He glances up, one brow arched. "No, but getting you pregnant is a possibility if you keep running your mouth."
The way he says it makes my stomach twist with something irrational and dangerous. Something I refuse to even acknowledge.
"You aren't getting me pregnant," I mutter instead. "I already told you that I'm not having your demon babies."
He just smiles in response, a softness to it that has my heart threatening to beat out of my chest. He pulls off my shoes, one at a time, massaging the arch of each foot with a touch that's almost reverent. I have a flashback to the way his hands felt around my throat, and the contrast makes my breath catch. He notices, because of course he does, and his mouth curls in that infuriating, knowing way.
He doesn't stop there. His hands slide up my calves and then my thighs, inching my dress higher. He watches my face as he unzips it, peeling the fabric off with slow, precise movements. For once, I don't feel like prey. I feel like…something else. Something he wants badly enough to handle with care.
When I'm naked except for my bra, he pauses, his palms flat against my knees.
"Do you want to sleep, or do you want to fuck?" he asks, his voice so soft I almost miss it.
I stare at him, searching his face for the punchline, but there isn't one. It's a real question. For once, he's giving me a choice.
"Both," I say, because it's the truth.
He nods, then reaches up to unhook my bra. He does it so deftly that it barely registers, but the way his hands linger on my shoulders, his thumbs tracing circles on my collarbone, makes my whole body burn.
He leans in, his lips brushing my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. I expect him to bite or taunt, but instead, he just breathes me in, his forehead pressed to mine. It's so gentle I almost don't recognize him.
"You're different tonight," I whisper, not sure if I mean it as a complaint or a plea.
He doesn't answer. Not directly. He just slides his hands up my arms, pins my wrists above my head, and kisses me so slowly, so deliberately, that my entire body shakes in response.
The way he touches me is like he's testing the edges of his own restraint. Or maybe it's me that he's testing, trying to find out how much softness he's allowed to have when I'm wide awake.
His mouth slides down my neck, his tongue drawing circles over the bruises he left earlier, as if he regrets them. Or maybe he just wants to worship them.
His hands are everywhere, but he's not rough, not the way I expect. He just holds me, touching every inch of my body like it's precious. I don't know what to do with this softness, so all I can do is lie there and shake while he memorizes me.
He nudges my knees apart with his thighs, but doesn't move to fuck me right away. Instead, he kisses down my chest, his lips brushing the slope of my breast, then the curve of my ribcage. Hebites my nipple, just a graze, and waits for me to gasp before he soothes it with his tongue. The worship in his touch makes my eyes sting.
When he finally slides down, he kisses the old scar on my side—the one from the accident. His lips linger there, like a silent apology for a wound that neither of us will ever really forgive ourselves for or forget. It nearly undoes me.
He parts my legs and moves between them, his hands locked around my thighs. For the first time, he looks up at me, his eyes so full of hunger it's almost a question. Will I let him love me like this?
I nod, because if I speak, I'll fall apart.
He licks me so slow and patiently that it almost feels like torture, like he's determined to undo every sharp edge he's ever carved into me.
His tongue is relentless. It's not the punishment I'm used to, the way he sometimes devours me just to prove that he owns me. This is something deeper, something so tender it threatens to shatter every wall I've ever built.
He's not using me this time. He's worshipping me, and it's so much more dangerous than cruelty.
I fist the sheets, arching up into his mouth. When I start to shake harder, he only slows, drawing out the pleasure until it's almost too much to endure. I want to scream at him to just fuck me already, to ruin me the way he always does, but I can't. I can't even beg. All I can do is sob his name and let the shaking roll through me.
He keeps going until I'm raw, until I'm delirious and half-crying, until I think I'm about to pass out. When he finally lets up, kissing his way back up my belly, it's almost a mercy.
He's gentler than I've ever seen him, but it's not just the way he touches me. It's the way he looks at me, like he's taking inventoryof every piece of me he's ever broken and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he can put them back together tonight.
He strips without a word, and then crawls over me, heat rolling off his skin.
But even when he's soft, he's still Asher. When he slips inside, burying himself deep, he fucks me as hard as ever, every stroke a claim on my body. The difference is in the pauses—in the way he breaks rhythm to kiss my forehead, to stroke my hair back from my face, to look at me like I'm a puzzle he's dying to solve.
He makes me come twice before he lets himself finish. The first time, his voice is in my ear, soft and obscene, promising every filthy thing he'll do to me if I ever think about leaving. The second time, all I know is the weight of his body, the slide of his cock, and the way he says my name when he's about to lose control.
When he finally comes, it's with my wrists still pinned above my head and his face buried in my neck. He shudders against me, all the usual violence replaced by a raw, shaking vulnerability that makes my heart stutter.
