Back To The Beginning: A Trent Alexander-Arnold x Original Character Erotic Series.
Ivy let out a sigh she’d been holding, running her fingers through her hair before adjusting the low neckline of her dress, suddenly aware of how much cleavage it revealed as she stood in the entryway of the Oxfordshire stately manor Amber and Sean had rented for the weekend to celebrate their engagement.
The dress had seemed like a good idea in London.
Sophisticated. Sexy. Fashionable. The sort of thing she would recommend to a client without hesitation.
Now, surrounded by old stone walls, glittering chandeliers, and people she'd known long before becoming the woman who stared back at her, it felt far more daring than she’d remembered.
She glanced down at the sleek chocolate fabric before smoothing her hands over her skirt.
Ivy turned to find Amber approaching, champagne flute in hand and a knowing smile on her face.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Ivy replied. “You’re the bride-to-be. Everyone is supposed to stare at you.”
“They are staring at me,” Amber smirked mischievously. “And now I'm staring at you, you're stunning,” she gushed, taking Ivy’s hand into hers and dragging her further into the house, towards the back where the noise of their guests filtered from and increased in volume with each step they took, their heels clicking against the marble floors.
As beautiful as her childhood friend declared her, Ivy couldn't shake the voice that lingered at the back of her mind, the same voice she'd battled with since early on in her teen years.
The voice that told her her legs were too thick, and her stomach could’ve been more defined, the voice that somehow managed to survive every achievement she’d collected over the years.
It didn’t matter that she styled some of the most photographed women in the world. It didn’t matter that her column reached millions every month. It didn’t matter that strangers regularly stopped her on the street to tell her how beautiful she was.
That voice always found something to nag about; a flaw, a comparison. A reason she wasn’t quite enough.
“Hey,” Amber called softly, her hand squeezing Ivy’s as she pulled her back to the present. “You disappeared for a second.”
“Don’t apologise,” Amber said before she stopped walking and turned to face her best friend of well over a decade, a friendship that had stood the test of time and distance as life pulled them in a million different directions.
The use of her full name immediately made Ivy groan, her shoulders relaxing as she braced for whatever words of encouragement Amber had up her sleeve.
Amber reached up to straighten a loose strand of hair that had fallen across Ivy’s cheek.
“You’ve spent your entire life seeing things nobody else sees.”
“It means while everyone else sees this gorgeous woman who walked in looking like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, you’re standing here worrying about things nobody notices.”
“If I noticed it, that means it’s there,” Ivy pointed out.
“Of course it’s there. That’s not the point.” Amber rolled her eyes.
“The point is that nobody else is looking at you the way you look at yourself.”
Before Ivy could argue, Amber hooked her arm through hers once more and started walking.
“And if you spend this entire weekend criticising yourself, I’m personally throwing your phone into the lake.”
“That’s a criminal offence.”
Despite herself, Ivy laughed.
The sound surprised her. It had been a long week. A long month, if she was completely honest.
Between deadlines, client fittings, and the constant pressure of maintaining a public image she’d never actually asked for, she’d forgotten how easy it felt to be around people who knew her before any of it.
People who remembered braces, awkward phases, and sleepovers spent planning futures that looked nothing like the ones they’d actually ended up with.
The garden beyond the manor glowed beneath hundreds of fairy lights. Music drifted through the evening air. Champagne flowed freely.
Laughter echoed across the perfectly manicured lawn, and for the first time since arriving, Ivy began to relax.
Taking a deep breath, she decided in that moment that this weekend would be exactly what she needed.
A chance to switch off, to stop living in her head and be.
A voice came from behind her, and Ivy stepped sideways automatically. At the exact same moment, someone else moved in the opposite direction.
Solid muscle collided with her shoulder.
The impact wasn’t hard per se, but enough to tilt her champagne glass and send some of its contents spilling over the rim.
A large hand shot out, steadying the stem before it slipped from her fingers, and the world seemed to slow.
Ivy looked up and forgot how to breathe.
Eyes she’d spent years trying not to remember.
For a second neither of them spoke or moved. The noise around them faded into nothing.
Eight years since she’d last seen him at a barbecue in her childhood home as they celebrated her family moving away to London.
Eight years since they’d promised they’d stay in touch. Eight years since reality had slowly gotten in the way.
Trent stared at her as though he’d seen a ghost.
His hand was still wrapped around the stem of her champagne flute, yet neither seemed to notice.
“Ivy.” Her name left his mouth quietly.
