MORE (Completed)

Chapter 13

Waking up naked in a hotel bed with a breathtakingly beautiful young man beside me was not something I had expected from this trip—but it was, undeniably, the highlight of it.

To say I had missed this would be a criminal understatement. I had yearned for it. To say I longed for his touch—his tongue, his roughness, his tenderness—would still fall short. I had craved it with every dormant part of me. He had awakened something visceral in me, something long buried beneath grief and years of restraint. And the hunger he stirred couldn't possibly be satisfied in one night.

He'd had me—and I'd had him—again. Twice more, in fact. The second time was slow and reverent, full of exploration and laughter and the kind of kisses that melt you into the sheets. But the third... the third was different. Raw. Unrestrained. Cussing, sweat, tangled limbs, fingernails, need. It was everything I didn't know I needed.

Now, in the golden hush of morning, I lie still, blushing at the memory of what we did. What I did. The things I said. How I touched him, tasted him, how I screamed and scratched and shattered in his arms. It almost doesn't feel real—except it's written on my body, my thighs sore, my lips still tingling, my heart still racing.

Feeling braver than I should, I brush a lock of hair from his face. He's so peacefully asleep, one arm slung across the sheets, his chest rising slowly, his lips parted ever so slightly. I reach for the small cross that hangs on the chain around his neck, rolling it between my fingers when a lazy smile tugs at his mouth. His eyes remain closed, but his hand finds mine and intertwines our fingers like it's instinct. I let the cross fall and trail my touch across the ink on his skin, studying each line, each symbol, until his lashes flutter open.

"Hey you," he murmurs, his voice low, sleep-rough, and downright sinful.

"Hey..." I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He lifts a hand and gestures for me to come closer. I do, curling into him. And just as I settle, he attacks—tickling my sides until I squeal, swatting at him.

"Stop it, Harry!" I scold, trying to sound stern, failing miserably.

"What?" he grins, feigning innocence. "I seem to recall you begging me not to stop just a few hours ago..."

I burst into quiet laughter, rolling my eyes as his arms tighten around my waist. He nuzzles into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.

"Mmm... you smell so good. I want to eat you up. Oh wait—already did," he teases, and daylight suddenly makes everything feel much more real, more exposed.

"Harryyyy..." I draw out his name in mock reprimand, burying my face in the pillow.

"What? Who's the shy one now, hmm?" His tone is all cheek and charm. "Ashley... last night was... incredible. You're incredible. You feel..." he exhales dramatically, "...unreal. I could make love to you all day and wouldn't stop to eat, drink, or pee."

"Gross!" I laugh, swatting his arm again, but I can't help the grin on my face as I turn to look at him. Even like this—unkempt hair, flushed skin, sheets tangled around his waist—he's devastatingly beautiful. And he smells like sex and skin and sweat and cologne, and it's intoxicating.

He leans in and presses a kiss to my lips. Then another. Then another. A trail of delicate pecks that start to build into something else.

"Damn it," he groans, pulling back.

"What?" I ask, half smiling, half wary.

"I want you again..." His voice has dipped, rougher now, and I feel him harden against me, his body already responding.

"That was just a peck!" I say, laughing, flattered, flustered.

"Have you looked at yourself lately?" he murmurs. His hands slide along my hips, and I hide my face against his neck, peppering soft kisses there to keep from combusting.