Hungry for you

Chapter Seven – What We Couldn’t Hold Back

The night after Ian walked out, I barely slept. My body hummed with leftover heat, my mind trapped between the softness of his lips on my shoulder and the cold emptiness when he pulled away. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it all over again—the brush of his hand in my hair, the weight of his gaze, the restraint that nearly undid me more than a kiss would have.

By morning, I was raw. Coffee didn’t help. Eli’s voice mail didn’t help. Nate’s good-morning text didn’t help. Nothing touched the ache I carried.

By afternoon, the ache became a decision.

I needed to see him.

Not Nate, not Eli. Ian.

I told myself it was for clarity, for closure, to demand answers. But my body knew better. My body wanted the heat back, the tension, the way he made me feel alive even when it scared me.

When I got to his place, I almost turned around twice. The building was old brick, ivy crawling up the sides, the kind of place that looked like it held secrets in every corner. I climbed the stairs slowly, heart hammering, my palms slick against the railing.

I knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, like he’d been waiting.

Ian stood there barefoot, shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes locked on me, and everything inside me lurched.

“Reese,” he said, voice low.

“I shouldn’t be here.” The words came out shaky, unconvincing.

“No,” he agreed, stepping aside. “You shouldn’t.”

But I walked in anyway.

The air inside was different—warm, heavy, carrying the faint scent of cedarwood and something sharper, maybe whiskey. Papers were scattered across the table, his camera on top, lens cap off, like he’d been working until I knocked.

I stood awkwardly, arms crossed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

His gaze swept over me, slow, deliberate, like he was taking his time memorizing. “You came.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It means something.” He stepped closer.

I should’ve backed up. I didn’t.

“You drive me crazy,” I whispered, anger laced with longing. “You make me feel things I don’t want to feel.”

“Because they’re real.” His voice was steady, sure. “And you’re terrified of real.”

My throat tightened. “You don’t understand.”

“I do.” His hand lifted, brushing my arm, gentle at first, then firmer. “You’re loyal. You’re scared of being the kind of person who betrays. But tell me—when was the last time Eli made you feel alive?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Because the truth sat there, heavy and undeniable.

Ian’s fingers slid lower, grazing my wrist. His thumb circled slowly, almost absently, but the touch sent sparks rushing up my arm.

“Don’t,” I whispered, though I didn’t move.

“You don’t want me to stop,” he murmured. His breath brushed my temple, hot and steady.

My knees weakened. I closed my eyes, trying to gather myself, but all I felt was him—his body heat, his voice, the way he pulled the ground out from under me without even trying.

“Ian…” My voice was soft, trembling. “This is wrong.”

“Then why does it feel right?”

The room went quiet. The only sound was the rhythm of our breathing, too close, too synced. His hand slid into my hair again, curling, anchoring. His lips brushed my temple, then lower, skimming down to the curve of my cheek.

My body arched without permission. My breath hitched.

When his mouth found the spot just beneath my jaw, my control shattered. The soft graze of his lips there was more dangerous than anything else. My hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screamed no.

“Ian…” It came out like a plea.

“Say it,” he whispered against my skin.

“Say what?”

“That you want me.” His mouth traced lower, grazing my neck. “That you’ve been wanting me.”

I gasped, heat flooding everywhere, shame and hunger tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart. My fingers tightened in his shirt.

“I—”

The word stuck in my throat. But my body gave me away.

He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, wild, hungry—but there was restraint there too, like he was holding himself back by threads.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said finally. “I already know.”

And then his mouth claimed mine.

The kiss was nothing like I’d imagined. It wasn’t soft or testing. It was deep, consuming, like he’d been starving and I was the only thing left. My lips parted instantly, helplessly, as if I’d been waiting for this all along.

Heat surged between us. My body pressed against his, desperate, aching. His hand cradled the back of my head, his other hand sliding to my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left.

Every nerve lit up. Every thought dissolved.

When he finally broke the kiss, I was breathless, trembling, my lips swollen, my heart racing so hard it hurt.

“This,” he said, voice hoarse, forehead resting against mine. “This is what we’ve been pretending not to feel.”

My eyes burned. My chest ached. “What if we can’t go back?”

“Then we don’t,” he whispered. “We go forward.”

The words sank deep, dangerous and irresistible.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, I felt alive.