The Games We Play - Chapter 33: Chapter 33

The living room is a sea of overlapping conversations, clinking cutlery, and a constant stream of cheers and groans as everyone squashes together to watch the Clemson Tigers vs. Charlotte Colts Thanksgiving rivalry game.
Plates balance precariously on knees, and the smell of turkey and mashed potatoes lingers in the air. The kids are all on the floor in front of the flat screen, while the adults are spread out on the sofas, random dining table chairs, desk chairs, and old beach chairs from the garage.
Nana Bea still has the best seat in the house in Dad's armchair—even better because Armand has to hand-feed her the green beans.
The Colts are winning—but barely—and the tension in the room is palpable.
I shift in my spot on the armrest of the couch, trying to keep my focus on the game.
I watch him on the screen, dressed in that crisp white away uniform, that TrueBlue number 10 stretched over his broad chest, white helmet gleaming under the stadium lights.
Dear lord.
It should be illegal to look like that. To move like that.
Wes steps up to the line of scrimmage, helmet tilted slightly as he scans the defense, reading them like a book.
He's saying something.
Shouting, actually.
Barking out commands, adjusting the formation like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like it's not making me wet just watching him.
"What's he saying?" Brynn, my ten-year-old cousin, tugs on my sleeve, eyes wide as she looks between me and the screen.
"Yeah, what's he yelling?" Ellie, her little sister, echoes.
I exhale through my nose.
"He's calling an audible," I mumble, leaning closer to them but keeping my eyes on the screen. "See how he's pointing at the line? He's changing the play at the last second."
Ellie frowns with an adorable tilt to her head when I flick a gaze her way. "Why?"
I glance at the screen as Wes takes a step back, pointing at something, his mouth moving fast beneath his helmet.
Because he sees something.
Because the defense is shifting.
Because he already knows exactly what's about to happen.
"Because the defense is showing blitz," I say, barely realizing I'm talking. "They're about to send extra pressure, so he needs to make some changes if they want to get the ball forward."
Brynn blinks at me. "And what's he gonna do?"
I let out a long, suffering sigh.
Because I already know.
I hate that I already know.
"He's gonna hit Clay on a post route," I grumble. "Just you watch, sweetie."
And just like that—
The ball snaps.
The pocket collapses almost immediately.
But Wes?
Wes doesn't panic.
He shifts, stepping up, dodging the pressure like he felt it before it even came, his eyes locked downfield.
Then—
A perfect, gorgeous spiral, cutting through the air like a goddamn missile.
Straight to Clay.
Twenty yards downfield.
Right where I said it would be.
Because I know him.
I'm understanding him.
His plays. His mind. The way he moves.
The entire living room erupts—my uncles cheering, my dad hollering and high-fiving Uncle Nico over Aunt Lou's head, the teenagers bouncing up and down on the couch.
Brynn's jaw drops.
Ellie gasps.
"Cammy, you KNEW that was gonna happen!" Brynn practically shouts, grabbing my arm.
Ellie gapes at me, eyes wide. "Are you psychic?"
"No," I mutter, horrified. "I'm just cursed."
Because last night, I spent two full hours on the phone with him.
Two hours of talking him down from the ledge, listening to him stress about the game, about the pressure, about making sure his team didn't get embarrassed on national television.
And, of course, in classic Wes fashion, every time I tried to reassure him, he just turned it into something filthy.
"You're real good at talkin' me down, baby," he'd murmured, his voice thick and lazy, dripping through the receiver like warm honey. Like sin. "Bet you're even better when you've got my cock in your mouth."
I had choked on my own damn spit.
"Wesley!"
"Mmm," he hummed, completely unbothered. "Say my name like that again, Cameron, and I might just fly to Arizona right now to hear it myself."
Jesus Christ.
I had clutched my pillow like a lifeline and told him to focus, but he had just laughed, low and rough, like he knew what he was doing to me.
And now, here I am, sitting between my eight-year-old cousins, trying to explain defensive formations like I wasn'treplaying every filthy word he'd whispered in my ear the night before.
My eyes roam the room, laughing lightly at everyone's reactions.
Jenna sits stiffly on the other side, tucked between Danny and Aunt Trixie, her eyes flitting around nervously. Every time our gazes meet, she quickly looks away, her earlier confidence replaced by something far more subdued.
I can't help but feel a flicker of guilt. It's clear I rattled her.
Still, I'm not about to let her ruin my day.
For the twentieth time, I glance down at my phone, opening the message Wes sent just before kickoff.
