He kisses me again, deeper this time. But it’s not about comfort or possession. It’s about presence. About anchoring. About survival. When we part, our breaths mingle, warm, uneven, shared. My chest is tight, but not in fear. In wonder.
When he shifts and leans over me, it doesn’t feel sudden. It feels inevitable. His arm slides beneath my back as he rolls me gently onto my side, facing him. His body molds to mine, chest to chest, heat sinking into my skin. The way he looks at me, holding a reverence usually reserved for prayer, undoes me more than any touch ever could.
My fingers trail over the ink on his chest, memorizing the shape of him, the stories carved into his skin. I feel his breath hitch as I brush my lips over the scar near his ribs, and everything in him stills, pausing to absorb the moment more deeply than words allow.
“I used to dream about escaping,” I whisper, voice trembling with truth. “Running so far I disappeared. I had it all planned out. I was saving. Little by little. Hiding it wherever I could. Then he stole it. Every dollar. Just like he took everything else from me.”
My breath hitches, and I swallow the burn in my throat.
“That’s why it hit so hard when you won that fight for me. That money? It wasn’t just money. It was a way out. A second chance. You gave me a choice I didn’t think I’d ever have.” My voice softens, almost breaking. “But I don’t want to run anymore.”
His eyes burn into mine, wild and soft all at once. “Then stay,” he rasps. “Stay with me.”
Just like that, he’s home. He kisses me again, and I let go of everything I’ve ever had to hold.
His mouth is fire and velvet, dragging moans from deep within me as he kisses down my throat, over my collarbone, across my breasts, savoring each inch. Not rush. Not conquer. Worship.
But tonight, I want to worship too.
When his lips brush the underside of my breast as his hand drifts between my thighs, I twist beneath him and push. It catches him off guard, just long enough for me to roll us. My legs straddle his hips. His eyes go wide. Surprised. A little wild.
I lean down and kiss him, slow and deep, until his hands slide up my thighs, unable to resist. But I grab his wrists, pinning them to the bed above his head. His breath catches.
“Candace…”
“You made me beg,” I whisper against his mouth. “Twice.”
His grin is all teeth and hunger. “Damn right I did.”
“So now it’s your turn.” I rock my hips, just enough to tease the tip of him against my entrance, slick and ready, but I don’t take him in. Not yet. His hands flex under mine, jaw clenched, barely holding on.
“Tell me,” I say, kissing down the center of his chest, dragging my lips along the curve of his abs. “Beg for it.”
He growls, low and rough, his thighs tensing beneath me. “You’re playing with fire.”
I smile, then let go of his wrists as I kiss my way down his body. The second his hands are free, they come to my head,fingers threading into my hair. He tries to guide me, to control the rhythm, but I pull back and give him a warning look.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m in control tonight.”
His nostrils flare. His jaw locks. But he doesn’t stop me.
I take him into my mouth, inch by inch, letting him feel the full heat of my mouth, the drag of my tongue, the pressure at the back of my throat as I swallow him down. His breath stutters, fingers gripping the sheets in a white-knuckled fist. A low curse spills from his mouth, wrecked and awestruck, his hips jerking beneath me as his abs tighten and twitch.
“Candace,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “You keep that up and I’m—”
I pull back just before he tips over the edge. My lips are slick, chin damp, chest rising fast with every shallow breath. His eyes are wild, ravenous, locked on me, the only thing tethering him to the moment.
I crawl back up his body, kiss the corner of his mouth, and whisper, “Not yet.”
He groans, low and guttural, body straining toward me, but I press a palm to his chest.
“Give me a second,” I murmur, breathless, kissing the underside of his jaw. “You’ll get everything. But not until you beg and mean it.”
I feel his pulse race beneath my fingertips, tension rolling off him in waves. His need is thick in the air—raw, electric—and mine is coiled just beneath my skin, hungry to drag him over the edge.
As I kiss down his chest, I bite him softly along the curve of his hip, then take him into my mouth again, deeper this time. My tongue flicks along the underside, lips tight, slow and filthy, until I feel the tip presses against the back of my throat. I don’t stop. I swallow around him, again and again. His moan shreds through the silence.
Malachi’s hands fly to my shoulders, trembling. His body bows. Every muscle flexes, the strain building to the breaking point. But I keep going, slick, relentless, sucking harder until his hips stutter and his voice turns to gravel.
