Joe froze for half a second — just long enough for Riley to see that she’d knocked the breath clean out of him — and then that slow, crooked grin started tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The room felt different suddenly.
Not louder.
Not brighter.
Just… closer.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains in soft stripes, dust motes drifting lazily in the warm air. The sheets still smelled faintly like lavender and her shampoo, the kind that hit him in the chest every damn time. Riley’s palm rested lightly on his chest, warm through the thin cotton of his shirt, and the whole world narrowed down to the space between her mouth and his.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he murmured, voice low and gravel-warm.
“You really just went for the kill shot, huh?”

She shrugged — casual, deliciously smug — hair messily falling across her cheek in a way that made his heartbeat trip over itself.
“Just giving you material for your research.”

That did it.

He tightened his arm around her waist and pulled her fully into him, slow and sure, until her body pressed flush to his. The mattress dipped under their weight, the quiet creak of springs filling the space the way thunder fills the horizon — subtle at first, then all-consuming.

“Sweetheart,” he said, brushing his nose along her cheek in a lazy, unhurried drag, “you say ‘Riley Barnes’ like that again, and I’ll be down at the courthouse in ten minutes makin’ inquiries.”

Her breath hitched — barely audible, but he felt it.
Right against his mouth.
Right against his ribs.

God, he loved how transparent she was in the mornings.
Before her walls, before her deflection, before the day could make her careful again.

His fingers slid into her hair, slow and purposeful, the way you touch something you’ve loved so long it feels like home. Her strands were warm from sleep, soft against his knuckles, and when he cupped the back of her head, she relaxed into him without even thinking.

“And don’t think I missed what you said,” he added, voice dipping low as the pads of his fingers traced small circles at the nape of her neck.
“You ain’t scared of the idea. Not even a little.”

Her eyes warmed — not sharp, not teasing — something gentler, something older than the years they’d spent apart. The kind of look that lived in childhood summers and long drives and the taste of fireflies on humid nights.

He kissed her jaw first — featherlight, reverent — then the corner of her mouth, lingering like he wanted to memorize the exact spot her smile always began. And finally her lips, slow and savoring, like he was taking his time with something he planned to keep for a long, long while.

“You could write every manual you want,” he whispered against her lips, breath slipping into hers.
“But I’m pretty sure we both know there’s only one ending to us.”

She inhaled softly — one of those tiny, instinctive sounds he’d never admit he’d chase across a room.

Joe kissed her again, deeper this time, slow enough to send heat rolling down his spine.

When he pulled back just far enough to see her face, the morning sun caught her eyes in a way that damn near wrecked him.

“And sweetheart?” he said, grin pulling wider, softening everything inside him.
“You keep callin’ yourself Riley Barnes… and I promise you, one day, you ain’t gonna be jokin’.”

The room felt suspended — warm, quiet, theirs.

He brushed his thumb along her waist, not even thinking about it, just drawn there like it was instinct.

“That’s the kinda research,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her once more, slow and honey-sweet, “I can stand behind.”

Riley didn’t even try to hide the smile curling at her lips when Joe froze like that.
God, she loved catching him off guard.
Nothing in the world hit quite like watching him be the breathless one for once.

She slid her hand up his chest, slow and unhurried, feeling the warmth of him through the thin fabric. His heartbeat thudded under her palm — strong, steady, but definitely faster than before — and it made something inside her tighten in the sweetest way.

“Kill shot?” she murmured, arching a brow.
Her voice was low, sleep-soft, dangerously close to a purr.
“Baby, that wasn’t even me trying.”

She bit her lip just long enough to see the way his eyes flickered.

Then she pressed closer, letting his arm tighten around her as she tucked her leg over his like she owned the space. Because she did. She always had.

When he warned her — half playful, half deadly serious — about the courthouse, her breath really did catch. Just a little. Just enough for him to feel.

But she didn’t pull back.

She lifted her hand to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the spot she knew made him inhale a little harder, and whispered against his jaw:

“Maybe I said it because I meant it.”

She felt him go still for half a second — that quiet, seismic kind of still that happened right before his chest rose with something big, something real — and her own heart tugged in response.

She didn’t run from it.

Didn’t bury it.

Didn’t hide.

Instead, she let her nose brush his cheek, slow and intimate.

“You’re right,” she said softly. “I’m not scared of it. Not of you. Not of us. Not anymore.”

