But then I realize that his weight no longer pins me to the floor, and his fingers have nimbly untied the lacing at my waist. He’s not usually so forward, so I’m not prepared when his hand slips fully under my trousers and his fingers close around me.
My entire body gives a jolt, and I cry out into his mouth.
He catches me somehow, which is good, because I suddenly feel like I’m falling. His free hand is tangled in my hair, and his mouth is still drawing at mine, his kisses slowing as he strokes the length of me. I might be clutching at him.
“Yes?” he whispers against my lips, his breath sweet and warm.
Yes, please, anything at all, yes.But I can’t speak. I’m gasping, nodding, my world narrowed to the heat in my belly and the slow movementof his hand. By the time his lips trail a line of kisses down my chest, my veins are full of fire. When his mouth joins his hand, I have to press a fist to my lips to keep from crying out. I lose all sense of myself.
I might be whispering his name, I might be whimpering, I might be flying.
I do know I don’t last long atall.
When I’m no longer shuddering, he crawls back up my body, tugging my trousers back, dropping a kiss on my bare shoulder, tucking himself against me.
I turn my head and stroke a hand across his cheek. His eyes are warm and dark and intent on mine, and I would lie like this forever.
But we can’t. Because he’s leaving. Again.
The thought enters my head without warning, and I close my eyes before he can see it register in my expression.
But then he murmurs, “You’re the one that’s beautiful, Jax.” There’s so much reverence in his tone that it makes me blush and shiver.
Tycho shifts closer, his hand splaying over the center of my bare chest. “Are you cold?”
He says it with such care, like he’d burn down the world to keep me warm. I shake my head. “I’m not cold.”
The fire in my veins has turned to molten honey, and I stroke a hand across his cheek again, very aware of the hard weight of him pressed against the outside of my thigh. I reach lower, my fingers grazing the fabric of his trousers. I barely touch him and his breath hitches, so I flick my wrist and tug the laces free.
But he catches my hand, gripping my fingers in such a way that I can’t tell if he’s trying to slow me down or stop altogether.
The air has changed slightly, and I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are so dark and inscrutable, and I can feel his heartbeat against me, quicker than it should be.
“Yes?” I whisper.
His grip loosens, just a bit—but he doesn’t answer.
It’s terrifying to think that others might read his silence as consent. His loyalty, once won, seems to run so deeply that he’ll sacrifice even the most wounded parts of himself, no matter what it costs him. Just like the reason he’s leaving tomorrow. No one ever allows him to choose. No one ever waits for him to yield.
SoIwait.
Eventually, he draws a heavy breath and lets go of my wrist, stroking a slow path up my bare arm. I let my hand fall against his waist, and he shifts closer to me, his lips brushing against mine.
I can still feel him pressing against my thigh, so I know the desire isn’t gone—but I don’t reach for him this time. He kisses me slowly, his hand gentle against my face, and I kiss him back, my lips drawing at his. Chaste. Gentle. Patient.
But there’s still . . .something. Something unspoken, something unsaid. A weight in the air that warns me to tread carefully. When he tucks his face against my neck and rests a quiet hand over my heart, I don’t move.
“No?” I whisper, but this time it’s not really a question at all. I already know. It’s clear.
He makes an unhappy sound. “Notno. Just . . .”
“Not yet?”
He hesitates, then nods against me. I kiss his forehead, then rest my hand over his, holding his palm against my heart.
His breathing slows, and the tension slips out of the air, as if he needed me to accept his hesitation. As if he couldn’t relax until he knew I wouldn’t push. He’s so warm against me, and I feel the tug of sleep pulling at both of us. In fact, Tycho might already be there.
It takes me longer. My thoughts keep working, wound up in hishesitation and what it means. How it relates to his waiting anger. His readiness to fight.
