He groaned, and then his hand was in my hair—not pushing, just holding, fingers threaded through the strands. When I took him deep again, his hips rolled up to meet me, a shallow thrust that hit the back of my throat.
I set a rhythm. Up and down, tongue working the underside, hand stroking what my mouth couldn't reach. I could feel him getting close—the tension building in his thighs, the way his breath came in ragged gasps, the way his grip in my hair tightened.
"Kai—I'm going to?—"
I doubled down, sucking harder, moving faster. His whole body went taut.
"Wait—stop—I can't?—"
He pushed at my shoulder, and I pulled off immediately. He was trembling, cock angry red and slick with my spit, but his eyes?—
His eyes were panicked.
"Hey." I moved up his body, framing his face with my hands. "Hey, look at me. What's wrong?"
"I don't—" His breath was coming too fast. Not arousal anymore—fear. "I can't—my dad said?—"
"Your dad was wrong." I kept my voice steady, my touch gentle. "Whatever he said, whatever he did, he was wrong. This isn't shameful. You aren't broken."
"I feel like I'm falling apart."
"Then fall apart." I pressed my forehead to his. "I've got you."
He shuddered. I felt the moment the tension broke—not sexually, but emotionally. Something he'd been holding for twenty years cracked open, and he sagged into the mattress like a puppet with cut strings.
"I'm sorry." His voice was barely audible. "I'm so fucking sorry, I wanted?—"
"Stop." I kissed him softly. "Don't apologize. Not for this. Not ever."
"I ruined it."
"You didn't ruin anything." I lay down beside him, pulled him into my arms. He went willingly, burying his face in my neck, his huge body curled around mine like I was the anchor and he was the storm. "We have time. All the time in the world."
We lay like that for a while. His breathing slowly evened out, his heart rate coming down from its panicked gallop. I stroked his back, his hair, traced soothing patterns across his skin.
"It felt incredible," he said finally, muffled against my throat. "What you were doing. I've never felt anything like it."
"Yeah?"
"I was so close. And then I just—" He exhaled harshly. "I heard his voice in my head. Telling me I was disgusting. Telling me I was going to hell."
"Your father..."
"He's been dead for six years. And he still—" His voice cracked. "He still has this power over me."
I pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, wet at the corners. Axel Morrison, VP of the Steel Phoenixes, the man they called Reaper—crying in my arms because his father had broken something in him decades ago.
I loved him.
The realization hit me like a thunderbolt. Not just wanted him, not just cared about him—lovedhim. Fiercely and completely and terrifyingly.
"You know what I think?" I wiped the moisture from under his eyes with my thumbs. "I think the fact that you stopped—that you let yourself be vulnerable instead of pushing through—that's the opposite of weak. That's the bravest thing you've done since I met you."
"Doesn't feel brave."
"It never does." I kissed his forehead. "But you trusted me. You let me in. That's huge, Axel."
He was quiet for a moment. Then his hand found mine, laced our fingers together.