Her thumb traced along the line of his jaw, memorizing the faint morning scratch of stubble like she hadn’t touched it a thousand times.

“You and me… we’ve only ever had one ending. Everyone knew it but us.”

Then he kissed her — the slow, savoring kiss that unraveled her every single time — and she melted into him, fingers curling in his hair like she was holding on to something she’d waited years to get back.

When he finally pulled back enough to look at her, she didn’t look away. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.

She touched her forehead to his, breath mingling with his, and whispered:

“And Joe? Just so we’re clear…”

Her lips brushed his slowly, barely a kiss, more a promise.

“I’m not gonna stop calling myself Riley Barnes.”

A small smile ghosted across her mouth — tender, certain, full of love that didn’t scare her anymore.

“Because that’s exactly who I am. Maybe not legally yet…”
Her fingers slid down and laced with his on her waist.
“…but tell me it doesn’t sound right. Tell me it doesn’t fit.”

She kissed him again — slow, sweet, claiming.

“And the best part?” she breathed against his lips.

“I want it. All of it. You. The name. The family. The life.”

One last, soft kiss.

“So yeah. Do your research, Joey. But just know — you’re not the only one sure about where this is going.”

Joe’s heart just about left his damn body.

The second Riley said all that — in that slow, syrupy, morning voice of hers — he felt it hit like a lightning bolt wrapped in velvet.
Warm.
Soft.
Devastatin’.

And the worst part?

She knew exactly what she was doin’.

He huffed out a breath — part laugh, part “Lord help me” — and shook his head like a man who’d just been taken out by a woman half-asleep and still somehow armed to the teeth.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmured, drawl thicker than honey on hot asphalt.

She smiled — barely, but enough — and he damn near blacked out from it.

He slid his hand down her waist, tugging her in until their legs tangled together the way they always did, natural as moonlight on a dirt road. She fit against him like he’d been carved with her in mind.

“Here I am,” he went on, brushing his nose against hers, “thinkin’ I’m playin’ it all cool and slick… and you just stroll in here with the whole wedding speech like it’s casual conversation.”

She didn’t deny it.
Of course she didn’t.

Joe kissed the corner of her smile — slow, warm, lazy as a summer morning — because if he didn’t touch her, he might’ve said somethin’ stupid like I love you in full caps.

“You ain’t scared of it,” he said softly, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “You want the name, the family, the whole shebang.”

He pulled back just an inch, enough to look at her straight-on.

“And you think I’m gonna run from that?” He laughed, shaking his head. “Baby, I’d trip over my own damn boots runnin’ toward that.”

He tightened his hold on her hip, pulling her flush against him.

“Riley Barnes…”
He said it like he was savoring a good whiskey — slow, warm, rollin’ right off his tongue.
“You’re sayin’ it like you’re claimin’ the land.”

He nudged his forehead to hers, grinning that crooked, soft little grin that only ever showed up for her.

“And far as I’m concerned,” he murmured, “you staked that claim back when we were kids and you stole my last popsicle and I let you.”

Her breath hitched — tiny, but enough for him to catch it — and Joe felt the smugness bloom right in his chest.

“And hear me good,” he said, brushing his lips over hers in a slow tease that had no business bein’ that gentle, “you don’t gotta worry ’bout me bein’ sure.”

He paused, just long enough to let the tension settle sweet and thick between them.

“Last time I wasn’t sure ’bout us?”
He kissed her — deep and lazy, the kind of kiss that tasted like long drives and southern heat and years of almosts finally cashing in.
“—was before you ever said my name like that.”

Her fingers tightened in his hair.
He felt every bit of it right down to his bones.

He rested his hand over hers on his waist, threading their fingers together slow and sure.

“You keep callin’ yourself Riley Barnes…” he whispered, mouth brushing hers like he was drunk on her, “and I’m gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ sure you never wanna call yourself anything else.”

He grinned against her lips — warm, cocky, stupidly in love.

“And that, sweetheart?”
A soft kiss.
A promise dressed up like flirtin’.
“That’s research I’ve been conductin’ since the fourth grade.”

“And trust me…” he added with a lazy drawl that melted straight into her,
“I got a lot of data.”

Riley felt it — that shift in him.

That barely-there pause he tried to smother, the way his breath stuttered when she said Riley Barnes, the way his whole chest moved like he’d been hit with something he wanted and feared and never actually thought he’d get.

God, she loved doing that to him.

She slid her hand up his chest again — slow, claiming, absolutely intentional — her fingers tracing the path between his ribs like she was memorizing the map of where he kept her.