Not sure what the fuck that means but I'm sure he was just full of nerves and it's probably a typo. Or not—Wes is a fucking weird dude in the body of a god.
"Goddamn, he's good," Uncle Jerry mutters around a mouthful of stuffing.
"Best damn quarterback in the league," Dad declares proudly, raising his eyebrows at me.
I smile faintly, warmth spreading through me as I watch Wes jog back to the huddle, his hand reaching up to adjust his helmet.
"He's got a killer arm," Danny chimes in, and while I fully condemn his opinion on female partners, I agree with him on this.
The next play unfolds, and I find myself explaining more and more to Brynn and Ellie, who have curled up at my side with wide-eyed fascination.
Another perfect drive.
Another surgical series of plays, Wes picking apart Clemson's defense like it's his goddamn job.
Which, technically, it is.
Rome gets the touchdown, and the Colts are up by four.
The offense jogs off the field as special teams takes over for the extra point, and I can finally breathe again.
"Oh yeah!" Brynn shouts, throwing her arms up.
Ellie claps beside her, bouncing excitedly on the couch.
I exhale, shaking my head as the offense jogs to the sideline, special teams coming on to kick the extra point.
"Alright, my loves, how many points do they get for this?" I ask, looking down at Brynn and Ellie.
"One!" Brynn shouts immediately.
I grin, nudging her shoulder. "Look at you, football expert."
Ellie frowns at the screen, watching as the kicker sets up. "But why do they get one? Why not more?"
"Because they already scored a touchdown," I explain. "This is just a free kick afterward. If they wanted more points, they'd have to go for a two-point conversion instead."
Ellie gasps, spinning toward me. "Can they still do that?"
"Not now," I laugh. "They have to pick before they set up the play."
"Damn, Cammie—you know more about football than I do," Zach scoffs from the other end of the sofa, mouth full of turkey and cranberry as he grins at me. He's six years younger than me and Uncle Nico and Aunt Lou's only son, so naturally, he exudes immense only child vibes.
"Because she's amazeballs!" Brynn tells Zach, me, and the rest of the den, who all just smile, laugh, and nod in agreement with the fiery little brunette. I giggle lightly, smoothing down the top of her hair as we all look back to the screen.
The kicker lines up.
I settle back into the couch, taking a sip of my drink, finally feeling normal for the first time all day.
"Alright, who thinks Kyle's gonna make it?" I ask, glancing between Brynn and Ellie.
"Me!" they both shout.
The ball is snapped, the kicker swings his leg—
And the ball goes right through the uprights.
The room erupts again—uncles clapping, Aunt Trixie muttering something about how she still doesn't understand why football takes so long.
I grin, shaking my head as the camera cuts back to the Colts' sideline.
Wes is on the bench, black chunky headset on, forearms resting on his thighs.
His blonde curls are damp and hanging down in front of his face, golden skin slick with sweat. The muscles in his neck are tight and flexed, the stadium lights only making them all the more prominent.
God help me.
The commentators are talking about him—they're always talking about him.
He's focused, nodding slightly as he listens to whatever Ben Barclay, the offensive coordinator, is saying through his headset, his lips pressing together, his jaw flexing like he's already calculating his next move.
I should not be staring.
I should not be watching the way his chest rises and falls, the way his jaw clenches as he nods slightly at whatever's being said into his headset.
But then—
He glances up.
Like it's instinct.
Like he just senses it.
His eyes flick to the stadium's massive jumbotron off-screen, where the live feed has landed on him.
And when he sees himself—
His lips pick up.
A smirk. Sharp. Unfair. Knowing.
He lifts his hand.
Forms a C with his fingers.
And kisses it.
Smirking the entire time.
Oh, you fucking perfect, beautiful little shit.
"Aw, look at that," someone in the room says. "Colts pride. Gotta love it."
The chatter around me carries on, everyone too caught up in the game to think much of it. But I can't stop staring at the screen, my heart thudding hard against my ribs.
It looks so casual, so effortless, but I know better.
The C isn't for the Colts. It's for me.
I swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of the warm flush creeping up my neck. A thousand thoughts race through my mind—how ridiculously sweet it was, how vulnerable he'd just been, how I'm definitely going to fuck him until we both can't walk when I get back.
But before I can spiral any further, my mom's soft smile catches my eye from across the room.
She doesn't say anything, doesn't call attention to it, but the knowing look she gives me, complete with a quick wink, makes my stomach bubble with warmth.
