Page 89 of The Lonely Road

He made love to me like a man starving—like if he didn’t bury himself inside me deep enough, hard enough, right now, he’d die.

And I let him.

I wanted him to.

His fingers dig into my hip, possessive even now, even after he’s come and left me trembling. His breath is hot on my neck, lips brushing my skin like he’s memorizing the taste of me.

“Taya,” he growls, low and rough.

I roll over, pressing against his chest, my nipples still stiff and aching from his mouth. He twitches against my stomach, already thickening again.

“Say it,” I whisper, dragging my nails down his ribs.

He groans, hips jerking, his hand sliding down to grip my ass, fingers dipping into the slick heat between my thighs. “Taya⁠—”

His fingers curl inside me, rough and perfect, and I gasp, arching into his touch. He knows exactly how to make me whimper.

“Don’t, sweetheart, please,” he begs, his mouth crashing onto mine.

I bite his lip hard enough to taste blood. “Liar.”

He flips me onto my back, pinning my wrists above my head, his erection sliding between my thighs. “You want me to say it?” His voice is dark, dangerous. “Fine. I love how tight you are. How you scream when I make you come. How you milk me like you were made for me.”

I whine, hips bucking, desperate for him to fill me again.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he drags himself through my folds, teasing me, making me beg.

“Mason—please⁠—”

“Tell me you don’t love me,” he dares, pressing inside just a fraction, just enough to make me choke on my own breath.

I can’t.

I won’t.

He moves inside me slow this time, deep and aching, his thumb circling my clit in perfect circles until I’m sobbing his name, until my thighs are shaking, until he finally spills inside me again with a groan that sounds like heartbreak.

And when he pulls me against him after, his arms too tight, his breath too ragged, I know the truth.

He loves me.

He just won’t say it, and I don’t know why.

He holds me close like he can’t let me go and falls asleep.

His body surrounds me in the dark of my grandmother’s room. I feel safe. Cherished. Loved.

I won’t pressure him, I decide.

I won’t ask again.

I won’t revisit what I said at the kitchen table or look for signs that he’s softened or construct theories about what his silence means. I said the thing I meant, and I let it stand, and whatever he does with it is his to carry, and I’ve made my peace with that.

What I haven’t quite made my peace with is how much it costs to be the person who loves without conditions. How quietly and completely it costs.

I believe it as a strength—the ability to love without demanding that the love be returned in kind.