I remember this. The way he used to kiss me in the mornings before he shaved, the way I'd complain about the scratchy feeling and he'd laugh and do it again just to tease me.
I remember the way his hands felt on my skin, the way he'd cradle my face like I was his precious girl, something worth protecting.
The contrast between his touch and everything I've endured for the past year and a half is staggering.
Maxim's hands were cold, possessive in a way that made my skin crawl. His touch was a reminder that I was property, that my body wasn't my own.
But Adrian's hands are warm and careful. He holds me like I might break, but also like he'll never let me go.
The kiss deepens, and I feel his thumb stroke along my cheekbone, a small, tender gesture that makes me remember that this is the man who promised me forever under a starlit sky.
I press closer, my hands finding the front of his shirt, my fingers curling into the fabric. His chest is solid beneath my palms, and I cling to him like he's the only thing keeping me upright.
His mouth moves against mine, and I taste him. It's familiar, comforting, and for a moment, his tongue makes me forget everything else.
I forget the pills. I forget the cold concrete floors and the locked doors and the voices that told me I was nothing.
For this one moment, I'm just Elena, and he's just Adrian, and we're just us.
Adrian's hand slides down to my waist, his touch like fire, and it sends a jolt of awareness through me, right to my center. My body responds before my mind can stop it, and I feel myself getting wet and aroused.
I want this. I want to lose myself in him, to let him erase every terrible memory, to feel something other than fear and shame and numbness.
But as his hand tightens on my waist, something shifts, and not in a good way.
My body tenses, every muscle locking up, and suddenly, I'm not in this safe house anymore.
I'm back in the suite at the château. I'm back in the bedroom in Moscow. I'm back in the van with the needle in my arm and the rough hands holding me down.
Panic flares, and I pull back suddenly.
"Leni?" Adrian's voice is low, concerned. "You okay?" he asks as his hands immediately loosen their grip.
I press my palm to my chest, trying to steady my breathing, my voice catching. "I'm sorry," I choke out, my throat tight. "I'm sorry, I just..."
"Shh. Don't," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "Don't apologize."
I swallow hard, trying to find the words. "I want this so badly, Adi. God, I want this. But..." I take a shaky breath. "We need to go slow."
His dark eyes hold mine, patient, waiting.
"My brain is screaming that all I want is to feel you," I continue. "But I don't, I don't feel like myself yet."
He nods slowly, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns along my jaw. "Then we go at your pace. Whatever you need."
I bite my lip, my heart pounding. Maybe there's something I can try, something that might help me feel like I have control again.
"Can I..." I pause, gathering courage. "Can I trace my fingers over your tattoos like you used to love?"
His expression softens. "Of course."
"Take off your shirt."
Adrian doesn't hesitate. He reaches behind his neck, pulls his shirt over his head, and tosses it aside.
My breath catches.
I've seen him shirtless a thousand times, but it's been so long that I'd almost forgotten. The broad expanse of his chiseled chest, the defined muscles of his stomach, the tattoos across his skin.