“Joe,” she whispered, and her voice was warm and teasing and true all at once, “if you think I’m not fully aware you’ve been planning all this since we were kids… then you’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with.”

His chest vibrated with that half-swallowed laugh of his — the one she felt before she heard.

She leaned in, brushing her lips along the corner of his mouth, slow enough to make him hold his breath.

“You always think you’re hiding things from me,” she murmured, letting her thumb stroke along the edge of his jaw. “But I’ve known you my whole damn life. You don’t get to pretend.”

Her nose brushed his.
Soft. Certain.

“You look at me the same way now as you did when I showed up to school with uneven pigtails and mismatched socks. Like you made up your mind about me before either of us had the language for it.”

She felt him swallow, slow and thick.

She kissed him — lingering, warm, just enough pressure to make him chase more — and pulled back only a breath.

“So yeah,” she said softly. “I want the name. The family. The forever.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp until his eyes fluttered just the way she liked.

“And I’m not scared of any of it. Not when it’s you.”

Her mouth curved into a grin — soft around the edges, smug through the middle.

“Because honestly? I’ve been Riley Barnes since the fourth grade too. I just… took the scenic route getting back to it.”

She felt him exhale — more like a release than a breath — and she pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes against the warmth of him.

“And if you’re really keeping all that ‘data’ you claim…”
She tilted her head, lips brushing his.
“…then you already know the conclusion.”

She kissed him again — slow and sure and sweet with promise.

“I’m yours, Joe. Fully. Completely. And I’ll say that name every morning if you want. Riley Barnes. Riley Barnes. Riley Barnes.”

Another kiss — deeper now, hungrier, her fingers curling in his shirt.

“Because that’s who I am. And you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to be worth it for.”

She tugged him a little closer, breath warm against his mouth.

“So you keep researching, baby. But don’t act surprised when the results keep pointing in the same direction.”

Riley didn’t give him a chance to say a single word.

Not one.

Because the second his breath hitched — that barely-there sound he only ever made when she got too close, too honest, too him — she slid her hand up the back of his neck and pulled his mouth back to hers.

No hesitation.
No space.
Just heat.

The kiss deepened in a way that felt inevitable — like gravity, like history, like every version of them winding its way back to this exact moment in this exact bed. His lips were warm and familiar and completely hers, and Riley kissed him like she’d been waiting years to do it right.

She swung a leg over to straddle his hips, slow and certain, her hair spilling around them like a curtain of morning light. He let out that sound — soft, low, unguarded — and she felt it vibrate straight through her chest.

“Joe…” she whispered against his mouth, but she didn’t finish it. Didn’t need to.

Her lips moved to his jaw, trailing kisses along the sharp line he always denied having. She lingered there a moment — slow, indulgent — before following the curve down to the warm place below his ear.

He breathed her name.
She smiled against his skin.

Her mouth found his neck next — soft kisses at first, then deeper, open-mouthed, lingering just long enough to feel the pulse beneath her lips. One hand slid under the hem of his T-shirt, fingertips brushing his stomach, and he arched just barely, just enough for her to feel every ounce of the effect she had on him.

She kissed her way down, from the column of his throat to the hollow at the base, tasting warmth and sleep and that familiar scent of him that always hit her like home.

Then she reached his collarbones.

God, she’d always loved these.
The shape of them.
The vulnerability of them.
The way he always melted just a little when she touched them.

She pressed one slow kiss to the left — soft, almost reverent.

Another to the right — lingering this time, lips curved into a smile against his skin.

Her fingers slid up to cradle his jaw as she lifted her face again, hovering over him, her breath mingling with his.

“Still takin’ notes, Barnes?” she murmured, her voice low and warm, the teasing tangled with something deeper — something unmistakably her choosing him.

Because she was choosing him.
Again.
And again.
And again.

She kissed him once more, deeper than before — the kind of kiss that felt like a promise.

And the kind that left no doubt in either of them:

She wasn’t going anywhere.

Joe’s whole damn world went molten.

Not the panicked kind — the familiar kind.
The kind that only ever happened with her, every single time she climbed into his lap like she belonged there. Because she did. God help him, she always had.

“Still takin’ notes, Barnes?”

Lord have mercy.

The way she said that — voice lazy, lips swollen, sittin’ over him like the memory of last time and the promise of next time — it lit him up from the inside out.

