Page 139 of Pull Me Under

‘Stove,’ I manage against his lips.

‘Right.’ He reaches back blindly, turns off the burner. ‘Sorted.’ His words are tiny breaths against my skin and they set me on fire.

‘We should⁠—’

‘Later.’ He’s already steering me toward the stairs. ‘Dinner can wait.’

The house feels different as we climb, like it’s holding its breath with us. My pulse is everywhere, in my throat, my wrists, the hollow just beneath my ribs. His hand is warm at my back, steady, certain, like he’s done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly where I end and he begins.

In the bedroom, the light is low and gold, late evening slipping through the curtains, dust drifting in a half-remembered dance. He stops just long enough to look at me. Really look. And it undoes me more than the kiss ever could.

‘Brynn,’ he says and it’s a promise that makes my heartbeat race.

‘I’m here,’ I whisper, though my voice trembles.

His forehead rests against mine for a second, both of us breathing the same air, and I feel it, that fragile, terrifying edge, the one where this stops being just want and becomes a need. A need that could wreck me.

Then he kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s learning me, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of my mouth. His tongue is firm and warm, reaching into me, seeking me out, and I tilt my mouth to let him in further. My hands find the hem of his shirt, the fabric soft, and I tug him closer because I need less space, not more. Always less.

We move together, clumsy at first, laughing under our breath when elbows knock as we strip off each other’s clothes. His belt from his jeans lands on my big toe, making me jump, and it breaks the tension just enough, lets the air back in. But the pull between us doesn’t ease. It deepens. Tightens. My body is needy in a way that I’ve never felt, the burn deep down between my thighs, coiling in heat, is on the verge of pain.

His fingers trace my spine, slow and careful, reading secrets within the spaces of my skin and bones. While I’m shivering, not from cold but from the way he pays attention. Like I matter. Like every inch of me is worth noticing. We shift automatically to the bed, my bra still in place, but his knee pressed up into my core which I shamelessly rub myself against.

‘I don’t think I can wait—’ he starts, voice rough.

‘Me neither,’ I say, angling my hips, reaching for him, anchoring him, because I want this, all of it, the mess and the heat and the risk. I don’t need foreplay. I just need him.

Using his hand, he reaches between us, guiding himself into me, inch by delicious inch, until I’m stretched wide, pointing my toes and revelling in the heaviness of my legs. He drops his mouth to suck my nipple through the lace of my bra and when I arch into him, his arms come under my shoulders, pinning me to his chest so there’s not a slither of space between us.

Outside, the wind presses against the window, a low, restless hush, like the sea is closer than it is. The room feels alive, breathing with us, sheets twisting, skin warm, everything narrowing down to this small, bright centre where he is and I am and nothing else quite exists.

There’s a moment, just one, where I hesitate. Old ghosts, old fears, the sharp memory of what it is to give and not be chosen. It flickers through me like a draught under a door.

He must feel it, because he stills, his hand gentle at my cheek. ‘Hey,’ he murmurs, eyes searching mine. ‘You okay there?’

I swallow, shake my head. ‘I’m okay,’ I say quietly, heart loud beneath my ribs. ‘I’m more than okay.’

His expression flickers then, softens, deepens, and the way he looks at me makes me ache in that strange, hopeful way I don’t quite trust yet.

‘Then I’m right here,’ he says.

And he is. He stays. In every small pause, every breath, every thrust. There’s no taking, no disappearing. Just this steady, building closeness that feels almost too big for the room.

I hold onto him like he’s real, my eyes stinging as I rush through a wave of an orgasm. ‘Jude, fuck,’ I groan, head pressed into his shoulder.

Two, three more thrusting and wild pumps of his hips and he’s groaning along with me, shuddering slightly as he presses deep inside me, settling himself home as he comes with a tremor. ‘Brynn.’ It’s a sigh and it ends me.

And when we finally fall into the quiet after, tangled and breathless, the world seeps back in slowly. The faint smell of tomato from downstairs. The soft creak of the house settling. His hand still resting on my stomach, absent-minded, grounding, his thumb trailing circles that burn across my skin.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling, and feel it settle inside me, not just the want, but the desire I’ve been trying not to name.

Chosen.

It’s a dangerous word. It sits heavy and bright in my chest.

But for now, with his heartbeat steady against my side and the evening light fading into blue, I let myself believe it.

Later, we eat lukewarm pasta in bed, the sheets tangled around our waists. Jude’s head is on my shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my stomach, and I feel more at peace than I have in months.