Chapter 15: The unfinished sentence
The words hung in the air between them; a promise suspended in the dim glow of Alice's bedside lamp.
We're just getting started.
Heath shifted beside her, the mattress groaning under his weight. His chest pressed against her bare shoulder—warm, solid, still heaving slightly from the exertion of pleasuring her. She could feel the coarse hair on his chest, the thud of his heartbeat. Slower now. Steadying.
Alice turned her head. Her brown eyes met his dark ones.
He looked wrecked. His pupils were blown wide, the rich earth of his irises reduced to a thin ring. His lips were still slick from her. The sight sent a fresh pulse of heat through her, despite the boneless satisfaction still humming in her limbs.
"You didn't..." she started, her voice raspy. She let her gaze drift down his body, to the prominent bulge straining against his trousers. The fabric was dark, taut. "You didn't finish."
Heath's mouth curved. That slow, wicked smirk she knew so well. The one that made her want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
"This wasn't about me," he said. His hand came up to brush a curl from her forehead, the gesture achingly tender after the filth of his mouth between her legs. "This was about you. About reminding you what it feels like to be worshipped."
"I remember now." She stretched beneath him, a languid, catlike movement. Her naked body pressed against his clothed one, the friction of his trousers against her bare thigh sending a shiver through her. "But I want more."
Heath's eyes darkened. "Greedy."
"Always."
She pushed herself up onto her elbows. The movement brought their faces close. She could taste the faint salt of herself on his breath. Her nipples, still tight and sensitive, brushed against the hard plane of his chest.
"I want to be on top," she whispered.
Heath's eyebrow arched. A flicker of surprise crossed his features. He was always the one in control—the boss, the dominant, the one who pinned her against walls and marked her neck. But here, in her tiny apartment, with her body still glowing from his worship, something had shifted.
"Is that so?" His voice was a low rumble.
"You gave me poetry," she said. She reached up, her fingers trailing down the column of his throat, feeling his pulse jump under her touch. "Now I want to write my own."
She pushed against his chest. He resisted for half a second—an instinct, a reluctance to yield. Then, with a soft exhale, he let her roll him onto his back.
Alice straddled him.
Her thighs bracketed his hips, her naked body hovering over his clothed one. The power shift was intoxicating. She could feel him beneath her—the solid muscle of his abdomen, the ridge of his erection pressing up against her through his trousers. He was still wearing far too much clothing.