Disbelievingly, as though he was testing whether or not this was real. The sound of it sent a strange ache through her chest. Nobody said her name like that anymore.
“Hi, Trent,” she responded, instantly regretting her words as they left her mouth.
“You still say hi when you’re nervous,” he murmured, his lips curving into a subtle smirk.
Heat flooded Ivy’s cheeks instantly.
“Liar,” he laughed, the word landing with effortless familiarity, almost as if no time had passed at all.
And somehow that made everything worse, because time had passed—a lot of it.
The boy she remembered was gone, and in his place stood a man; taller, broader, sharper around the edges.
The years had transformed him into the kind of person journalists wrote about and brands paid fortunes to be associated with. Yet somehow he still looked like Trent.
He still looked like her first love.
“You look…” Trent started, then stopped.
And suddenly Ivy became extremely aware of her dress. The exposed skin, the way his gaze had briefly caught on her body before immediately returning to her face.
She was different now. A woman.
Her face still held that cherubic innocence that rendered him weak as a teenager, yet she was different.
Her body was curvier than he remembered, carrying the confidence of a woman who had built a life entirely on her own terms. Her dark hair framed her face in soft waves, and somehow she looked both completely different and exactly the same.
Most unsettling of all was the fact that she still had the same eyes. The same warm brown eyes that used to find his in crowded rooms amidst the chaos of their teen years.
The same eyes he’d thought about long after the new family moved in and made her family home their own.
Trent cleared his throat.
“You look amazing,” he finished, finally finding the words.
A small smile tugged at Ivy’s lips.
For a moment, neither of them seemed to know what came next. Eight years was a long fucking time. Long enough for entire lives to happen, for people to become strangers.
Yet standing in front of him now, Ivy didn’t feel like a stranger. She felt familiar.
“So…” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Madrid.”
“So…that’s all I get?” Trent asked, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“What am I supposed to say?” Ivy asked, a nervous laugh escaping her. “Congratulations?”
“Fine.” She raised her champagne glass slightly. “Congratulations.”
The smile he gave her felt more natural than any others he'd offered prior. More genuine. Less practised and more Trent.
For a moment they simply stood there.
Neither moving. Neither quite sure how to navigate eight years of absence in the space of a few minutes.
“So…” Trent rubbed the back of his neck, a habit Ivy remembered all too well. Something he always did when he was searching for the right words. “We’re adults now.”
“I know, it's crazy,” Ivy affirmed with a laugh. “The last time we were actually face-to-face I was an overly emotional 18-year-old girl.”
“And now you're a woman,” Trent noted, his eyes subtly tracing her, the action so quick she almost missed it—almost. “Still overly emotional or…?” he trailed off teasingly, raising his glass to his lips.
As Ivy gazed up at him she couldn't help but question if the elephant she assumed would exist in any room they eventually ended up in together, actually did.
The rhythm she'd found with Trent was as easy as it had always been.
Trent chuckled, the sound low and familiar.
“Good?” She tilted her head.
“I was worried being a bigshot might’ve made you terrifying,” Trent smirked.
“I work in fashion, Trent. I’m around terrifying every day,” Ivy laughed.
“And I’ve learnt we’re all just insecure people; some just come with better lighting.”
“There she is,” Trent murmured, his smile widening.
“The girl who always had something sarcastic to say.”
“I can tell,” Trent drawled, and this time as his eyes traced her body, there was no subtlety in the action.
For a moment they simply looked at one another. Neither had realised they’d drifted away from the crowd until Amber’s laughter echoed somewhere behind them.
The rest of the party had dissolved into a blur.
Ivy was still one of the most beautiful people Trent had ever laid his eyes on and as she stood under his gaze, he couldn't help but to notice all the ways she'd changed and the ways she'd remained the same.
Her eyes were still familiar, still warm in all the ways that made his knees falter; but her body had softened into the graceful curves of a woman entirely comfortable in her femininity. The chocolate dress hugged her figure with effortless elegance, both sophisticated and provocative, and somehow it suited her perfectly.
She carried herself differently now.
Not with the carefree confidence of the girl he’d fallen in love with at sixteen, but with the quiet assurance of someone who had fought hard for every success she’d earned.
“You’ve changed,” he admitted.
“I’d hope so.” Ivy smiled faintly.
“No.” He shook his head. “I mean… yes. But not in the way I expected.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I’m not sure,” Trent shrugged, letting out a quiet laugh.
“That’s a very diplomatic answer.”
Ivy smiled into her champagne, and Trent realised just how much he’d missed making her smile. It wasn’t rehearsed, it wasn't in pursuit of anything.
