Modern!au Elias “Stack” Moore X Maya Coleman
Authors Note: While i love Uncle Stack, i had to give him some loving too. His fine ass deserves it. Smoke can't be the only one outchea gettin' some cooze. 🤭Let me know if you guys want more of Stack and Maya. (I can give her a face claim and make them a lil 2-3 part series). Gotta love Stack's slick talkin', charming ass personality. I'd allow him to talk me into some shit I won't lie to you. Anyways enjoy, my freaky frogs. Prompts and storyline suggestions are welcome btw.
The sunlight spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, wrapping the room in honey and heat. The sheets are a tangle of skin and cotton, kicked low and wrinkled from the night before. Maya stirs first, her eyes still heavy, body sore in the best kind of way. She blinks at the ceiling for a moment, the silence between her and the world thick with peace.
Stack is still asleep beside her, sprawled out on his stomach, the covers barely covering his waist. One arm hangs off the side of the bed, and the other lies heavy where she used to be. His face is turned toward her pillow, lips parted, breathing slow. Maya takes a second just to look at him. At the tattoos crawling up his back, at the way his shoulder rises and falls like he’s floating. Still, solid, and hers.
She slips out of bed as quietly as she can, the floor cool under her bare feet. Her legs ache a little when she stands — a sweet, stinging reminder of how good he was to her last night. Her lips twitch into a private little grin as she crosses the room and grabs his shirt off the floor. It’s soft and oversized, swallowing her curves and smelling like his skin. She doesn’t bother with underwear. Let him see.
In the kitchen, the light’s a little brighter. It’s the kind of morning where the clock doesn’t matter, where the only thing she needs is something sizzling on the stove and a man watching her like she’s the last bite of something sacred.
Maya moves like she’s done this a hundred times — because she has. Bacon in the skillet. Eggs cracked into a bowl with a flick of her wrist. A leftover peach sliced on the counter. She hums something soft under her breath, old R&B she can’t name right now, hips swaying in time. The hem of Stack’s shirt brushes against her thighs as she reaches for the pepper. The grease pops in the pan and she barely flinches.
Behind her, floorboards creak. She doesn’t have to turn around.
“You cookin’ in my shirt again?” Stack’s voice rumbles behind her and it's gravel low, thick with sleep.
Maya smirks to herself before glancing over her shoulder. “And? You complainin’?”
He’s standing there with no shirt, sweatpants riding low on his hips, his waist and v-line looking like he was sculpted by a God. His soft brown eyes locked on her like he just remembered why he breathes. His hair is slightly tousled, mouth still half kiss-swollen, and that look he gives her? It slides straight down her spine.
Stack steps behind her, arms wrapping around her waist, his chest warm against her back. She melts into him like muscle memory. His lips graze her neck, his breath lazy and hot.
“You tryna start somethin’,” he mutters, voice half a warning, half a promise.
“I’m cookin’,” she says innocently.
“You cookin’, but you ain’t got no drawers on,” he murmurs, dragging his palm down the front of her thigh, slipping it between. “So who you tryna feed first?”
She bites her lip, grinning, but says nothing. Instead, she rocks her hips back against him, just enough to feel the weight of him thickening behind her.
“Oh, aight,” Stack breathes, kissing her shoulder. “So we doin’ this now?”
“I mean,” she says softly, “you the one pressin’ up on me like this. I’m just mindin’ my skillet.”
Stack chuckles low in his throat, that sound he makes when he’s halfway between amused and turned on. Mixed with Lust and Thunder. His hands dip under the hem of the shirt, thumbs brushing over her hips.
Maya gasps, caught between a laugh and a moan. “Stack—”
“Shh,” he breathes against her neck, guiding her forward until her hands brace against the counter. “Lemme eat first.” Fumbling forward, Maya flicks off the stovetop. The burning between her legs was enough.
He doesn’t waste time. One smooth motion and he’s inside her, thick and slow and all the way. Maya’s mouth falls open, a soft cry caught in her throat. She braces herself with both hands, knuckles white against the edge of the stove as he fills her inch by inch.
“You always so ready for me,” he whispers, teeth grazing her earlobe. “Like you waitin’ for this.”
“I was cookin’,” she breathes, hips already grinding back against him.
“You still are,” he says, sliding deep again, letting the drag of him make her tremble. “Just… different kind of heat.”