She turns back to the TV, clapping along with the rest of the family as the offensive line takes the field again.
Meanwhile, I sit there, my thoughts a mess but my chest full, trying to focus on the game instead of the boy who is making me feel more loved with every passing second.
☆☆☆☆
The room is warm with the lingering smells of Thanksgiving—turkey, stuffing, and the faint, sweet tang of cranberry sauce.
Ellie has climbed onto my lap at some point, her small body curled against mine as she traces random patterns on my arm with her tiny fingers. I absently smooth her hair as Aunt Trixie continues her very passionate pitch from the armchair beside me.
"Her name's Madame Celeste," Trixie says, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "She told me I'd meet a tall, dark stranger within three months, and wouldn't you know it? Jerry's co-worker Carl stopped by for dinner. He's bald and pale, but the salmon pink shirt he was wearing had this little black Ralph Lauren logo on it."
I bite back a laugh, nodding like I believe every word. "Oh my god! She did say dark, didn't she, Ellie?"
Ellie giggles softly against my chest, and I press a kiss to the top of her head as Aunt Trixie leans forward, clearly invigorated by my faux interest.
She puts a hand on my forearm. "She could do your chart for, oh, fifty dollars—maybe forty-five since you're family. She'll tell you everything—love, career, fertility... it's really something, Cam."
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, my tone indulgent. "Maybe after finals."
Across the room, plates clatter as people begin cleaning up, the chorus of "thank yous" and "great food" blending into the background.
Mom's voice cuts through the din, calling me to the door.
"Cam, honey, come say goodbye!"
I duck my chin down to the small blonde on my lap. "You wanna say goodbye, Ellie?"
She shakes her head—clearly drained from the day.
"Okay, you stay here with Aunt Trixie. I'll be back soon." I chuckle softly at her.
Carefully lifting Ellie off my lap, I set her on the couch and made my way over, smiling politely as Uncle Jerry and Ingrid shuffled toward the door. Ingrid had her usual pinched expression, clutching her coat like we were going to steal it off her back.
Uncle Jerry steps forward to hug my mother. "Great day, Kirbs."
"Yes. Thank you, Kirby," Ingrid said, the corners of her mouth twitching downward, her European accent still thick as ever. "But I must say, all that butter—so unnecessary. I find you some healthier alternatives for next year."
Mom opened her mouth, and Dad's hand immediately landed on her shoulder, squeezing gently.
"Looking forward to it, Ingrid," Dad said, his voice perfectly level.
"Appreciate it, Donnie," Uncle Jerry said, ushering Ingrid out before Mom could explode.
The moment they disappeared down the driveway, Mom exhaled sharply.
"God. I need another bottle of wine," she announced, putting a hand on Dad's chest for balance as she wobbled back toward the kitchen—already several bottles of Merlot deep.
Dad and I smirked, watching her go.
Then Dad turned to me. "I should probably follow her. I swear she's drunk her body weight in wine—you okay with the send-offs?"
I gave him a salute. "Sir, yes, sir."
He just smiled at me before heading off to the kitchen, leaving me standing alone in the foyer.
A moment later, Armand appeared on the doorstep and rushed back through the open frame, quickly shuffling inside.
He'd just taken Nana Bea out to the retirement home van parked in the driveway.
"Forgot something?" I asked, raising a brow.
He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. "Need to use the restroom before we head back."
"Go right ahead." I smiled softly.
"Merci, Cammie." He nodded before hurrying down the hall.
I couldn't help but notice how tense he was, and I tried not to smile, wondering if he'd had some of that Nordic mush Ingrid had smuggled out of the garage fridge and placed in the middle of the table.
I was about to head back into the living room when I noticed Danny and Jenna making their way toward the foyer, slipping their coats over their arms and shoulders.
I grinned at them. "Y'all leaving?"
"Yeah—calling it a night," Danny answered as he stopped before me, fixing the collar of his coat. "Thanks so much for today. Tell Aunt Kirby the food was amazing, okay? You guys really went all out."
"Oh, of course," I said, genuinely pleased by his gratitude.
Danny opened his arms, and I stepped into his hug. It was brief, and I patted his back before stepping away.
Danny then glanced at Jenna and placed a hand on the small of her back. "I'm gonna grab the car. You two ladies can catch up a little more."
"Sure thing," Jenna chirped, watching him head out the door before turning to me, her expression already shifting.
Here we go.
I spoke before she could. "Look, Jenna, I just wanted to say—I'm sorry about earlier. I might've overreacted in the garage."