It reached her eyes in the same way it always had.
“So,” Ivy said after a moment, “how’s Madrid?”
He leaned one shoulder against the stone balustrade overlooking the gardens.
“You say that like you’re still getting used to it.”
“I guess I am, how do you know I play in Spain now?” Trent smirked knowingly.
“You let down an entire city,” Ivy laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “My dad included.”
“Not your dad,” Trent groaned in amusement. “I’ll have to make it up to him… how are your parents?”
"Oh, he got over it," Ivy shrugged. “You're still a hometown hero. He can't stay mad at a hero."
"Right. And your mum?" Trent's smile was faint, knowing. He recognised the evasion, the same way he used to recognise when she was hiding something.
"Good. Busy. She runs a charity now. She asks about you, sometimes."
"She always liked you. Thought you were 'grounded'."
"That's one word for it," he chuckled, a dry sound. He swirled the champagne in his glass.
The question he really wanted to ask hung in the air, heavy and obvious; Why didn't you ever call back? Why didn't we try?
But the music and the laughter from the party acted as a buffer, a permission to stay in the shallow end. He leaned forward, his voice dropping as he spoke into Ivy's ear. "I'm glad you came this weekend."
Her breath caught. The simple statement felt more intimate than the lingering heat of his gaze. It wasn't flattery; it was a confession.
"Amber would have murdered me if I'd said no,” she smiled softly, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach.
"This isn't about Amber." He said as he held her eyes, refusing to let her deflect. "I'm glad I get to see you."
The air between them seemed to thin. Eight years collapsed into the space of a heartbeat. The ghost of their last real conversation—on her bedroom floor, full of tearful promises and teenage certainty flickered at the edges of her vision.
"Me too," she whispered, the admission leaving her lips before she could clean it up.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Somewhere behind them, glasses clinked and someone called for Sean to make a speech. Laughter rolled across the garden, pulling them both back into the present.
“They’re going to come looking for us,” Ivy murmured, though she made no move to leave.
“Come and find me later,” Trent followed her gaze toward the crowd before looking back at her.
It wasn’t a question, or an assumption. Just a quiet invitation as Ivy searched his face, seeing the same sincerity she’d fallen in love with years ago.
“…Okay,” she nodded. It was only one word. Yet somehow it felt like the beginning of something neither of them had ever really finished.
Ivy turned away first, making her way across the gardens to where guests had begun to gather around Sean and Amber, her mind on the man who stood behind her, watching the sway of her hips and the curve of her waist as she moved.
Speeches passed by in a tear-filled blur filled with laughter and nostalgia, as the summer sun set over the British countryside, and the softness of the day gave way to the seduction of nightfall.
A DJ had set up in the main drawing room of the manor and heels had been removed in place of slippers as heels had been abandoned in favour of slippers Amber had thoughtfully prepared for guests, and the drawing room transformed from an elegant reception into something far warmer.
Ivy stood near the French doors, one bare foot tucked behind the other, nursing another glass of champagne as a cool breeze drifted in from the terrace.
“What happened to coming to find me?”
The deep voice, still carrying that familiar Liverpudlian lilt beneath years spent softening his accent, curled around her before she even turned.
A smile betrayed her before she could stop it.
“You could’ve found me, too,” Ivy replied, turning to face him.
“I did… just now,” Trent smiled softly, the absence of Ivy’s heels returning her to her natural height as he towered over her.
Hmm,” Ivy hummed, lifting the rim of her champagne flute to her lips to hide the smile threatening to spread across her face. “I’ll let you have that one.”
“I appreciate your generosity.”
“You should. It doesn’t happen often.”
“I’ve missed this,” Trent laughed, shaking his head.
The word landed between them with surprising ease.
No theatrics, no grand declaration. Just the truth.
Ivy looked down at her glass, watching the tiny bubbles race to the surface.
"You’re being generous with all these compliments," Ivy said as she felt a warmth spread up her neck, placing full blame on the champagne rather than the way Trent was looking at her.
"Only when they're true." He leaned against the door frame, close enough that she caught traces of cologne and something darker, no different from the boy who'd worn the same Bleu De Chanel scent at eighteen.
They drifted through the party near, then apart, then near again. She danced with Amber, laughed at Sean’s aunt's dirty jokes, and each time she turned, Trent was somewhere in her periphery. Talking to a friend, refilling his drink at the bar. Watching her across the room with an unbotheredness that made her breath catch.
