Even if he won't admit it, he needs it, too.
Tonight, I plan on getting what I want from him, even if I have to break every rule and wage war. Which is precisely why I'm naked right now. I don't need armor needed for this battle—only skin.
I crawl up onto the bed, prop myself up on my elbows, and watch him. He's changed into black sweatpants and nothing else, his erection tenting the fabric, his skin golden and gleaming, his tattoos and scars on display. He is so goddamn beautiful.
He looks like he's been through a war. Hell, maybe he has. He never talks about where he goes every afternoon, but I know he's been going to therapy. I see the hints of fresh pain every time he comes home with a new book or that distant look in his eyes that says he's been digging up the ugliest parts of himself and laying them bare again.
He stares at me from the doorway.
I stare back.
He doesn't move. Neither do I.
Eventually, he breaks. He always does. "Come here, princess," he rasps.
And I go to him, because I always do.
He hauls me up onto my tiptoes, his hands cupping my jaw with almost brutal care. He kisses me so hard I taste blood, but I don't care.
When I bite him, he groans and fists his hand in my hair, tipping my head back so he can drag his mouth along my throat. He scrapes and bites and sucks until I'm arching against him, dizzy with need.
"Asher," I moan.
He grinds his cock against my stomach, just the way he does every single night. I can feel how badly he wants it, how much it costs him to keep saying no. He's trembling, the way he used to shake when he was about to fuck me within an inch of my life.
I slide my hands down his chest, my palms flat against the hard muscle and the tattooed crown with its blood-red thorns. I kneel, running my tongue over the tiny silvery scars on his abdomen, and hear his breath catch.
Before I can tug his sweats down and take him into my mouth, he hauls me back up, his hands vises around my arms.
"Fuck, princess," he groans, pushing me back onto the bed so he can crawl over me. "I want you so bad."
"Then take me," I say, daring him, my legs spread wide so he can see how wet I am for him. My heart pounds so hard I feel it everywhere, even in my fingertips.
He goes still, his muscles locked tight.
For a second, I think he'll finally break, finally give in, and take what we both need.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he climbs off me and sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. "I can't," he rasps.
Three weeks of desperation, longing, and his goddamn martyr act boil over. I snap.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I sit up, seething.
He doesn't look up. "You said—"
"I said I wanted you to promise not to break me. I said I wanted the assurance that you'd stop if I used the safeword. Did I fucking use it? No. I want you, Asher. Ineedyou. I'm crawling out of my skin."
He doesn't answer.
I stare at him, really stare, and I see how wrecked he is, how much it costs him to hold back. But I'm done tiptoeing around his guilt. I'm done being the thing he sacrifices at the altar of his redemption.
I get off the bed, stalk over to the dresser, and yank a pair of panties from the top drawer. I pull them on, then stalk to the door.
"Where are you going?" he asks, finally raising his head.
"If you're not going to fuck me, I'll do it myself. Maybe I'll call up Miles Andrews and see if he wants to watch the fucking show."