His pace is lazy but deliberate, every thrust pushing her forward just a little. Not hard, but deep, rolling into her like he’s carving his name into the place that pulses for him. Maya’s eyes flutter shut, lips parting as she melts around him. The veins of his shaft memorizing the intricate pathways inside of her.
“Elias,” she moans, head tilting back against his shoulder.
“That’s it,” he grunts, gripping her hips tighter. “Give me that.”
He keeps one hand wrapped around her waist while the other slides between her thighs. His fingers stroke her just right, slow and steady, in sync with the rhythm of his body inside hers. She’s already on the edge, the way he knows her, the way he moves inside her like he owns the floor she stands on. It’s too much and not enough.
Her orgasm crests with a soft sob, her body seizing around him. Stack curses under his breath, his own release not far behind. He presses deep, grinding into her with a final, drawn-out thrust before stilling.
They stand there for a long breath, the scent of sex and sizzling bacon wrapping around them. Maya finally breaks the silence with a breathless laugh.
“You really let this bacon burn,” she says, looking over her shoulder at him.
Stack kisses the side of her neck and says, “I’ll make pancakes. Just keep that shirt on.”
Maya finally makes it to the couch with her plate in hand, legs curled beneath her, skin still humming from earlier. She’s cleaned up, barely. Stack’s shirt now clings to her like it’s made for her curves, but her hair’s still wild, her neck still flushed. She don’t mind. Sundays were made for this kind of softness.
The TV is on but low. An old sitcom rerun they’ve both seen a dozen times playing in the background. She laughs to herself at the jokes before they even land, mouthing the punchlines with lazy affection.
Stack comes strolling in a few minutes later, sweatpants back to riding low, a bottle of water in one hand and that smug, dimpled grin in full bloom.
“You coulda waited on me,” he says, nodding toward her plate.
“You coulda not bent me over the stove,” she tosses back, licking syrup from her finger.
“Mmm,” Stack drawls, eyes dropping to her mouth, “but then I wouldn’t’ve started my morning right.”
He drops down beside her like he owns the whole couch. Arms stretched out, legs wide, his thigh brushing hers. One look at him and Maya already knows he’s feeling himself. Relaxed. Turned on by nothing and everything.
She keeps eating. Or tries to. But his eyes don’t leave her. They flick from her mouth to her thighs to the way his shirt barely covers the place he just left.
“You real quiet,” she says between bites, side-eyeing him.
“I’m watchin’ you,” he says, low and easy.
Stack leans in slow, voice thick with syrup and intent. “Tryna decide if I want dessert now or after you get done bein’ cute.”
Maya snorts. “I am done bein’ cute. That’s permanent.”
He grins, sliding closer. “That’s why you got my shirt stretched out like that? Wearin’ it like it ain’t doin things to me?”
She lifts a brow but doesn’t back down. “You said keep it on.”
“And I meant that,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across her knee. “I just ain’t say I’d keep my hands off you.”
Maya exhales slow, her fork pausing mid-air.
Stack keeps touching, slow circles on the soft inside of her thigh, fingers trailing closer but not quite close enough. Just under the hem. Just high enough to keep her body paying attention.
“You playin’,” she warns softly, eyes narrowing as she tries to keep cool.
“Nah,” he says, “you playin’. Walking ‘round in my shit, smellin’ like vanilla, brown sugar and sex, sittin’ over there actin’ like I ain’t got a whole hand on your thigh right now.”
Stack laughs, low and rich. “I’m tryna be patient. But you’re real close to losin’ that privilege.”
He drags his fingers up just an inch, grazing her where she’s still tender and then pulls away entirely, like it’s nothin’.
Maya gasps and glares. “Oh, you—”
“What?” he interrupts, stretching back with his arms behind his head like he didn’t just light her nerves on fire. “I ain’t do nothin’. Just appreciatin’ my girl.”
She sets the plate down, eyes locked on him now, jaw clenched in mock offense.
“I should slap you,” she says.
Stack’s dimple deepens. “You should thank me for the restraint I’m showin’ right now.”
Maya doesn’t answer. She just throws a pillow at him. Stack catches it mid-air with one hand, then tosses it to the floor like he got better things to hold.
He leans in again, this time slow and low, his voice a whisper only meant for her. “Good. Stay like that for me.”
