy just barely against me. "Not like that. Like you believe it. Like you're not just saying it because you're dripping and desperate and three seconds from crying."

"I am," I whine, and I hate how high my voice sounds, how needy and broken. He kisses me again, softer this time, his lips brushing mine, his tongue teasing against my lower lip.

"You're what?" He brings the toy back up, circles it slow, watching my face in the mirror with an intensity that makes my skin burn. His mouth finds my neck again, sucking another mark, his hand spreading me wider, holding me open. "You're pretty? Is that what you were going to say?"

I nod, frantic, my hips rolling in tight circles, chasing the sensation. I'm so close, have been for so long, hovering on the edge while he plays with me. He pulls back from my neck, turns my face toward him again, and kisses me, deep and slow and devastating, his tongue sliding against mine in rhythm with the vibrator, and when we break apart we're both breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together.

"Say it louder," he murmurs, his mouth at my ear, breath hot and uneven. He's not as composed as he pretends to be; I can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his hips keep canting up against my back. "Let me hear you mean it."

"I'm pretty," I choke out, and my voice shakes, tears actually pricking at my eyes from the frustration and the pleasure and the overwhelming intimacy. "I'm pretty, I'm,"

"Again," he interrupts, soft but firm, and clicks the vibrator higher. His hips grind up against my back, his own control fraying at the edges. He turns my face toward him, kisses me hard and deep, his tongue sliding against mine, and when we break apart his eyes are dark, his lips swollen. "Mean it this time. Look at yourself and mean it."

"Pretty," I gasp out, my voice cracking, my whole body arching into his hands. "I'm pretty, I'm pretty, please…"

"There she is," he murmurs, finally approving, his voice rough with his own restraint. The vibrator presses in hard, right where I need it, and his hand slides from my jaw to tangle in my hair, pulling my head back gently so I have to see myself come apart. "There's my girl. Now you can come."

The orgasm rolls through me in waves, my breath catching in my throat, my body shaking against him in silence at first, then a broken, breathy moan spills out, high and helpless, my fingers clawing at his thighs behind me. He keeps the toy pressed there, keeps me riding it, his hips still grinding against my back in rhythm with my aftershocks, his mouth finding my neck again, sucking one last mark, his teeth grazing the skin.

When I finally go limp against him, trembling and spent, he clicks the vibrator off and drops it on the nightstand. His arms come around my waist, pulling me back more firmly against his chest, and I can feel how hard he still is, can feel the tension in his body from holding back.

I reach back again, my hand fumbling for his jeans, wanting to return the favor. But this time, instead of stopping me, he catches my wrist and guides my hand forward, pressing my palm against the bulge in his jeans, letting me feel how much he wants this.

"Yeah?" he murmurs against my ear, his voice rough and low, his hips canting up into my touch. "You want to take care of me now?"

I nod, turning my head to try to kiss him, and he meets me halfway, his mouth finding mine over my shoulder, his tongue sliding against mine slow and deep. When we break apart, he's breathing harder, his hand still tangled in mine, guiding me to pop the button of his jeans, to pull down the zipper, to slide my hand inside and wrap my fingers around him.

He's hot and heavy in my grip, impossibly hard, and I start to stroke him, my rhythm unsteady from the aftershocks still coursing through my body. But then he covers my hand with his own, slowing me down, guiding my movements until I'm stroking him slow and deliberate, my grip loose and teasing.

"Like this," he whispers, his forehead dropping to rest against my shoulder, his eyes still open and watching in the mirror. "Slow. Want to feel you. Want to watch you touch me."

I follow his lead, my hand moving in the rhythm he's setting, slow pulls from base to tip, my thumb circling the head on every upstroke. He's groaning now, low and continuous, his hips rolling up into my grip, his hand still covering mine, adjusting the pressure, showing me exactly what he likes.

"That's it," he breathes, his voice strained, his body tense against my back. He turns his head, finds my mouth with his, and kisses me deep and slow, his tongue sliding against mine in rhythm with my hand. When we break apart, he's panting against my lips. "Just like that, baby. So good. Your hand feels so good."

I watch us in the mirror fascinated, my hand wrapped around him, his covering mine, guiding me. His face is wrecked, his eyes dark and unfocused, his mouth slightly open as he pants against my shoulder. I can feel him getting close, feel the way his thighs tense beneath me, the way his grip on my hand tightens.

"Don't stop," he whispers, and it's almost a plea, his hips stuttering up into my grip. He turns my face toward him again, kisses me hard and deep, his tongue sliding against mine, and when we break apart his eyes are dark, his breath coming in gasps. "Just like that. Slow. Want to feel it. Want to feel you make me come."

I keep the rhythm steady, my hand moving slow and deliberate, watching his face in the mirror as he falls apart. He's beautiful like this, unfocused, desperate, all his careful control stripped away. His hand tightens on mine, showing me to grip harder, to twist slightly on the upstroke, and he groans, loud and broken, his whole body going rigid against my back.

"Fuck," he chokes out, his hips jerking up once, twice, and then he's coming, spilling over my fingers, his body convulsing against mine as he rides it out. I keep stroking him through it, slow and gentle now, until he whimpers, oversensitive, his hand squeezing mine to stop me.

I turn my head, find his mouth with mine, and kiss him deep and slow, my hand still wrapped around him, feeling him pulse and soften against my palm. When we break apart, he's smiling, lazy and satisfied, his eyes dark and fond, his mouth finding mine again for one last soft kiss.

"Good?" I ask, echoing his earlier question, and he laughs, warm and breathless, his arms wrapping tight around my waist, his lips brushing my jaw, my neck, the marks he left there.