My thumbs trace the line of her jaw, memorizing the way she trembles under my touch. She tilts her head, deepening the connection, and for a moment, the world is perfectly still. There is no past, no future, no risks—only the taste of her and the weight of everything we haven’t said yet. I pull her closer, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, needing to anchor her to me before the rest of the world finds a way to pull us apart.
Her vulnerability drives me, sharp and consuming. I take nothing but care, letting her set the pace, letting her trust me without saying a word.
She shivers, tiny and human, against my hands. My own restraint is an ache I barely contain.
Then I don’t.
The tenderness snaps.
I’ve reached my limit of being careful with her, and the sudden, aching gravity between us turns into a violent, localized storm. I don’t just want to kiss her; I want to consume her.
I deepen the kiss, my mouth crashing against hers with a sudden, jagged hunger. The hesitation is dead. I become rough, possessive, my tongue forcing its way past her lips to claim every inch of her. She tastes like heat and surrender, and it’s driving me over the edge.
My hands slide from her face, my fingers tangling deep in her hair, gripping the roots just tight enough to make her gasp into my mouth. I tilt her head back, exposing the elegant line of her throat, but I don’t stop—I’m devouring her, my teeth grazing her bottom lip, my breath coming in ragged, territorial hitches.
She is mine. Every muffled sound she makes, every frantic press of her body against mine, only makes me want to wrap myself around her until there’s no telling where I end and she begins. I growl low in my throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated want, as I pull her even closer, pinning her to me with the sheer weight of my need.
She clutches the front of my shirt, her fingers tangling in the fabric as if she’s trying to anchor herself—or maybe anchor me. That small, desperate movement is enough to break the fever. The raw, possessive heat that was just about to consume us both suddenly cools into something much deeper and quieter.
I feel my shoulders drop, the tension bleeding out of my jaw. I don’t want to hurt her; I want to cherish her. I let thefrantic pace of my heart settle, my hands moving from the roots of her hair to cradle her face instead. I soften again, leaning in one last time, not to devour, but to reassure. I end the kiss with a very soft peck, my lips just barely brushing hers, light as a breath.
I stay there for a second, my forehead resting against hers, just listening to the way our breathing hitches in the silence. The air is still thick, but the jagged edge is gone, replaced by a weight that feels a lot more like forever than just tonight.
When we finally part, it’s barely a breath between us. Her eyes, glistening with tears, lock onto mine. I hold her gaze, silent, letting her see everything I cannot yet speak.
“You okay, Raelyn?” I murmur, voice rough, low. But the word is almost drowned out by the storm of feeling between us.
She swallows, her lips trembling, and I know—this is only the beginning.
I rise to my feet before I taste her lips again.
“I’ll have your wardrobe set up tomorrow,” I tell her, voice low. “For now…get dressed. I’ll grab you a shirt and sweatpants.”
She nods silently, eyes still glistening, trembling.
I leave the room. Without looking back. Because I know—if I do—I won’t be able to walk away.
I reach my own room, shut the door, and lean against it, jaw tight.
I yank off my tie first. Then the jacket. Then the shirt. Buttons scatter across the floor. My hands shake just a little. Not from fear, not from pain, but from the storm I can’t name, the heat and ache that won’t release me.
I step into the bathroom, cold tiles under my feet, and turn on the shower. Cold. I need it. I need to feel something besides her, besides the fire in my chest.
I let the water beat down on me. Hard. Sharp. Unforgiving. My hand presses against the tiles as I let the current strip the tension from my shoulders and the blood in my raging cock.
I close my eyes. Focus on the sting. Focus on the cold. Focus on anything but her.
But it doesn’t work. Her lips. Her hands. Her trembling. It’s all still there, carved into me.
I take a shaky breath and let the water pound against my back, trying—failing—to wash her away.
I want to stay under the water forever. Let it wash away everything—the chaos, the ache, the impossible pull she has over me. My muscles tighten against the cold, my jaw clenches. I almost let myself sink into it, let the night pass while she waits in that room, fragile and trembling. Almost.
But duty wins over want. I promised her comfort. A shirt. Sweatpants. Something to wear while she sleeps, while she recovers. And she’ll be waiting. Expecting. Trusting, in her own way, that I’ll keep it simple, that I’ll keep her safe.
I cut the water and step out, the tiles slick under my bare feet. I dry myself quickly, each motion mechanical, a shield against the memory of her lips and the tremor in her hands. I move to the dresser, pause, and stare at the folded clothes laid out with careful precision: a soft gray cotton shirt, sweatpants that will hang loosely, oversized enough for comfort but not so large as to swallow her entirely. It’s the smallest one I own.
I pick up the shirt first. My hands linger over the fabric, and for a moment, I fight the urge to fold it, smooth it, press it to my chest as if that could somehow hold her there, safe. I shake my head.