She breathes in, steady but shallow. Her skin is buzzing. Every inch of her feels stretched thin with want, and Stack knows it. He leans back again, casual like nothing just passed between them. Like he didn’t just dangle her over the edge without offering a damn thing to hold onto.
“You ever get tired of yourself?” she asks, watching him with narrowed eyes.
“Nope,” he says, biting into a piece of her peach from her plate. “And I never get tired of you.”
Maya shifts beside him, thighs pressing together. Her lips curve upward, not quite a smile, but something softer — something that says she likes this game more than she’ll admit.
Stack notices. He always does.
“You need somethin’?” he asks, brushing peach juice off his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.
She tilts her head. “You know I do.”
He nods like he’s got all the time in the world. “Mm. I’ma let you simmer a little longer. Make you feel it.”
She bites her lip to keep from smiling, turning back toward the TV like she’s over it but Stack knows better. Her breathing’s changed. Her skin’s warm.
His voice slips back into the space between them like a secret: “When I do touch you again, I want you beggin’. Real soft. Real needy. You remember how?”
Maya doesn’t answer, not out loud. But the way her hand curls into the couch cushion says enough.
Stack disappears into the bedroom for a few minutes after breakfast, claiming he needs to grab his rolling tray and decompress. Maya doesn’t argue. She just curls deeper into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, a satisfied little smirk on her lips. Her plate’s empty, and her body’s still thrumming from his hands, his mouth, his damn voice.
She hears the familiar flick of the lighter before she sees him — the soft click of glass against wood as he sets the tray down on the coffee table and sinks into the couch beside her again. Stack leans back, spreading out with that lazy, lion-stretch swagger, a freshly lit joint between his fingers.
“See,” he exhales, smoke curling up from his mouth, “this what Sundays for.”
Maya watches the smoke drift lazily toward the ceiling. “That your way of sayin’ you tapped out?”
“Nah,” Stack says smoothly, “that’s my way of sayin’ I’m coastin’. Letting the day breathe.”
She hums. “Mmm. So you pacin’ yourself.”
Maya nods, pretending to accept that like it makes sense. But she’s already plotting.
Stack shifts, one arm over the back of the couch, the joint between his fingers glowing soft orange. He closes his eyes for a second, lets the smoke roll out slow through his nose, and when he opens them again she’s moved.
Not far. Just turned toward him, knees folded beneath her now, hands tucked under her thighs. The oversized shirt she’s wearing dips low on one side, slipping farther down her shoulder. Just enough for him to notice.
She cocks her head. “You high already?”
“Nah,” he murmurs, still cool. “Gettin’ there though.”
“Mm,” she says, voice dropping low. “I like when you high. You get even more laid-back. But real sensitive, too.”
Stack lifts a brow at her. “Oh yeah?”
She nods slowly, licking her bottom lip just a little. “Like… touch-starved. Always tryna feel somethin’. Soft palms and deeper strokes. You know what I’m talkin’ about.”
His eyes narrow slightly, amused. He drags the joint again, real slow this time, not breaking eye contact.
Maya leans in closer, voice syrupy now. “I bet you could barely hold it together if I sat on your lap right now. All warm and slick with no panties on. Just settle right over you and grind a little. Soft, slow… Like I ain’t even tryna do nothin’ crazy.”
Stack’s jaw tightens, just for a flash. That’s how she knows she’s in his head now.
“I’d sit just right,” she purrs. “Chest to chest. Arms around your neck. Just rockin’ my hips real sweet. Sayin’ nothin’. Lookin’ you dead in the eyes. Until you can’t hit that joint no more.”
Stack chuckles, but it comes out rougher than usual. He exhales hard through his nose, then glances at her out the side of his eye. “You feelin’ bold today.”
“I’m just observant,” Maya says innocently, twirling a piece of her hair. “You get real quiet when you tryna focus. Your hand grip the couch like this—” she imitates him, curling her fingers into the cushion between them, “—and your breathing? Whew. Starts gettin’ all shallow. Little grunts. Real low. Like you strugglin’.”
Stack shakes his head slowly, a crooked grin starting to bloom. “I swear, you gon’ get dealt with.”
“I’m countin’ on it,” she teases, giggling now.
