Page 50 of Still Missing You

I do, more than anything, but there is no going back. “I don’t know how to do this halfway with you. I never have with you, and if I let myself want this, want you, then I lose you all over again when it’s over.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, then he smiles, soft and a little amazed. “You know, being your pretend boyfriend has been the best time I’ve had in a long time.”

My heart stutters. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m really not,” he says. “The fake part was supposed to be the cover. Somewhere along the way, it just stopped feeling fake.”

I swallow hard. “When this is over—”

“If,” he corrects gently.

“When this is over,” I repeat, stubbornly, “what happens to us?”

He sighs softly and leans closer. His hair tickles my cheek. “Maybe we just... keep seeing each other. No more pretending.”

I study his face, waiting for the catch. Waiting for him to take it back.

The room feels too small all of a sudden, too warm, charged with possibility.

“You’d want that?” I need to hear him say it.

“More than anything,” he says, no hesitation.

His words knock the last of my defenses loose. Something inside me shifts, painful and satisfying all at once. A release.

“Okay,” I say, breath unsteady. “Okay.”

Somewhere in the inn, a floorboard creaks. For a second, we both go still.

He reaches for me, giving me plenty of time to pull away. I don’t. His fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, his grip firm and grounding, and when he kisses me, it’s unhurried, certain. His mouth is warm, familiar, and my chest aches.

I lean onto my side and pull him against me. The kiss deepens, but there’s no rush, no desperation.

“Your knee,” he murmurs against my lips.

“I’m good.” Really, I’m so wrapped up in his taste, his touch, I barely think of my knee. Hell, I’m barely aware of anything else.

His thigh slides between mine, and I instinctively grind my cock, already hard and straining against my sweatpants, into him. I let out a low groan. The friction, his fingers tangled in my hair, and the kiss growing hungrier and more desperate by the second are driving me half out of my mind.

We break apart long enough to strip. Dylan settles on his back, and I brace myself over him, mindful of my knee.

“Tell me if your knee—” Dylan starts.

“I will,” I promise.

My mouth finds his again. We kiss deeply, slowly, intimately, in a way that makes my throat swell with emotion. My lips move over his jaw, down his throat. His skin is warm and tastes faintly of salt, and his scent, clean pine, teases my senses, fueling my growing hunger.

I work my way down his flat, muscled stomach, letting my tongue trace the grooves between his abs. Dylan groans helplessly. His hips lift, and the tip of his straining cock grazes my collarbone.

I grin and look up, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes are closed, head tipped back against the pillows, and his body strains with need.

“You’re beautiful,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. Not because they’re untrue. Dylan is the most beautiful man I’ve ever known. But it’s not exactly poetry. I’ve never been great at expressing my feelings.

Dylan’s eyes flutter open. His gaze locks with mine. “You too. So beautiful.”

My face heats up, and my chest squeezes. I dip my head and suck his cock into my mouth.

“Fuck,” he gasps. His hands grip my hair, and my scalp stings, sending a fresh wave of need rolling through me. I continue to work him with my mouth, fast and hard, until he’s writhing beneath me. I pull back long enough to slick my fingers with lube so I can start to work open his hole. By the time I add a second finger, Dylan is begging me to fuck him.