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I always have.

Instead of driving to his house, Brogan heads straight for mine, the truck’s tires crunching over the icy ruts that lead up to my porch. I don’t bother to ask why—he knows as well as I do that my place is a Shep-free zone. He kills the engine, grabs my hand, and we sprint up the steps. The inside of my house smells like cinnamon and old books, and Brogan’s already shrugging out of his jacket, heading for the fireplace.

He grabs the kindling from the basket, stacking it with practiced hands, and by the time I’ve toed off my boots and hung my coat, he’s got a fire roaring—real wood, the kind that pops and hisses and throws shadows across the living room. The heat isn’t instant, but it’s alive, building slowly, and I feel my pulse matching its rhythm. Brogan drops down on the rug, pats the space beside him, and pulls me into the circle of warmth and flickering light.

“You know what I was thinking the whole time I was on the road?” he asks, voice low and rough.

“That I should totally get a raise?”

He grins. “That I should’ve kissed you longer before I left. Should’ve pulled you back to bed and said screw it to everything else.”

I swallow hard. The tension coils between us like a tripwire. I feel his gaze on me, hot and direct.

“Then do it now,” I whisper. “Except not the bed part. Let’s stay right here on the fuzzy rug.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just turns me toward him and kisses me like we’re both starving. His mouth moves over mine with the kind of promise that makes my knees weak, and the world blurs into nothing but this—this fire, this night, this boy I’ve loved since I was too young to know what love even meant.

For once, there’s no teasing, no sarcastic jabs or playful insults. Just his hands on my skin—careful, reverent—and the kind of silence that crackles louder than a thousand words.

Every inch of me is buzzing, but it’s not just about sex.

It’s this: the way he looks at me like I matter. The way he touches me like I’m breakable—but still his to break. The way my body sings for him, sure, but also the way my heart sits up and leans forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this exact moment.

I trace a fingertip across the scruff lining his jaw. “I still can’t believe this is real.”

Brogan lifts his head, his hair mussed from my hands. “I’ve had a lot of dreams about you, Joely. None of them came close to this.”

God, I might actually melt. My chest cracks wide open, and every messy, buried feeling I’ve been sitting on for years spills up to the surface like a flood. I want to tell him. I want to say I’ve loved him since forever, that there’s never been anyone else who’s ever penetrated my heart. But then he touches the inside of my thigh, and my brain shorts out like a blown fuse.

He leans down, his voice hot against my ear. “I think I’ll die if I don’t get to keep touching you like this.”

Brogan’s hands skim up my thighs, rough palms warm even through the goosebumps. He slides my leggings down, slow, lips following every inch of bare skin he uncovers. My breath catches when he mouths at the inside of my knee, then higher, his stubble scraping fire over my skin.

He pauses, just looking at me. “You’re shaking,” he whispers, voice thick.

I nod, grabbing the hem of my shirt and yanking it up. “Because I want you. All of you. Right now.”

He grins, a little wild, a little awed—like he can’t believe this is real. “God, JoJo. You kill me.”

He strips off his shirt, tosses it toward the couch, and presses his body against mine—chest to chest, skin to skin, both of us half-laughing, half-desperate. His mouth finds mine, hungry, claiming, and there’s nothing slow about it now. His kiss says everything he can’t: I missed you. I need you. I’m yours.

Our lips meet, and this time the kiss is deep—slow, searching, wild with the taste of longing and everything we’ve kept bottled up for too damn long. He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize it, like if he could breathe me in he’d never need air again. His tongue slides against mine, coaxing, teasing, every soft moan swallowed up by his lips.

His hands roam, greedy now—one sliding down my side, the other slipping up to the clasp of my bra. He fumbles a second, then pops it open, peeling the straps down my arms, baring me inch by inch. The look on his face as he pulls the cups away—hungry, awed, starved—makes my whole body flush.

Brogan’s palms are rough against my newly bare skin, cupping my breast with a kind of awe that sends sparks through my chest. He thumbs my nipple, then lowers his head, catching itbetween his lips—sucking, flicking, rolling it on his tongue until I’m arching up into him, wanting more, always more.

He glances up, breathless, firelight flickering across his face and casting gold over every line of my body. For a second he just stares—hazel eyes wide, pupils blown, lips swollen from kissing me. Brogan’s thumb drags slow circles around my other nipple, his gaze hot enough to scorch.

“Jesus, Joely,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Look at you. You’re…” He shakes his head, grinning like he’s half-wrecked, half-reverent. “You’re so fucking hot. The fire’s got nothing on you.”

He leans in, mouth tracing the line between my breast and collarbone, tongue teasing, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp. His free hand roams down my side, mapping every curve, every freckle, every place he’s ever wanted to linger.

And in that light—wrapped up in his touch, his gaze, the glow of the fire—I feel gorgeous. Worshipped. Like I’m the only woman in the world.

My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. “Don’t stop,” I whisper, and he doesn’t.

He pushes my panties aside and slides his hand between my legs, fingers stroking, circling, teasing—knowing exactly how to wreck me. “You’re so wet,” he groans, his lips brushing my jaw, his breath coming hot and fast. “I love knowing I’m the one who does this to you.”