He brings the joint to his lips again, but his hand hovers just a second too long. Like he’s remembering how she sounded in the kitchen. How she tightened around him. How she begged in that sweet little voice she only pulls out when she wants something real bad.
Maya watches him struggle with the hit, eyes glossy from the smoke and something else.
She leans in close, whispering in his ear, “Bet if I dropped this shirt right now, you’d be fully hard in ten seconds flat.”
“You assumin’ I’m not already,” Stack mutters, voice rough, lips curling at the edges.
She laughs loud at that, falling back into the cushion beside him, satisfied.
“Awww, poor baby,” she coos mockingly, brushing her hand down his thigh. Not close enough to touch anything vital, but enough to remind him she’s right there.
He doesn’t flinch. Just turns to her, joint forgotten now, gaze heavy and slow.
“You like talkin’ all that mess,” he says, reaching for her ankle and pulling her legs across his lap. “You gon’ regret runnin’ that mouth.”
Stack runs his hand up her shin, past her knee, grazing the soft skin on the inside of her thigh again, not teasing this time; just claiming. His fingers press into the plush curve just before it gets good.
Maya bites her bottom lip and watches him, all that confidence flickering behind her lashes.
But Stack doesn’t move further. Doesn’t press harder. He leans in instead, kissing the spot below her ear, speaking low into her skin.
“I’m not touchin’ you again ‘til you beg for real. And when I do… I ain’t stoppin’ ‘til your legs give out.”
Maya shivers. Real, deep, and this time, she’s the one trying to hold still.
He grins against her skin, satisfied.
The afternoon drifts by slow. After all the teasing and playful heat, they find themselves back in the bed, tangled under the fan with the curtains drawn against the high sun. The TV is still humming in the other room, but neither of them cares. Their limbs are wrapped tight, legs overlapping, Maya’s head resting just beneath Stack’s chin.
He dozes with one arm beneath her, the other draped heavy across her waist. His breathing is calm, warm against her forehead, like his body’s still claiming her even in sleep.
Maya stirs sometime after five. The light in the room is golden now, softer, slower. Her body is warm, her face pressed into Stack’s bare chest. She doesn’t move right away. She just listens to the sound of his heart, steady and sure, and the faint clatter of pans in the distance?
She smiles softly before she even lifts her head. The smell hits her next; garlic, onion, something buttery and rich floating in from the kitchen. She stretches slow, sore in the hips, then slides out of bed, one of his shirts still clinging to her frame.
Maya pads barefoot into the kitchen and stops just short of the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame.
Stack stands at the stove, barefoot and shirtless again, grey sweats hanging low on his hips. His back is to her, muscles shifting every time he stirs the sauce. A large pot of pasta is boiling beside him, steam rising like mist. The whole room smells like love. Herbs and olive oil, parmesan and cream.
He hums to himself, low and off-key, flipping something in a skillet like he does this every Sunday. And truth be told, he kind of does.
Maya watches in silence, chin propped against her fist as she rests it on the doorway. It’s the casual confidence that gets her. The way he moves like he owns the space. The way he tastes as he cooks, licks his thumb, taps the spoon against the pot. He’s fine, but it’s the quiet care that does her in. The way he never lets her lift a finger when he’s in this mode.
He senses her before she speaks. Turns slightly and grins without looking.
“You always standin’ there like a creep,” he says, voice soft with amusement.
“I’m admirin’,” she replies, eyes soft. “It’s different.”
“Yup. Lookin’ at my man makin’ dinner like he ain’t just been actin’ up all day.”
Stack turns fully now, the wooden spoon still in his hand. “I was mindin’ my business. You the one crawlin’ up on that couch talkin’ about grindin’ and beggin’ and droppin’ shirts.”
Maya smirks. “I ain’t do none of that. I just said it.”
Stack steps forward slowly, setting the spoon down on the counter. “That mouth is dangerous. You know that?”
He pauses in front of her, looking her over from crown to toes like he hasn’t been laid up in bed with her all day. His hand comes up to her chin, thumb brushing over her bottom lip.
“I ever tell you I love how you look when you just wake up?” he says, voice low and close.
She leans into his palm. “You told me last week.”
“I mean it every time. You look all soft. Eyes sleepy. Mouth poutin’. Makes me wanna kiss on you slow… or fuck you against the fridge.”
Maya laughs, cheeks warm. “You really can’t behave for more than ten minutes.”
