“I know this is unconventional. I know I’m asking you to trust a stranger who has proven he is dangerous and somewhat unhinged. But I promise you, you are the center of my universe. If you let me, I’ll prove it to you every single day.”
Being so close to her has my blood running too hot. I want to kiss her, devour her, mark her and make her mine.
“What if you change your mind?” she asks, lifting her hands to mine. It’s the first time she has willingly touched me, and I know I’ll remember it forever. That first connection between us.
The air thickens.
“I won’t.” Without thinking, I lower my mouth to hers.
I kiss her the way I’ve watched her dance, controlled and deliberate. My lips press to hers softly at first, a promise instead of a demand, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Her breath catches, warm and shaky against my mouth, and I feel it all the way through me. Eighteen months of restraint hums beneath my skin, every instinct screaming to take more, to deepen it, to claim what I already know is mine.
Instead, I stay still long enough for her to decide.
When her fingers tighten against my wrists, when she leans into the kiss instead of away from it, something inside me finally gives.
I part her lips slowly with my tongue, asking without words, and when she lets me in, it feels like crossing a threshold I’ve been standing in front of for far too long. Her mouth is soft and uncertain, responding instinctively rather than expertly, and it does something violent to my composure.
She tastes like salt and strength. She must have been crying while I was gone.
I kiss her deeper then, not harder, but more surely, letting her feel the shape of my intent without overwhelming her. My thumb brushes her cheek, steadying her, anchoring us both in the moment. I feel her relax a little, her body trusting what her mind is still arguing with.
This isn’t just possession or obsession, it’s recognition.
She makes a soft sound against my mouth, barely more than a breath, and it settles low in my chest like a vow. I’ve killed men without hesitation. I’ve dismantled lives without remorse. But this woman undoes me with nothing but the press of her lips.
I pull back, resting my forehead against hers, breathing her in. Her eyes are closed, lashes dark against her flushed skin, her expression open in a way that makes my chest ache.
Her eyes flutter open, searching my face, and I see it there; the confusion, the pull she doesn’t know how to name yet. She doesn’t step back.
“I waited because I wanted you to choose me,” I say. “Not because you are afraid or because you have nowhere else to go.”
“I’m not afraid,” she says. “I’m processing.”
I swallow. Processing is good progress, but takes time.
“I never imagined myself getting married or having kids. It’s a lot to adjust to. Especially so soon after everything else.”
I nod. Of course, it’s a lot to take on board. But my world runs on a different wavelength, and that’s something I know she understands.
“I don’t know what it feels like to be in love. I have nothing to compare to whatever this is.” Her hands tighten on my wrists for a fraction of a second. “It feels like the world is spinning too fast and I’m just trying to hold on. I don’t like feeling so out of control.”
“Then take control, Emma.”
Emma
Take control.
The words linger after he says them, settling into me slowly, like they’re testing whether I’ll reject them or let them take root.
Avros sits close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but he isn’t touching me now. The absence of his hands is almost louder than their presence was. My pulse is still skidding beneath my skin from the kiss, from the way my body reacted him before my mind finished catching up.
I’ve spent my whole life being controlled by schedules, by expectations. By pain I learned to ignore because acknowledging it would have meant stopping. Ballet taught how to hollow myself out for something that can’t be survived.
So when he tells me to take control, my first instinct is to laugh.
