The Spotlight

Chapter 42

Gary's standing in the hallway like he never left. Like we didn't burn everything to the ground. Same posture. Same eyes. That look he only gets when he's seconds from doing something reckless, something selfish—and I know I'm about to let him.

He steps forward. Just one step. Close enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my lips, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapping around me like a memory I've been trying desperately to forget.

And I break.

I grab his face with both hands and kiss him like it's already too late. Like the few weeks didn't happen. Like my chest hasn't been cracked open and bleeding dry every damn day since he walked out. His lips crush mine with the same brutal urgency, no hesitation, no mercy. My back hits the door frame with a thud and I gasp into his mouth, fingers digging into his hair as he presses into me, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

This isn't careful. This isn't sweet. This is desperate.

He groans—deep, low—and it vibrates against my tongue, making my knees shake. I hate how good he still feels. I hate that his hands know exactly where to grip me, how to lift me just slightly onto my toes, how to pin me there with his body like he remembers every inch of how I move, how I melt for him.

"You—" he breathes between kisses, his mouth dragging to my jaw, "you have no idea what this has been like, Riley..."

"Then shut up," I whisper, pulling him inside with me, "and show me."

We stumble into the room, slamming the door behind us. His hands are on my waist, tugging me close again, and mine are already yanking his shirt from his trousers. My dress clings to me like a second skin, but he doesn't rush it. Not yet.

His hands slip to my back, and his breath hitches as his fingers find the zipper. I feel his hand trembling slightly—a tiny betrayal of how much he's holding back.

"I can't get you out of my head," he mutters, lips brushing my collarbone, voice rough like he's been screaming for hours.

The zipper moves—slow. Painfully slow. I feel every tooth releasing, his knuckles trailing down my spine with the deliberate precision of someone savoring what they've been denied. And then his mouth follows. He kisses my bare skin like he's starving for it, like he's punishing himself with how gently he's touching me.

When the dress hits the floor, and I'm left standing there in nothing but my black lace knickers and heels, he just stares. His chest heaves once. Then again. And something in his face cracks open—raw vulnerability I've rarely seen, even when we were together.

"I shouldn't do this," he says, voice low and wrecked. "I know I shouldn't."

"Then don't," I tell him, stepping in, pressing my bare body to his fully clothed one, feeling the cold buttons of his shirt against my nipples. "Unless you're going to fuck me like you've missed me every second."

That does it.

Something snaps behind his eyes. He grabs me hard—one hand in my hair, the other digging into my hip—mouth finding mine again, and this time there's no restraint. We kiss like it's our last chance—like we can't stand how much we still want this. Still want each other. I reach between us, undoing his belt with shaking fingers, then his trousers, then dragging them down just enough. His cock springs free, thick and hard and hot against my stomach.

"Damnit, Riley," he groans, his forehead pressing against mine, eyes closed like he's in pain. "You don't know what you do to me."

But I do. I know exactly. Because he does the same to me.

He lifts me effortlessly, and I wrap my legs around him as he backs me toward the bed. My spine hits the mattress, but he doesn't climb on top right away. He kneels on the floor in front of me and spreads my thighs with both hands, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin where my legs meet my hips. I shiver, goosebumps erupting across my body.