Joe laughed — low, dangerous, knowing exactly what he was doing to her too — and the sound rumbled under her hands like a warning she absolutely wasn’t going to heed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, sliding his hands up her thighs with slow, practiced confidence, “I ain’t takin’ notes anymore.”

He let his thumbs drag up just under the hem of her shorts — slow, teasing, claiming — because he knew exactly how that touch made her breath hitch.

“I’m studyin’,” he added, voice dropping to something dark-sweet.
“And trust me, I got a whole curriculum planned.”

Her fingers curled in his shirt.
Yeah — he felt that.

“You sittin’ up here like you’re doin’ me a favor…” His hands traced up her hips, knowing exactly where to linger.
“You kissin’ down my neck like you forgot the last time you did that, I nearly threw my back out tryin’ to pull you closer—”

She let out a quiet breath against his skin.
Joe grinned wider, cockier.

“Baby, that ain’t research,” he murmured, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, “that’s a damn thesis defense.”

She kissed the hollow of his throat — slow, deliberate — and Joe couldn’t stop the quiet, rough sound that escaped him.
He never could with her.

His hips lifted — just enough to tell the truth, not enough to surrender all the control.
She felt it.
Of course she did.

“See,” he rasped, hand sliding under her shirt, fingers finding bare skin he knew better than his own, “this is where you mess up, darlin’.”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and amused, jaw tight with how much he wanted her.

“You think you’re drivin’ this,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear, “but you forget—”

His other hand grabbed her hip, steady and firm, guiding her down a push closer to him.

“—I know your tells too.”

Her breath stuttered.
He felt her thighs tighten around him.

“Oh yeah,” he murmured, cocky as hell, “there she is.”

He shifted beneath her — slow, purposeful — and she made a sound he felt everywhere.

“You kiss me like that, Riley,” he breathed against her mouth, “and you act all smug like you ain’t already pulled that move on me ten times…”

He kissed her jaw.
Then her throat.
Then that sweet spot just under her ear that had ruined her the first time they ever crossed that line.

“…and you think I don’t remember every single one of ’em?”

He lifted his head, meeting her eyes with a lazy, devastating smile.

“Baby, I could write your manual.”

His thumb stroked the inside of her thigh, slow as honey.

“And chapter one?”
A kiss to her collarbone — hot, open-mouthed, lingering.
“That look on your face when you call yourself Riley Barnes.”

Her breath hitched again — and he chased it with a soft groan.

“God, sweetheart,” he muttered, pulling her flush against him, “you keep doin’ that, and I’m liable to forget we were ever apart.”

He nipped her jaw lightly — playful, familiar, hungry.

“And I promise you,” he murmured, lips hovering just over hers, “I ain’t surprised the results point in the same direction.”

He kissed her — slow and deep, the kind of kiss that meant I know you, I want you, I’m not goin’ anywhere.

Then he smirked against her mouth.

“Data’s conclusive,” he murmured.
“You’re mine, and I’m yours. Been that way since before either of us knew what the hell to do with it.”

Another kiss — hotter this time, as if pulled from somewhere low and certain.

“And now that we know?”
His hands tightened at her hips.
His voice dropped to a promise:

“I ain’t wastin’ a damn second of it.”

Riley let out a sound that was caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, her head falling back as his thumbs pressed into the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. God, he was infuriating. He was arrogant. He was absolutely, one-hundred-percent right.

“You talk a big game for a man currently pinned to the bed,” she managed, though the bite in her voice was ruined by the way her fingers tightened in his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp.

She looked down at him—at that smirk she’d wanted to smack off his face when they were sixteen and kiss off his face when they were eighteen. Now? Now she just wanted to bite it.

“And for the record,” she murmured, leaning down until her lips were a ghost against his, ignoring the way her pulse was hammering a traitorous rhythm against his chest, “if I nearly threw your back out, that’s just you gettin’ old, Barnes. Don’t blame my technique.”

She ground down, just a fraction. Just enough to feel the heavy ridge of him snap against her, just enough to make his eyes darken further.

“Besides,” she whispered, her voice dropping to that husky register she knew wrecked him. “You loved it. Every second of it.”

When he brought up the name—Riley Barnes—she felt the heat rise up her neck, hot and prickly. She could bluff her way through a lot of things. She could bluff through grief, through business licenses, through town gossip. But she couldn’t bluff through the way his voice wrapped around that name like he’d already engraved it on the mailbox.