By eleven, the champagne had softened her edges. By midnight, the DJ had shifted to faster, upbeat songs to cater to the group of twenty-somethings as elder guests took their leave, and Ivy found herself on the velvet window seat, the manor's garden a dark blur beyond the glass.
Trent materialised beside her, another glass of something strong in hand, wordlessly fitting himself into the seat beside her.
"No room," she said, not meaning it.
"Make some." He tugged her wrist gently and she went, half-folding into his lap with a laugh that dissolved into something quieter. His thigh was solid beneath her, his chest rising against her shoulder blades.
She hadn't sat here since she was eighteen, since before she'd learned that wanting things badly enough didn't make them stay.
"You smell the same," she murmured, her head tipping back against his collarbone.
"Like trouble." His hand settled on her hip, thumb tracing the seam of her dress. The garden's darkness pressed against the glass, and inside, everything felt possible again. She could feel the heat of him through her thin clothing, the careful tension in his arm where it wrapped around her waist.
Eight years collapsed to nothing. She shifted, pressing closer without deciding to, and felt his breathing deepen.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't make it serious yet."
She felt him smile against her hair, his thumb still moving in idle circles that sent warmth pooling low in her stomach.
Nostalgia and want twined together, indistinguishable as she let her hand find his knee, his calf, anywhere she could claim temporary ownership.
The room swam pleasantly, all dimmed lights and blurred conversation, and in the moment she felt eighteen again, brave and needy, tethered to nothing but him.
Trent rested his chin against her temple; as she turned her face towards his neck, inhaling deeply, intoxicated by more than just alcohol. His fingers tightened their grip on her hip in response, drawing her body flush against his.
“I wonder if you feel the same,” Ivy whispered against his throat, the vibration of her words stirring against his jaw.
“Behave,” Trent warned, his hand slipping to the bare, warm small of Ivy's back as he felt his cock begin to stir.
Ivy felt his warning rumble through his chest, but the hand on her back was already pressing her closer, his fingers splayed against her bare skin where the dress dipped low. She bit back a smile against his throat.
“Behave?” she repeated, her lips brushing his pulse point. “Where’s the fun in that?”
His breath came out uneven, his thumb still tracing lazy circles on her hip. The velvet beneath them was worn soft, the window seat a pocket of shadow away from the party’. Music thumped from the drawing room, but it felt distant.
“I mean it,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, as his hand on her back slid lower, fingers grazing the curve of her ass through the fabric. “People are still awake.”
“So I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
Ivy pulled back just enough to look at him, shifting in his lap. The movement pressed her centre against the hard line of his cock, and she watched his jaw tighten.
“What if I don't want gentle?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended.
Ivy held his gaze, a slow smile curving her lips. She shifted deliberately in his lap, a small, purposeful rotation of her hips that pressed her pussy more firmly against the rigid length of his cock trapped beneath his trousers. Trent’s breath hitched, a low sound that was part groan, part surrender.
"See?" she murmured, leaning in until her lips brushed the shell of his ear. "Not gentle at all."
Her hand, which had been resting on his knee, slid up his thigh, the heat of him searing through the fine wool of his suit pants. She felt the muscle there tense, then jump under her touch. Her fingers drifted higher, tracing the outline of his erection through the fabric, a slow, teasing exploration that made his hands clamp down on her hips.
"Ivy," he warned again, but his voice was wrecked.
"What?" she whispered, her breath hot against his neck. Her thumb found the head of his cock through his trousers and pressed down in a slow circle. "You said to behave. This is me behaving. I’m just…remembering."
A ragged laugh escaped him. "Fuck."
"Remember when you used to say my name like that?" she asked, her voice dropping to something private, something that belonged only to them.
The memory, sharp and vivid, hung between them. Trent’s eyes darkened, the last vestiges of his gentlemanly restraint dissolving under the weight of her words and the relentless pressure of her touch. His hands slid from her hips to her ass, gripping her through the silk of her dress and pulling her harder against him.
"You’re trying to kill me," he ground out.
"No," she corrected, her lips grazing his jaw. "I’m trying to remind you who we are. Who we’ve always been."
She punctuated the statement with another deliberate grind, the friction making them both gasp. The window seat felt like the centre of the universe, the velvet worn soft by decades of use, the dark garden beyond the glass a silent witness to their reunion.
Trent’s control snapped. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, and his mouth crashed down on hers. The kiss was nothing like their earlier tentative one. It was deep, hungry, all tongue and teeth and eight years of pent-up frustration. Ivy moaned into it, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer.
When he broke away, they were both breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes blazing.