“I am behavin’,” he says, pulling her close by the waist. “Ain’t I in here cookin’? Feedin’ my woman? Bein’ domestic and shit?”
“You cookin’, but your eyes over here undressin’ me.”
“They undress you every time I blink,” he murmurs.
She giggles again, looping her arms around his neck. “You smell good.”
“I smell like butter and sweat.”
“You smell like you,” she says. “And you know what that does to me.”
Stack hums against her neck, planting a kiss just below her ear. “Say less. After dinner, I’m puttin’ you to sleep properly.”
“Oh?” she teases. “And what we been doin’ all day then?”
He grins against her throat. “That was just foreplay.”
They eat at the table like they’ve got nowhere to be. Maya swirls her fork through creamy linguine while Stack grates fresh parmesan over both their bowls like it’s second nature. The conversation is light; laughter, soft jabs, long pauses where their eyes linger too long and the air starts to shift again.
She moans a little when she tastes the sauce, just to mess with him.
Stack watches her tongue swipe the corner of her mouth, jaw tight like he’s doing his best not to respond.
“You makin’ sounds like that over pasta,” he says, “and wonder why I be on you every five minutes.”
“Can’t help it,” she says, licking her fork slow. “Shit’s good.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping low. “You ain’t seen nothin’ good yet.”
That heat? It’s back. Curling between them like the steam rising off the plates. He’s quiet for the rest of the meal, but the way he watches her eat says everything. His stare doesn’t waver. Doesn’t blink. Like he’s been pacing himself all damn day just for this.
By the time the dishes are rinsed and the table’s cleared, Stack moves different. Slower. Focused. No more jokes. No more teasing.
He walks up behind Maya while she’s wiping the counter and rests both hands on her hips. But his grip wasn’t playful this time. It was Firm. Possessive.
“You done bein’ cute?” he asks, voice husky in her ear.
She straightens slowly. “Maybe.”
Stack turns her gently to face him. His mouth brushes hers once softly, almost chaste; but his hands are already sliding up the backs of her thighs, under the hem of the shirt.
“Good,” he whispers. “I’m done playin’ with you.”
He lifts her without another word.
Maya’s legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms looping around his neck. Her back hits the hallway wall with a soft thud, and Stack is already kissing her like he needs it. Deep, slow, lips parting hers until she’s gasping into his mouth.
He grinds into her through his sweats, the heat between them unbearable.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, dragging his lips across her cheek. “That’s what you do to me. Walkin’ ‘round talkin’ nasty, actin’ like I won’t flip this fuckin’ whole apartment for you.”
“I wasn’t actin’,” she breathes.
He carries her into the bedroom, drops her on the bed with care but purpose, and yanks the shirt over her head. She lies back, fully bare now, chest rising, legs spread just enough.
Stack doesn’t pounce. Not yet.
He undresses slow. Peeling off the sweats, his body hard and ready. His eyes never leave hers.
Then he kneels on the bed and grabs her ankles, dragging her to the edge like she’s already his. Because she is.
“You want slow or rough?” he asks, settling between her thighs.
Maya’s voice is soft but steady. “I want you. Please I need it.”
Stack pushes in with one long, punishing stroke, and Maya arches off the bed with a cry. He doesn’t give her time to adjust. He sets the pace immediately, deep, measured, with just enough pressure to make her toes curl.
His palm finds her throat, gripping with just enough force to ground her. His other hand presses her thigh open.
She does. Barely. That wasn’t good enough for him.
“I said look at me.” His voice rumbles as he grips her throat a bit tighter.
“Mmm…” She whimpers as her gaze meets his.
“You take it so good. Always open for me. Always ready.”
Her hands claw at his back as he rolls his hips harder now, dragging himself almost all the way out before slamming back in. The bed creaks. Her breath stutters. Her voice breaks.
“Elias, fuck baby please—”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Say my name like that. Let me hear you when I’m in deep. Have my name drippin’ out your mouth while I work every spot I know drives you crazy.”
His thrusts pick up, smooth and devastating, rocking her against the mattress. Sweat beads on his forehead. Her nails leave trails down his back, her legs wrapping tight around his waist.
“Slow it down,” she whispers.
