Breathless need.
Hands that memorized, not claimed.
His voice low and reverent, whispering in Gaelic.
Twice, I woke to his lips on my skin, the back of my shoulder, the slope of my neck, his voice low and reverent in a language I don’t know but somehow felt in my bones.
Twice more, he pulled me under him and thrust into me slow and deep and full of something more than want.
And every time after, he held me like he was afraid I’d disappear.
I blink up at the ceiling, breath catching.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I have to hide any part of me. Not here, not with him.
I turn slowly to face him.
He’s still asleep, lashes dark against his cheek, hair a little messy, jaw rough with stubble. He’s beautiful, unfairly, breathtakingly beautiful in a way that almost hurts to look at.
But it’s more than that.
Under all that sinew and strength and bone, there’s a softness he doesn’t let anyone else see. A tenderness he pretends doesn’t exist. A quiet ache in him I feel even now, humming between us like a second heartbeat.
His brows twitch and his eyes open—storm gray, a little sleepy, devastating.
Then he smiles.
Slow. Warm. Like waking up to me is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
“Good morning, kitten,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
My heart forgets how to function. “Hi,” I whisper, smiling back before I can stop myself.
He lifts his hand and gently tucks my hair behind my ear, thumb brushing my cheek as though he’s still not convinced I’m real.
“Sleep all right?” he asks softly.
“More like floated,” I say, breath catching. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this…” Loved. Safe. Wanted. “…good.”
His eyes darken with something molten and warm, and he leans in, kissing me softly at first, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that saysI could get used to this.
Then it deepens, turns hungry, like sleep was just a pause, not a cure for wanting.
I gasp against his mouth, heat coiling low in my stomach, then I force myself away, panting, forehead pressed to his.
“Rogue,” I whisper, breathless. “I am starving.”
He laughs, low, surprised, a sound I want to bottle and keep forever, and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Alright, kitten,” he murmurs. “Stay right here. I’ll make us something to eat.”
He slides out of bed and walks toward the kitchen—broad shoulders, messy hair, and the kind of perfect backside that absolutely should have its own fan club.
He glances over his shoulder and catches me staring, then smirks, cocky and shy at the same time. I don’t even pretend I wasn’t staring at his perfect ass.
He disappears around the corner, and I sink deeper into the sheets that still smell like him, fresh and earthy and warm.
My heart is a wild thing in my chest.
