Her lips were kiss-bitten, parted and trembling. Her eyes? Dark with promise.
Her chest rose with a need she made no attempt to hide.
And him? He was already gone. Shattered. Worshipful.
Then she kissed him again, slower this time.
Not softer.
More lethal.
Gideon finally pulled back. Just enough to see her.
Really see her.
He circled her in a slow orbit, reverent and starved, like she was holy ground he had no right to touch.
His gaze slid down her body—pausing at the swell of her breasts, the way his shirt clung and lifted, hinting at skin that begged to be touched. Her thighs, bare and breathtaking. Her nipples, hard and straining against cotton that couldn’t hide a damn thing.
She was art.
It was obscene.
It was perfect.
And it was his undoing.
Because nothing had ever looked like it belonged more than she did right now; standing barefoot in his room, in his shirt, looking at him like she wasn’t going anywhere.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
He reached for her hand—steady, quiet, and sure.
The air between them shifted.
He could’ve taken more; she would’ve let him.
But instead, he stepped back, barely, so he could meet her eyes.
What passed between them then wasn’t lust.
It was understanding.
This wasn’t about possession. Not tonight.
This was about the quiet in between.
The choice to stay.
The ache beneath the armor.
So when he reached for her hand again—gently, open-palmed—it wasn’t to pull her into more.
It was to lead her into the hush between heartbeats.
Softer.
A promise made without words.