She didn’t pull away, though. Instead, she softened. The fight went out of her shoulders, her body melting into the solid, warm line of his. This was the soft-edged resilience—the part of her that fought the world but folded for him.

She traced the line of his jaw with her thumb, her expression shifting from teasing to something achingly tender. “Don’t let it go to your head, Joey. I haven't signed the paperwork yet.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose against his, breathing in the scent of him—soap, cedar, and that underlying warmth that just smelled like home.

“But if you’re so sure about your data,” she whispered against his lips, her heart feeling like it was going to beat right out of her chest and into his hands, “...then stop talking about the curriculum, Professor.”

She bit his lower lip, a sharp, sudden tease, before pulling back just an inch, her eyes challenging him, daring him.

“And show me what you learned.”

Joe never claimed to be a saint.

But right then?

With Riley Carson straddling him, grinding down slow enough to knock the breath out of his lungs, biting his damn lip like she had every legal right to?

Yeah.
If God Himself wanted a word, He’d have to get in line.

Because Joe Barnes wasn’t thinkin’ holy thoughts.
He was thinkin’ finally.

Her laugh—gasp—whatever that sound was, it tore right through him.
And that crack in her voice when he squeezed her thighs?

Sweet Jesus.

He’d replay that until he was old and gray.

“You talk a big game for a man currently pinned to the bed.”

Pinned?

He let out a low, dark laugh, the kind that rumbled in his chest and vibrated right through her.
“Oh sweetheart,” he drawled, thumbs pressing deeper into the soft skin of her inner thighs just to hear her breath hitch again, “you think I’m pinned, you ain’t been payin’ attention.”

And then she said it.

Show me what you learned.

He felt it hit him like a damn freight train made of heat and history and every bad decision he’d ever stopped himself from making with her when they were younger.

His smile went slow.
Dangerous.
The kind of smile that used to get them both in trouble behind the bleachers.

“Oh, darlin’,” he murmured, voice dipping into that low register he only had for her, “you shouldn’t’ve said that.”

His hands slid up her thighs—slow, certain, possessive in a way he didn’t bother hiding.
He mapped every inch of her skin like it was notes on a page he’d been memorizing since childhood.

“You sittin’ here askin’ for demonstrations…”

He tilted his head, dragging his teeth lightly along the inside of her knee, just to feel her shiver.
“…you really forget this ain’t our first rodeo?”

Her breath faltered.
He felt it.
He loved it.

“Oh no, baby,” he said, thumbs brushing up her hips, “I remember every thing you like.”

His voice dropped even lower, a warm southern hum against her skin.

“The way your breath stutters right before you try to get cocky.”
His fingers traced the curve of her waist.
“The way your thighs tighten when I get my hands right here…”
A flex of his grip.
“And the way you say my name like you’re mad at me and beggin’ at the same time.”
He dragged his mouth up her thigh—slow, strategic, sinful—until he reached the place just under her hip that always made her tremble.

“Told you already,” he whispered, breath hot against her skin, “I ain’t takin’ notes.”
He kissed her there—open-mouthed, claiming.
“I’ve been studyin’ you my whole damn life.”

He looked up at her from beneath his lashes—dark, hungry, smiling like he knew exactly what he was about to do to her.

“So if you want the lesson…”

His hands slid firmly up her back, guiding her closer, his lips brushing hers in a slow, devastating tease.
“…you better hold on.”

He didn't need to be on the bottom for this next part.

His hands, already spanning her back, moved with sudden, urgent purpose. He found the hem of her loose T-shirt, bunching the fabric in his fists. He lifted his hips just enough to meet the motion as he dragged the shirt up, pulling it over her head in one swift, soundless movement.

He tossed the cotton aside and looked up at her—her chest heaving, the sheer, intoxicating shock of exposed skin and frantic breath in her eyes.

She was stunning. The kind of raw, reckless beauty that made him want to forget every protocol he’d ever learned.

“Now who’s pinned, Riley?” he murmured, his voice laced with triumph and heat.
With a powerful flex of his core, he leveraged himself, sliding them over the sheets in one smooth motion until he was above her, his weight heavy and solid, settling between her thighs. Her legs instinctively clamped down on his hips, and the involuntary friction of it made his vision swim.

He didn't touch her breasts immediately. That was too quick.

Instead, his hands cradled her jaw, holding her face still as he took her mouth again—a deep, silencing, territorial kiss that was half claim, half desperate hunger.