Her lips pressed into a tight line, and for a sweet little moment, I thought she might actually accept the apology. But then her eyes narrowed, and her words came sharp and cold.
"Oh, you're apologizing now?" Jenna said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. She crossed her arms, her perfectly manicured nails digging lightly into the sleeves of her sweater. "How sweet. But I can't just forget what you said, Cam."
I bit back a sigh, trying not to let her bait me.
"I'm not apologizing for what I said," I replied calmly, though my patience was wearing thin. "I'm apologizing because I didn't handle it in the right way."
"See, that's the thing about you, Cam." Jenna sneered, tilting her head as if considering my words. Her blue eyes sparkled with malice. "You think you're always so righteous, so above it all. Like the rules don't apply to you."
I folded my arms, keeping my voice steady. "Oh my g—I'm not doing this with you again, Jenna."
"Oh, but you are," she shot back, taking a step closer. "You're doing it now. You've been doing it since high school. Playing the victim, acting like you're so perfect. Like you didn't lie through your teeth to try and ruin my friends' lives."
My stomach twisted, the memories she was dredging up unwelcome but all too familiar. "That's not what happened, and you know it."
"Do I?" Her voice sharpened. "Because the way I remember it, you couldn't stand being in the background for five seconds. So you made up all those stories. Dylan, Caitlin... God, the drama you caused. And for what? Attention?"
"That wasn't attention, Jenna," I snapped, my patience finally breaking. "That was the truth."
Her smile turned icy. "Oh, please. You've been spinning that poor-me narrative for years. And now, what? You expect me to believe that you're this successful college girl with her perfect little quarterback boyfriend?"
I clenched my fists, forcing myself to take a slow, deep breath. "Believe what you want. I'm not explaining myself to you."
Jenna laughed, the sound hollow and biting. "Of course not. That's your thing, isn't it? Run your mouth, stir the pot, and then walk away when it gets too messy."
"Shit." I laughed darkly, shaking my head. "You're just not going to change, are you?"
She flicked her hair over her shoulder. "I've changed plenty, honey. It's you who hasn't."
"No, honey boo boo, you haven't." I pouted, stepping forward, my chin lifted in defiance as I sized her up.
Fear flickered through her blue eyes.
"Y'know, having the ability to commit some fucked-up things and then play the victim is an actual form of mental illness. Did they not teach you that in those free community college psych classes you're so proud of?"
Her jaw clenched. "Goodbye, Cameron."
As Jenna spun on her heel and stomped toward the driveway, I called out, my voice calm but cutting, "Just curious—does Danny know that my two front crowns are because you tripped me so bad in the school hallway?"
Her steps froze, and I saw the tension ripple through her shoulders.
I hummed. "Hmm, might just have to save that little story for Christmas."
Instantly, she whipped back around, her face flushed with anger.
"You are such a bitch, Cameron! You always have been!" Jenna shouted, storming back toward me like she'd forgotten she was a guest in my home.
I stepped out the door, blocking the entrance before she could get back inside.
"You tortured me, and yet I'm the bitch for bringing it up?" I frowned, genuinely confused, pressing a finger against my chest.
She groaned to the sky. "Oh my God!"
"Cam—" I heard my dad's voice and glanced behind me to see him slowly walking toward the door, Aunt Trixie, Lou, and Uncle Nico trailing behind him. Ellie clutched onto Dad's Bermuda shorts. "Everything all right?"
I started to reply, but Jenna screamed out again, and I turned back around.
"What the fuck is your problem?!"
"You, Jenna," I said simply, taking a step forward. "You've had your claws out since the second you walked in the door. And for what? To prove you're still the queen bee? Of fucking what? We're not in high school anymore, so tell me, Jenna. Tell me why you're so fucking eager to prove you're better than me."
Her face twisted in outrage, her perfectly glossed lips parting in a sharp gasp. "Better than you? Oh, honey, I don't need to prove that. It's obvious to everyone here."
"Is it?" I asked, my voice cool and steady despite the fire boiling in my chest.
I heard Dad step outside behind me. "Okay—just what is going on out here—"
"YES! You bitch!" Jenna screamed.
"Hey, hey! Language!" Dad barked, stepping forward with his hands raised.
Jenna didn't even flinch. Her wild, angry eyes were locked on mine like I was the sole source of all her misery.
"You've had it out for me since the second I walked through that door!" she shouted, her voice cracking slightly. "You act like I'm the bad guy, but you're the one who can't let go of the past!"
