It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
“Something’s coming,” he said, voice low. “Something bad.”
I swallowed hard.
“What?”
“I can’t say yet. Not here. But the ribbon?” He paused, like the words were knives in his mouth. “It's not what you thought.”
My throat went dry. “Silas?—”
“I just need more time,” he said. “To figure it out. To get ahead of it. But I need you to trust me, Portia. I needyou.”
I stared at him. My walls rebuilding, brick by brick, even as my body still trembled from the aftershocks of him.
“I don’t know if I can.”
His jaw worked. “Then don’t trust me. Just talk to me. Tonight. I’ll come to your suite. Please.”
I nodded slowly, the silence around us trembling like spun sugar.
Because for all my better judgment …
I would.
22
SILAS
Portia’s body was a furnace beneath me, her thighs clamped around my hips, her nails digging into my shoulders as I thrust into her, deep and relentless. The storage closet at Lustre bakery was a cocoon of sugar and shadows, the hum of the tasting room muffled beyond the locked door.
Her gasps filled my ears, hot and desperate, her skin slick with sweat under my hands. I wanted to stay here forever, just the two of us, where things were simple—her fire, my hunger, no ghosts, no wars.
Each thrust was a claim, her moans a surrender, and I buried myself in her, chasing the quiet only she could give. Her walls clenched around me, pulling me deeper, and I groaned, my lips on her throat, tasting salt and need.
“Portia,” I rasped, my voice raw, my world narrowing to her—her scent, her heat, her everything.
She arched into me, her hands fisting my hair, her voice a broken command. “Don’t stop, Silas.”
I didn’t. I fucked her harder, the crates behind her rattling, her moans unapologetic. Her orgasm ripped through her, her body trembling as she whispered my name.
I followed, spilling inside her, my vision blurring, my heart pounding.
We collapsed against the crates, panting, her legs still wrapped around me, my forehead pressed to hers. I wanted to stay here, in this moment, where there was no Department 77, no ribbon, no mother’s ghost haunting me. Just us, simple, real, alive.
But there was so much to do. My mother was back, her presence a blade in my chest, her story half-told on that Sullivan’s Island porch. She had a plan, something big, something dangerous, and she needed my help. I’d promised her I’d listen, promised myself I’d protect Portia from whatever storm was coming.
I pulled back, my hands cupping Portia’s face, her dark eyes soft but wary. “I’ll see you tonight,” I said, my voice low, earnest. “At your suite. There’s so much I need to tell you.”
She searched my face, her lips swollen, her breath still uneven. “You mean it?”
I nodded, my thumb brushing her cheek. “I’m done running. I want to open up. About everything.”
Her eyes softened, and she kissed me, slow and deep, a promise that burned through me. “Midnight,” she whispered. “Don’t be late.”
I slipped out the back door of Lustre, the Charleston air thick, my body still humming from her touch. Portia headed back to the tasting room, her heels clicking, her composure a mask I knew too well.