When he finally pulled back, he lowered his head, tracing a path down her neck. His breath was hot on her skin, but his mouth was hotter.

He paused at the soft curve of her shoulder, tasting the faint salt of sweat and the familiar scent of her skin. He left a slow, deliberate line of kisses from her collarbone toward her chest, his intention unmistakable.

He reached the sensitive, warm skin of her cleavage and lingered, letting his tongue map the hollow between her breasts before pushing one hand into the pillow above her head.
He looked her straight in the eye, all the raw, dangerous intention of a man pushed past his limit, and then he lowered his head. His mouth closed over the perfect, waiting curve of her right breast, and he drew her in with a sound that was less of a groan and more of a vow.

“‘Cause I’m about to refresh your memory, Riley Barnes—”

A slow, deliberate suckle.
A scrape of his teeth.
A shudder that went through her like a shockwave.

“—on exactly what the hell you came back home for.”

Riley’s world didn’t just tilt; it capsized.

One second she was the one looking down, feeling powerful, and the next, the room blurred into a dizzying smear of motion. The mattress rose up to meet her back with a soft thump, the air rushing out of her lungs in a startled, ragged gasp that was immediately swallowed by the heavy, crushing weight of him settling between her legs.

He felt like a mountain. Solid, immovable, and emanating a heat that seemed to radiate right through the denim of his jeans and into the bare skin of her thighs.

The loss of her shirt happened so fast she barely registered the movement, just the sudden, shocking rush of cool air against her skin—followed instantly by the searing warmth of his breath. It left her feeling stripped, not just of cotton, but of every defense mechanism she’d built up over the last three years.

"You... you play dirty, Barnes," she choked out, though the words lacked any real heat. They were breathless, wrecked things.
And then he claimed her.

When his mouth closed over her breast—hot, wet, and maddeningly precise—a white-hot wire of sensation snapped tight in her belly. The scrape of his teeth wasn't gentle; it was a possessive graze that sent a volt of electricity straight down her spine, shattering her composure into a thousand glittering shards.

Her back arched violently off the sheets, her body moving on pure, frantic instinct. Her hands, desperate for an anchor in the storm he was creating, flew to his head, fingers tangling deep into his short hair, gripping his scalp hard enough to hurt.

"Joe," she pleaded, her voice cracking, a high, thin sound that she barely recognized as her own. "God—Joe."

Hearing him say that name—Riley Barnes—in that low, rough growl, while his tongue worked magic on her sensitive skin... it hit her harder than the physical pleasure. It felt like a brand. It felt like coming home and locking the door behind her.

"I didn't..." She struggled to speak through the haze, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath between the waves of sensation rolling off him. "I didn't come back for this."

It was a lie, and they both knew it. But she needed to say the truth of it, even if it cost her the last shred of her pride.

She dragged his head closer, her nails scraping lightly against his skin, her hips bucking up to meet the heavy pressure of his.

"I came back," she confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush, raw and unvarnished, "because I realized that being safe in New York was just another way of being numb."

She shuddered as he swirled his tongue, her eyes fluttering open to stare up at the ceiling, her vision blurring.

"And I was starving," she whispered, her voice breaking on the admission. She looked down at him, her eyes dark, dilated, and full of reckless surrender. "I was starving for you."

She tugged sharply on his hair, demanding his attention, demanding everything.

"Now stop talking," she breathed, pulling him up just enough to crash her mouth against his in a messy, desperate kiss. "And feed me."

Joe wasn’t a religious man.

​But if he ever had a moment that could’ve converted him?

​It was this one.

​Because when Riley Carson—Riley Barnes in every way that mattered—hit his mouth with hers like that, dragging him up by the hair with a force that shot straight down his spine, every thought in his head burned right out.

​He growled.
Actually growled.

​A low, raw, feral sound that vibrated against her lips as he kissed her back hard enough to steal the breath right from her chest.

​“Feed me,” she’d said.

​Oh, sweetheart.
She had no idea.

​He broke the kiss only long enough to look at her—really look at her—hair wild on the pillow, lips swollen, eyes blown wide with want and something so real it damn near leveled him.

​Starving.
​She’d said she was starving.

​And Joe Barnes had never wanted to give someone so much in his entire damn life.

​“Riley…” he rasped, voice shredded and thick with heat, “you ain’t gotta ask me twice.”

​He didn't need to ask for permission. He already had the marching orders.

