My breath came shallow. “What kinds of things?”
His gaze dropped—to my mouth, my throat—before dragging back up to my eyes.
“Things I don’t get to have,” he said quietly. “Things I’d ruin.”
Something in my chest flared—defiant, tender, brave. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His jaw flexed. “Joy?—”
“I’m not fragile,” I said. “And I’m not confused. I know this feels fast. I know it’s intense. But pretending it’s not happening doesn’t make it go away.”
The room felt smaller. Warmer.
Micah leaned in again, stopping just short of touching me. So close that I could feel his breath, smell the faint trace of soap and something darker underneath.
“If I kiss you,” he said, voice low, controlled by sheer force of will, “it won’t be polite.”
My heart slammed.
“Then don’t be polite,” I whispered.
He froze.
The tension between us was unbearable now—bright and electric and alive. His hand lifted, hovering near my knee, not touching yet, like he was waiting for permission he didn’t trust himself to take.
I didn’t move away.
I didn’t tell him no.
And in that charged, breathless pause, I knew—with startling clarity—that whatever happened next would change me.
I wanted it to.
12
MICAH
She said it like a challenge wrapped in silk. "Then don’t be polite."
My control snapped. Not all at once, like some amateur losing his shit. No, it frayed first—a slow unraveling that started with her eyes on mine, wide and steady, daring me to cross the line I'd drawn in my own head.
I reached for her. My hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers threading into that soft braid, pulling her closer with just enough force to let her know I wasn't playing. Her breath hitched, but she didn't pull away. She leaned in.
Our mouths met. Not soft. Not tentative. I kissed her like I'd been starving for it, like the taste of her was the only thing that could fill the hollow I'd carried. Her lips parted under mine, warm and yielding, and I took the invitation without asking twice. My tongue swept in, claiming the sweetness there—coffee and something uniquely her, like sunlight on fresh-cut stems.
She made a sound. Small. Surprised. It went straight to my cock, already straining against my jeans like it had a mind of its own. I deepened the kiss, angling her head back, my other handfinding her waist and pulling her flush against me. Her body molded to mine—soft curves pressing into hard lines—and I felt her tremble. Not fear. Want. The kind that mirrored mine.
I broke the kiss first, trailing my mouth down her jaw, nipping at the skin there just hard enough to mark without breaking. "You sure about this?" I murmured against her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my lips.
"Yes," she whispered, her hands fisting in my shirt. "Don't stop."
Fuck. That voice. Soft but insistent. It undid me.
I pulled back enough to look at her—cheeks flushed, lips swollen from my mouth, eyes dark with the same hunger twisting in my gut. She was beautiful. Too beautiful for a man like me, with hands that had ended lives and a soul stained beyond recognition. But she was here. Wanting this. Wanting me.
I didn't deserve it. But I'd take it, anyway.
My hands slid down her sides, tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. I hooked my fingers under the hem of her shirt, waiting for her to tense, to hesitate. She didn't. Instead, she lifted her arms, letting me peel it off her in one slow motion. The fabric whispered against her skin as it came free, revealing pale lace that cupped her breasts like an offering.