I crossed my arms, my lips curling into a smirk. "The past? You're the one who brought up Dylan Carter. I was content to just eat cornbread and watch football."
"Oh, don't even start with me, Cam," she spat, jabbing a finger in my direction. "You're so full of toxic shit! Just because you've got a shiny new boyfriend doesn't mean you're better than me."
"I never said I was better than you, Jenna. You did," I said evenly, though my voice dropped an octave. "And I'm starting to think that's your problem. You've always been so damn insecure that the second someone else has even a sliver of happiness, you can't stand it."
Her face reddened, and for a moment, I thought she might combust.
"You don't know a damn thing about me!" she shrieked.
"I know enough."
Her eyes narrowed, her tongue rearing back to spit venom. "You fucking—"
"That is enough!" Dad bellowed across the street.
But Jenna wasn't done.
"Oh, of fucking course you're taking her side," she snapped at him. "This whole family treats her like she's God's gift to humanity."
"Because she is!" Ellie called from where she was clutching Dad's shorts.
"Let's not overstay our welcome, dear," Aunt Lou mumbled from inside the house.
The whole family was now bearing witness to this shitshow.
"Just leave, Jenna," I said, throwing my hands up. "Danny's waiting for you."
"Fine." Jenna brushed her hands through her hair and straightened her trench coat. "I don't have to stand here and take this shit!"
She whirled on the spot, chin held high, and stormed across the large driveway toward the footpath.
She passed behind the retirement home van parked in the driveway, its engine still running.
And then it happened.
The van floored it in reverse before anyone could even blink, its rear bumper catching Jenna squarely in the back of the knees and sending her sprawling onto the pavement.
"Oh my God!" Aunt Lou shrieked, clutching Uncle Nico's arm.
"Sweet mother of—" Dad muttered, frozen in place.
All heads turned to the van, where Nana Bea's tiny frame was barely visible through the windshield. Her head peeked out from behind the wheel, looking confused but unapologetic.
"Was that a deer?" Nana Bea said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Hell—no one had heard her speak in months.
A beat of stunned silence passed before Ellie started giggling uncontrollably.
Soon, the other kids joined in, their laughter cutting through the tension like a chainsaw.
Meanwhile, all the parents rushed past me to tend to Jenna, who was completely knocked out on the driveway.
Danny pulled up, sprinting from the car, screaming and demanding to know what had happened, while Armand raced from the house, still buttoning his pants as he headed to the van to get Nana Bea out.
I sank my teeth into my bottom lip as a laugh bubbled out of me, the laughter somehow spreading through my entire body and relaxing every muscle.
Ellie gripped onto my hand, still laughing her head off as we watched Aunt Trixie begin to give Jenna mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
It was certainly one way to end Thanksgiving.
And yet—if there were a list of fucking wild Thanksgivings we've had at this house, this wouldn't even make the top five.
☆☆☆☆
The airport was quieter than usual, the late hour thinning out the usual crowds of travelers. The announcements overhead echoed in the near-empty space, and the fluorescent lights gave everything a surreal glow.
I shuffled toward the conveyor belt, so damn tired it felt like it had settled deep into my bones.
The past five days had drained me.
Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Geographically. Alphabetically.
All of them.
I leaned against a pillar, waiting for my suitcase to make its slow journey.
My mind wandered back over everything that had transpired. There was Jenna, the van, and the firemen—it was hard to forget the firemen.
Mom had set a dishtowel on fire while we were all out front trying to revive Jenna because the night just did not want to fucking stop.
Once the drama settled, the rest of the weekend had been... calm. For my family, anyway. We spent Black Friday battling our way through every superstore in town, which was another tradition.
We did get scared that we had lost Uncle Kenny to the mobs—but he was just at Costco, munching on a hot pretzel.
It had been a great few days at home—besides the whole clown show with Jenna the monkey—but I was itching to get back to Charlotte.
Not because I didn't love my family, but because I needed a break from the nonstop whirlwind that was the Cole clan.
Finally, my suitcase—a scuffed blue one that had seen better days—crept into view on the conveyor belt. I grabbed it, adjusted my leather tote bag on my shoulder, and followed the signs toward the exit.
The arrivals area was a mix of quiet chatter, shuffling feet, and tired travelers being greeted by loved ones. My eyes scanned the waiting crowd instinctively, though I hadn't expected—
And then I saw him.
Wesley Reed.
Standing just beyond the barricades, waiting for me.
I took him in—all of him.