"Upstairs," he said, the word a rough command. "Now."
He didn’t wait for an answer. In one fluid motion, he stood, lifting her with him, her body pliant in his hands as they held her waist leading from behind.
Ivy's slipper-covered feet were silent against the marble stairs, each sound swallowed by the thick carpet runner Trent steered her toward, his palm splayed across her lower back, fingers dipping to trace the swell of her ass through silk.
She arched into him, pressing her hips backwards until she felt the rigid line of him nestled between her cheeks, grinding slow and deliberate with each riser they climbed.
"Fuck, Ivy," he groaned against her ear, his breath ragged. His free hand slid around her waist, up her ribs, thumb grazing the underside of her breast through the fabric. She caught his wrist and dragged it higher, forcing his palm to cup her fully, to feel how her nipple had hardened to a point that ached for direct contact.
They stumbled past the second floor landing, Trent's mouth finding the sensitive spot behind her ear, sucking hard enough to bruise. Ivy reached back, squeezing him in retaliation, pulling him tighter against her. She could feel the tremor in his thighs, the restraint vibrating through his frame, and it made her reckless, as she rolled her hips in circles that dragged her against him with filthy precision.
At the third floor, she twisted in his arms and shoved him against the alcove wall, a narrow space between portraits of his ancestors. Her mouth crashed down on his, tasting the liquor he'd been nursing earlier, the warmth now burned with something darker.
She sank to her knees on the carpet, her hands already working his belt, the buckle clattering as she yanked his slacks open.
"God—" he choked as she pulled him free, the weight of him heavy and flushed in her palm. She looked up, meeting his blown pupils, and dragged her tongue from base to tip, circling the crown with deliberate softness that made his head knock back against the plaster.
The sound of voices drifted from below, distant laughter from the party still in full swing. Ivy smiled against his shaft, the danger curling hot in her belly, and took him deep, hollowing her cheeks, working him with one hand while the other gripped his hip to hold him steady. Trent's fingers threaded through her hair, not guiding, just clinging, his chest heaving beneath his loosened shirt.
"Not here," he gritted out, hauling her up by her arms with a strength that made her gasp.
He reversed their positions, pinning her against the wall with his body, his cock hanging heavily from his open pants, slick from her mouth.
Trent stilled, his hand braced beside her head on the alcove wall, his breathing ragged against her temple. Through the haze of want, something sharpened in his gaze; a flicker of assessment, of recalibration.
He'd expected the Ivy of before, tentative, flushed, seeking permission in every touch. But this woman had dropped to her knees in a hallway where anyone might pass, had taken him with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she wanted and how to unravel a man to get it.
His thumb traced her jaw, rough, considering. "You've changed," he said, voice rough, not quite a question.
"You haven't found out how much yet." Ivy arched into his touch, unashamed.
The challenge hung between them, electric. Trent's expression shifted, something predatory slipping past the polished restraint he'd worn throughout the party below.
His fingers found the neckline of her dress, paused there as if weighing consequences, then tugged the fabric down with deliberate force. The bodice catching beneath her breasts, pushing them up, and exposing her fully to the dim light of the hallway.
She sucked in a breath at the sudden cool air, the rawness of being displayed. But she didn't cover herself. Instead, she held his gaze, daringly so, her pulse hammering in her throat.
"Walk," he commanded, low and feverish, straightening her dress to gather beneath her breasts without concealing them, his knuckles dragging across her sensitive nipples as he adjusted the fabric. "Upstairs. To my door. And don't you dare touch yourself or cover up."
Ivy's knees weakened at the tone, at the thrill of natural dominance in a voice that wasn't there all those years before.
She stepped past him, aware of every sway, of how her bare breasts moved with each shift of weight, how the hallway's dim sconces cast her skin in warm gold, and of Trent as he followed two steps behind, close enough she could feel his heat, amid her own arousal as it slicked between her thighs with every step.
By the time they reached Trent's door, Ivy’s body felt heavy with arousal, her nipples hardened painfully tight, aching for his mouth, his hands, anything.
Trent reached past her to the door handle, his forearm grazing her exposed nipple as he twisted the handle. The contact made her jerk, a whimper escaping before she could stop it.
"Inside," he said, his voice a rough scrape against the side of her neck as they crossed the threshold.
The room beyond was dim, curtains drawn against the nighttime. Ivy had barely crossed the threshold before Trent's hand closed around her upper arm, spinning her to face him, the door clicking shut with finality.
