“You can still walk away.”
She didn’t.
Instead, she stepped closer. Palms to his chest. Feeling the restraint. Feeling the storm.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His breath caught.
So did hers.
The moment shifted. No turning back.
His hands gripped her waist harder, anchoring her.
“Then let me have you,” he said, voice hoarse, reverent.
She kissed him. Not shy. Not soft.
“I’m already yours.”
His next kisswasn’t a continuation.
It was a reckoning.
Unhurried but hungry. Like his mouth was spelling out every vow he couldn’t yet say. Intentional. Focused. Like this wasn’t about seduction or satisfaction. This was about her. Seeing her. Knowing her.
He moved with that infuriating, beautiful certainty, as if the rest of the world had gone quiet for this. For her.
Gideon didn’t just touch her. He memorized her. As though this wasn’t indulgence, it was survival. His weight anchored her, firm and steady, while his hands traced the places she didn’t know were aching until he found them.
A shiver raced down her spine as his palm slid across her ribs. Each brush sent sparks dancing beneath her skin. He wasn’t grabbing; he was asking. Every pass of his fingers, every breath against her, was a question.
He was still learning her. Reading her body like a prayer whispered in the dark. And every gasp? Every sound, every arch, every tremble? They felt like his answers.
His lips wandered from her mouth to the tender spot beneath her ear. There, he paused. Kissed. Tasted her like a man savoring something he wasn’t sure he deserved. Open-mouthed. Slow. Addicted. She felt it in the way his breath caught. The way his jaw flexed. The way his entire body responded to the quietest gasp she couldn’t hold back.
When his lips grazed her collarbone, she moaned softly, almost helplessly. Almost. His name barely formed on her tongue.
And he—he breathed her in. Like her scent alone could anchor him.
Then he moved lower, inch by agonizing inch. He kissed the curve of her breast. The space between. The edge of her ribcage. Each press of his mouth branded her—hot, reverent, wrecking.
Her hands threaded through his hair, nails grazing the line of his jaw, and when she moaned,reallymoaned, his whole body jerked. He trembled. Like the sound had done something he wasn’t sure he could come back from.
Then his mouth closed over her nipple.
Not gentle. Not rough. Just right. His tongue was slow and insistent, sending a spiral of heat straight through her. Her back arched instinctively, lips parting as another broken sound escaped.
He dragged his teeth gently across her nipple, just once. Her gasp was so erotic it nearly broke him.
“Fuck,” he rasped. Not at her. For her. For himself. Like he couldn’t believe she was real.
He wasn’t just touching her.
He was unraveling himself in the process.
Her hands found his shoulders, then his back, tracing the strength that bracketed her. She felt his restraint stretching, straining, threatening to snap.