His blonde hair, brushed and kind of styled, slouchy light blue jeans, a marled gray quarter-zip sweater with a white tee underneath.
Oh dear lord. He dressed up for me.
And in his hands?
A fucking bouquet.
White magnolias—my favorite flower.
Everyone in the arrivals area was staring at him, but he only had eyes for me.
His entire body locked up the second I stepped through the doors. His grip tightened around the bouquet like he just forgot how to hold things properly.
His breath visibly hitched, chest rising like he'd just taken a punch straight to the ribs.
And his eyes?
Fucking hell.
They dragged over me, head to toe, lingering, drinking me in like he was trying to memorize every detail.
Like he was afraid to blink.
Like he was trying to convince himself I was really here.
And when his lips parted slightly in a small, knee-weakening smile, his jaw tensing, his fingers curling tight around the stems of those damn flowers—
It was almost too much.
Too much to look at.
Too much to handle.
Because I felt it too.
This stupid, aching, all-consuming pull between us.
This thing that's bigger than both of us, that keeps dragging us back to each other, over and over again.
He swallowed hard.
And then—he moved.
Quickly making his way to the end of the metal barriers.
I mirrored him.
The barriers stopped, and I instantly dropped my bags as I launched myself at him.
Wes caught me effortlessly, his arms wrapping me up as he pulled me in tight against him. My arms looped tightly around his neck, and I buried my face in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—soap, cedar, and something warm and unmistakably him.
"Fuck, I missed you, baby," he murmured, his voice rough and thick with emotion.
I pulled back just enough to look at him, my hands sliding to cup his jaw. "It was only five days."
"Five days too many."
And then he kissed me.
It wasn't just a kiss; it was an anchor, grounding me completely.
He kissed me like it had been five years, not five days.
His lips moved against mine with a mix of urgency and tenderness, like he'd been waiting an eternity for this moment. One of his hands slid up my back, his fingers tangling in my hair, while the other stayed firmly at my waist, holding me close enough to feel every solid inch of him.
I melted into him, the weeks of tension and longing unraveling with every brush of his lips. I whimpered into his mouth, clinging to him, fisting the back of his sweater in my hands, my entire body melting into his like I could somehow crawl inside him, fuse together, never leave again.
Wes growled low in his throat, his fingers digging into my waist, palms sliding lower, gripping me tight.
When we finally broke apart, he chuckled softly and brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over my shoulder.
"Now that is how you give a damn proper fucking greeting," Wes smirked as I giggled, beaming up at him, "Even prettier than I remembered."
Wes swooped down again to kiss me once more.
A full-body tremor rolled through me, my knees going weak.
I laughed softly against his mouth. "Shut up."
"Can't." Wes pecked me again. "Won't."
A giggle burst from me as he attacked me with tiny little kisses—down my jaw and neck, all over my cheeks, on my forehead, on the tip of my nose.
Right there in the middle of Charlotte airport at almost midnight on a Sunday.
Shit. I hate us.
I love us.
My head fell back as Wes kept his iron arms banded around my waist so I couldn't run away, giggling like crazy as he pecked at my neck.
He chuckled at my reaction, leaning back so I could bring my gaze back to his.
"You miss me, baby?" he murmured with a smirk, pecking at my lips once again.
I nodded, whimpering, fingers threading through his hair, tugging.
"Yeah?" He pressed another kiss to the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, then lower. "Tell me."
"Wes—"
"Say it."
I gasped as his lips brushed the sensitive spot beneath my ear, his tongue flicking out, his teeth grazing, his hands gripping my ass, holding me there like he was never letting me go.
Jesus Christ.
People were watching.
People were definitely watching.
But Wes didn't care.
He never fucking cares.
And neither did I.
"I missed you," I whispered, voice shaking.
"That's my girl." He beamed, pulling back. "Now let's take you home."
He took my hand in one of his while he picked up my suitcase and bag with the other, and we headed toward the exit.
I hugged his arm tight across my body, pressing my mouth to his bicep as we walked through the sparse crowds.
I hummed and tugged at the soft material of his sweater. "This is nice."
"Yeah?" Wes asked, glancing down at me.
I nodded.
"Gotta look good for my woman."
I scoffed. "Your woman?"
"Baby, you're as much mine as I am yours." He grinned cheekily down at me. "No givesies-backsies."
"God, I really fuckin' missed you, Wes." I chuckled softly, wrapping my other hand around the inside of his elbow.
I rested my head against his arm as we walked toward the exit, laughing.
And just like that—
The world felt right again.