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I’m not used to being wanted like this. I’m not used to him looking at me like this.

“You sure this isn’t just about the stockings?” I tease, trying to cut through the intensity before it swallows me whole.

“Positive.” He presses his mouth to the edge of my jaw. “The stockings are hot, but they don’t make me think about forever.”

My chest squeezes. My breath hitches.

Because forever is what I’ve been dreaming about—quietly, secretly, for years. And now it’s in the room with us. Between us. On the tip of his tongue and the edge of my heart.

He reaches for me like he means it. Like this isn’t just about sex—it’s about everything. And when our mouths meet again, there’s no more teasing. No more laughing. Just hands. Heat. Honesty.

And the ache of wanting something real. Something that might finally be ours.

I’ve had sex before. I’ve had hookups, mistakes, and one long-term relationship that almost that fizzled out before it ever really caught fire. But this? This is different. This is Brogan.

He touches me like he knows what he’s doing—and more than that, like he cares what it means.

There’s no rush. No frantic tugging or rough, distracted kisses. Just slow, reverent hands. His fingers trace the lace on my thighs like it might burn him. Like he’s never seen anything so delicate. Like I’m the delicate thing.

And I can’t stand how much I love it.

He presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then tugs gently at my hips, coaxing me to lie back into the pillows. I melt for him, easing down until I’m propped against the headboard, heart pounding in my chest. Brogan follows, stretching out beside me, one arm slipping under my shoulders, the other hand wandering slow and hungry over my waist.

“Joely,” he whispers, his breath warm against my neck as he peels my bra straps from my shoulders, the cups still clinging over my breasts. “You good?”

I nod, too breathless to speak.

But that’s not enough for him. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m good,” I murmur, then clearer, steadier. “I want this. I want you.”

His eyes flash with something fierce and beautiful—like I just gave him the winning goal in overtime. My heart hammers against my ribs. The way he looks at me, like he’s memorizing every curve, every scar, every inch—it undoes me.

“You’ve been in my head for years, you know that?” he says, fingertips gliding across my stomach.

“No, I didn’t.”

He leans in, his mouth brushing against the edge of my bra, his voice low. “Didn’t want to screw it up. You’ve always meant too much. I always knew you were better than me. That you deserved more.”

My throat tightens. “And now?”

He kisses his way up to my collarbone. “Now, I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”

I curl my fingers into his hair and pull him back to my mouth. There’s no more hesitation in me. Not tonight. Not with him.

Brogan’s hands pause at my hips, thumbs tracing the edge of my garter straps as if memorizing every inch. “Jesus, JoJo,” he whispers, voice rough. “You wore all this for me?”

I nod, breath caught somewhere between embarrassment and pride. He grins—crooked, reverent—and then kneels on the bed, his palms gliding down my thighs, following the lines of the black stockings. He finds the clasp, working it with fingers that tremble just a little. When the first stocking peels down, he chases it with his mouth, lips grazing my newly bare skin, trailing heat from my knee to my ankle. He takes his time with the other leg—slower, pressing kisses along my skin, making me laugh, then moan, then laugh again.

When both stockings are gone, he sits back to look at me, hunger and awe tangled in his eyes. “You’re gonna wreck me, Joely.”

I want to be bold, but my voice comes out shaky. “Maybe I want to.”

Brogan’s smile turns feral. His hands roam up my thighs, sliding over the silk of my garters to the barely-there black thong, thumbs curling under the waistband, pausing—giving me a chance to stop him. I lift my hips in answer. He slides the thong down, slow as a tease, baring me inch by inch. Every time he exposes a new patch of skin, he presses his mouth there, as if worshiping every part he uncovers.

He leans in, kisses the soft skin at my hip, then the curve of my belly, the place just below my navel. “Been dreaming about this,” he murmurs, voice gone ragged. “Fuck, JoJo—I’ve been thinking about getting you naked for years. Since high school. Used to lie in bed and jerk off to the idea of you in nothing but thigh-highs and a smart-ass grin. Never thought I’d actually get to touch you like this. Never thought I’d get to taste you.”

He glances up, eyes dark and hungry, fingers spreading my thighs wider. “Tell me you want it,” he breathes. “Tell me you want me to ruin you just a little.”