He didn't speak. His eyes tracked down her throat, across her collarbones, lingering on where her breasts lifted with each breath, the dress bunched uselessly beneath them.
Trent's fingers tightened on her arm, not enough to bruise, just enough to anchor her in place. His thumb pressed into the tender inside of her elbow, finding a pulse point that fluttered like a trapped bird. Ivy felt her own hunger mirrored back at her in the dark pools of his eyes.
"You don't know what you're asking for, right now," he said finally, each word shaped carefully, as if speaking cost him something.
Ivy laughed, low and breathless, arching her back so her breasts lifted toward him. "I'm not asking."
The last of his restraint shattered. He moved with a speed she'd forgotten he possessed, the unexpected athleticism hidden beneath tailored clothing.
His mouth found her nipple, hot and demanding, suction fierce enough to make her cry out and clutch at his shoulders for balance. His other hand palmed her other breast, thumb circling with merciless precision while his teeth grazed the sensitive peak he'd drawn taut.
The shock of pleasure weakened her knees. Ivy grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, rich cotton gathering under her fingers, rough against her bare stomach where her dress had ridden even further down.
Trent pulled back just far enough to speak against her slick skin, his breath cooling where his mouth had been. "The things I want to do to you," he groaned.
His hand slid down her ribs, over the curve of her hip, gathering the skirt of her dress, slipping beneath the hem with unhurried purpose. His fingers found her wetness, gliding through it, as she bit her lip hard tilting her hips towards his palm.
Trent's fingers circled her entrance with deliberate slowness, spreading her wetness upward, gliding over her clit with each pass until Ivy's hips chased his hand involuntarily, her grip tightening in his shirt.
"Please," she breathed, not caring how desperate she sounded.
He pushed two fingers inside her suddenly, curling them with precision, finding the spot that made her spine bow and her head fall back against the door with a dull thud. "Fuck," she gasped, her legs trembling as he set a relentless pace, thumb pressing steady circles where she needed it most.
Ivy came apart quicker than she'd expected, her orgasm crashing through her with embarrassing intensity, her cry raw and unguarded as she clamped down around his fingers. Trent didn't slow, drawing it out until she was whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his wrist.
He caught her before she slid down the door, lifting her easily. Ivy felt weightless, her limbs loose and useless as he carried her the short distance to the bed, laying her down with a gentleness that contradicted the rough edge still visible in his jaw.
Trent stripped efficiently, never fully breaking eye contact, and she watched the familiar lines of his body emerge with a hunger that surprised her given how thoroughly he'd just undone her. He settled between her thighs, fitting himself against her, and pushed inside in one smooth thrust that drove the air from her lungs.
He was deeper than she'd prepared for, the stretch intense, almost too much. Ivy moaned, her nails digging into his back as he began to move with long, punishing strokes.
"Trent," she managed, her voice broken. "I can feel you in my stomach."
He groaned, the sound wrenched from somewhere low and animal, and his pace faltered before turning almost brutal, each thrust angling to hit that same impossible depth. Ivy's legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, urging him closer still. She felt claimed, undone, her earlier orgasm a distant memory as another built with startling speed.
Trent's forehead dropped to hers, his breath harsh and ragged against her mouth.
"Ivy," he said, like a warning, a proclamation, his rhythm stuttering as he fought for control he clearly didn't possess anymore.
She shattered first, her second climax rolling through her in waves that left her genuinely boneless, her arms falling slack against the mattress, fingers uncurled. Trent followed moments later, burying himself to the root with a groan that vibrated through her chest.
After, he collapsed carefully to one side, gathering her against him with trembling arms. Ivy's cheek found the sweat-dampened hollow of his shoulder, her leg draped limply across his thigh, her breathing slowing to match the rise and fall of his chest beneath her palm.
“You don't feel the same,” Ivy rasped lazily.
“Is that a compliment?” Trent smirked, his hands coming to wrap around Ivy so he could pull her up to meet his gaze.
Ivy let her eyes fall half-closed, studying the sharp line of his jaw, the way sweat still glistened in the hollow of his throat. She traced a lazy pattern through the hair on his chest, her fingertip catching on the raised line of an old scar she'd never noticed before.
“I thought compliments were our thing tonight?” she smiled softly.
“Among other things,” Trent affirmed.
The room had gone quiet except for their breathing, the kind of stillness that let thoughts creep in where heat had burned them away. Ivy felt it first—a flutter beneath her ribs, not desire but something colder, the sudden vertigo of recognising where she was, who she was with, and the fact that he'd never been someone she could simply forget.
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