​He kissed her again—fast, sharp, a hungry punctuation mark on their conversation—before pulling back and shifting his attention lower. He braced himself on one elbow, his eyes never leaving hers, watching the anticipation widen those dark pupils.

​Her pajama bottoms were thin, soft cotton, a casual, maddening barrier. His fingers hooked into the fabric at her hip, and he dragged the pants down her legs slowly, deliberately, forcing her to lift her hips just a fraction off the sheet to help him.

​The sight of the lace she wore beneath—unapologetically black, a stark, delicious contrast to the soft skin of her thighs—hit him like a flash of lightning. It was calculated. It was for him.

​He peeled the cotton pants off her ankles and tossed them somewhere into the periphery, their presence forgotten.

​Then, he leaned down, pressing his mouth to her inner thigh just above the edge of the lace. His breath, hot and heavy, was enough to make her gasp and arch against the pillow.

​He ran his hands up the outside of her thighs, planting them firmly on her hips, anchoring her to the bed, possessive and focused.

​“Data collection, Riley,” he mumbled against her skin, the low sound vibrating through her flesh and straight to her core. “High priority retrieval.”

​He started with slow, open-mouthed kisses, tracing the seam of the delicate fabric, torturing her with proximity and patience. He kissed the sensitive skin of her hip bones, the curve of her belly, working his way inward, drawing out the tension until she was breathless.

​He reached the center, and paused one last time, looking up at the woman who had always been his one constant, his one unpredictable storm.

​He saw the begging in her eyes, the feverish want, the total surrender he craved.
​Joe didn't hesitate. He pulled the lace aside with a single, firm finger, revealing her wet, waiting heat, and then he buried his face against her.

​The first stroke of his tongue was slow, deep, and utterly consuming. He was methodical, tracing the most sensitive points, mapping the tremors that were already starting to rack her body. She gasped his name, her hands flying to the sheets beside her head, gripping the fabric tight.

​He applied pressure, careful and deliberate, watching her face—the way her eyes clenched shut, the small, desperate sound caught in her throat. He felt the frantic hammer of her pulse beneath the tips of his fingers where they gripped her hips, and the knowledge that he was the one causing this beautiful loss of control was the sweetest rush he'd ever known.

​He smiled against her skin, a dark, primal, satisfied curve of his mouth. This was his language. This was the conclusion he’d always known.

​He kept the rhythm steady and deep, savoring the way her breath hitched with every deliberate movement, driving the heat higher and higher, refusing to let her settle, refusing to let her come apart until he knew she was aching for it.

​Riley Barnes was his storm. And he was going to stand right in the eye of it.

Riley’s head fell back against the mattress with a thud, her eyes rolling back as the first damp, hot drag of his tongue against her inner thigh sent a shockwave straight to her chest.

"High priority... God," she choked out, the sarcasm dying a quick, breathless death on her lips. She wanted to laugh at him—at the sheer, audacious nerdiness of the line—but he didn't give her the chance.

He was moving the lace.

The sensation of the fabric sliding against sensitive skin was maddening, but the feeling of his unshaven jaw grazing her inner thigh was worse. It was better. It was everything.

When he finally settled—when he pulled the lace aside and claimed her with that terrifying, perfect confidence—Riley ceased to be a person who owned a flower shop or worried about grocery lists. She was just a live wire, and he was the current.
"Joe—"

The name broke on a ragged sob as his tongue swept over her, deep and slow and so agonizingly precise it felt like he was taking her apart at the seams.

Her hands found the sheets by her head, fists clenching so hard her knuckles turned white, anchoring herself against the tide. He wasn't just touching her; he was memorizing her. He was learning the exact pressure that made her hips jerk, the exact rhythm that made her breath catch and hold in her throat.

"Don't you..." she gasped, her hips lifting off the mattress, seeking more friction, harder pressure. "Don't you dare stop."

But he knew that. He knew everything.

The steady, relentless rhythm he set was torture. Sweet, blinding, white-hot torture. Every time she thought she might crest, he slowed just enough to keep her on the edge, leaving her hanging in the terrifying, beautiful space between freefall and flight.

"Please," she whimpered, the word torn from the back of her throat, stripped of all pride. She was thrashing now, her head moving restlessly on the pillow, her legs trembling around him.

"Joe, please."

She didn't even know what she was begging for anymore—for him to stop, for him to harder, for him to never let her go. All she knew was that he was the storm, and she was drowning in him, and she didn't want to be saved.