I trail my mouth down her neck, feeling her pulse hammering. Mila tilts her head back, giving me access like an offering.
“Beau,” she breathes, and I swear my name has never sounded like that.
“I’ve been trying not to want you,” I confess against her skin, voice rough. “Since the first night.”
Mila’s hands slide over my shoulders, pulling me closer. “Why?”
Because wanting means vulnerability. Because loving something means it can be taken.
I don’t say any of that.
I lift my head, meeting her eyes. “Because I didn’t think I deserved it.”
Mila’s expression softens, something fierce and gentle all at once. She cups my jaw, thumb stroking my beard like she’s not afraid of the man underneath.
“You do,” she says simply. “You do, Beau.”
The words land like a wound and a balm.
My chest tightens. I kiss her again, slower—like I’m trying to absorb it, like I’m trying to believe.
Mila shifts, straddling closer, and the friction of her body against mine makes my control snap tight again. I grip her hips, holding her still for a second.
She blinks down at me, breath shaking. “Too much?”
“Not even close,” I grit out.
Then, softer, like a warning and a promise: “If you keep moving like that, I’m not going to be polite.”
Mila’s cheeks flush, but her eyes go darker with it. “Maybe I don’t want polite.”
A sound drags out of my chest—half laugh, half groan.
I lift her carefully, like she weighs nothing, and stand. Mila clings to my shoulders instinctively, eyes wide.
“Beau—”
“I’m taking you to bed,” I say, voice low. “And I’m going to spend the rest of the night proving you’re safe with me.”
Mila’s breath catches. “That sounds…”
“Good?” I prompt.
Her lips part. “Dangerously good.”
I carry her down the short hall to the bedroom, the room warm and dim, lit by spillover firelight. I set her down gently at the edge of the bed and kneel, hands sliding to her calves, thumbs pressing softly like I’m memorizing her.
Mila shivers. “You’re looking at me like?—”
“Like I want you,” I say, plain. “Like I’ve wanted you since you said my name.”
Her throat works. “Beau.”
I stand, closing the distance again, palms braced on either side of her on the bed. “Last chance to tell me to stop.”
Mila reaches up, fists curling in my shirt, and pulls me down into another kiss—answering with her mouth, her body, her choice.
That’s all I need.
