The thought is disconcerting and clean at the same time. I’ve never had such an immediate, visceral reaction to anyone before. Lust? Sure. Curiosity. The urge to fuck and forget. But this is different. This is some fundamental certainty clicking into place, like a puzzle piece finally finding its slot.
I turn it over in my mind, test its edges the way I test everything.
Mine.
Yes. It holds.
I don’t care what I have to do or who I have to answer to; I will find a way to make that true in every way that matters.
The first step?
Putting myself so deep inside her she can’t tell where she stops and I start.
I break the kiss long enough to murmur, “Hold on to me,” against her lips.
She does, fingers curling into my hair, arms around my shoulders like she was born to anchor herself there.
I straighten, lifting her easily. She’s small, but it’s more than that—she trusts me enough to let all her weight rest in my hands. The feeling squeezes something in my chest I’ve spent years armoring over.
I carry her down the short hallway to the bedroom. Every step is a choice. I could put her down. Could set her on the couch, make a joke, walk away.
I don’t.
I lower her onto the bed, the dark blue comforter crinkling under her bare skin. She props herself on her elbows, watching me. The lamplight paints gold across her shoulders, her breasts, the vulnerable curve of her stomach. I stand there for a second just looking.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. No contest.
My hands move to my belt. I unbuckle it, unbutton, unzip. Her gaze follows every motion like it’s a live feed, like she’s cataloguing each detail for later dissection.
“Sweet mother…” she whispers under her breath.
If I wasn’t already rock-hard, that would do it.
I shove my jeans and boxers down and kick them aside. I don’t make a production out of it, but I don’t hide, either. She deserves to see exactly what she’s getting herself into.
Her lips part. Her throat works around a swallow. For a heartbeat, panic flares in her eyes.
She shifts like she’s going to climb off the bed, scramble away.
I shoot a hand out and catch her ankle, fingers wrapping around the delicate bone. “I’m not letting you go that easily,” I growl.
“You’re…you’re huge,” she says into the blanket, voice muffled, not quite looking at me. “I can’t—”
“You can,” I say, softer than I mean to. “I won’t hurt you.”
I stroke a hand over the curve of her hip, feeling the tremble there. Her muscles are tight with nerves, but under my palm she melts, just a fraction, leaning into the touch.
“Bran,” she breathes. There’s a dozen things packed into my name—fear, excitement, want.
I trail my hand down the line of her spine, slow and steady, to settle at the small of her back. My thumbs find the dimples there, press in, adjusting her hips so our awkward difference in height won’t become an issue.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. “Tell me now.”
She looks back over her shoulder then, eyes blown and dark, and shakes her head.
“Don’t you dare,” she says.
That’s it. That’s all I get.