Stack obeys immediately. Not because she commands him, but because he listens. His strokes slow, but stay deep. He moves like he’s memorizing her shape. His lips fall to her shoulder, her collarbone, the space beneath her jaw.
“I love how you sound,” he whispers. “Love how you look when I’m inside you. Eyes all glassy. Mouth open like you ain’t even got words.”
She holds him tighter. Her hips rise to meet each stroke now, desperate for every inch.
“You mine, Maya,” he breathes against her lips. “Every inch of this body… this mouth… this pussy… mine.”
“Yours,” she chokes, her voice breaking into moans. “All yours.”
He groans deep in his chest and grabs her thigh, bending her leg higher, angling even deeper. Her body jerks with every thrust now, pleasure thick and pulsing between them.
“Daddy Gon’ make you cum hard,” he says. “Real deep. Real slow. Like I’m pourin’ it outta you.”
Maya’s close. Too close. The kind of build that aches, thick and blooming behind her ribs.
“Don’t stop,” she whimpers.
“I’m not,” Stack whispers. “Not ‘til you fall apart for me.”
She does. Mere seconds later.
It rolls through her like a wave. Slow and devastating, her whole body trembling as she cries out his name. Her nails dig deep. Her mouth parts on a sob. Stack keeps moving through it, strokes faltering only when he loses himself, burying deep with a groan that sounds like adoration.
They collapse into each other, breathless, damp, chests rising in sync.
Stack kisses her forehead, still inside her, still holding her like he won’t let her drift an inch away.
“I meant every word,” he whispers. “You mine.”
Maya nods, voice barely there. “I know.”
The bedroom moves into a quiet lull, save for the sound of their breathing slowing down, syncing back to normal. The sheets are a mess. The air smells like sex, skin, and a whisper of his cologne that never fully fades.
Maya lies on her stomach, face buried in the pillow, body still twitching with aftershocks. Her legs are open, lazily draped across the bed, completely spent. Stack is sprawled beside her, arm tossed across her lower back, fingers idly tracing the curve of her spine like he’s still memorizing her, like he never wants to forget what just happened between them.
“Damn,” she murmurs into the pillow.
He chuckles low. “That all you got to say?”
“That’s all I can say,” she mumbles, lifting her head just enough to look at him. Her hair’s a wild halo around her face, lips swollen, eyes still a little unfocused. “You be tryna rearrange my soul, ‘Lias.”
He smirks, leaning in to kiss the top of her shoulder. “You was beggin’ for it.”
“And you delivered like Amazon Prime.”
Stack laughs out loud at that, deep and full, chest vibrating against her bare back.
“You stupid,” he says, still grinning.
She rolls onto her side to face him, cheeks glowing, body flushed and beautiful. “You keep fillin’ me up like that,” she says casually, brushing her fingers across his chest, “and we gon’ have a lil’ somebody runnin’ ‘round here talkin’ about ‘Dada’ before the summer’s out.”
Stack blinks once, then raises a brow, clearly caught off guard, but only for a second.
“Oh word?” he says, smirking again. “That what you tryna do now? Trap me with a baby?”
Maya grins, biting her lip. “You the one who don’t pull out.”
“You the one who tell me not to,” he shoots back.
“Well,” she shrugs, turning over to straddle him, hips resting low on his waist, “I like feelin’ you stay in it. Like all the way.”
His hands slide up her thighs, gripping her softly. “You just like temptin’ fate.”
“Maybe,” she whispers, leaning down to kiss his jaw. “Maybe I want something to show for all this lovin’.”
Stack’s eyes flicker, something serious swimming behind all that charm. His grip on her hips tightens just slightly, just enough to say I heard you.
“You really wouldn’t mind?” she asks quietly, softer now.
He meets her eyes dead-on. “Maya. If you carryin’ it? I’d raise ten.”
She laughs, hiding her face in his neck. “Okay, now you tryna trap me.”
“Too late,” he says, flipping her gently onto her back again, crawling on top of her with that slow, smug smile. “You been mine.”
They lie like that for a while, chest to chest, legs tangled, breath brushing breath.
“I like days like this,” Maya murmurs, fingers trailing down his back.
“Me too,” he says against her collarbone. “All you, all day.”
She hums, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t ever let this be temporary.”
Stack kisses her slow. Long. Like a vow sealed with his mouth.
“It won’t,” he promises. “I’m locked in.”
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