She crosses the room with a deliberate sway in her hips, presses her lips to mine, soft and sure, then pulls away just as easily. “Satisfied?”
“For now,” I say, allowing her to turn back to the closet, a grin tugging at my mouth as I take a seat on the low bench in the center of the room—upholstered in cream leather, the kind of thing no one ever actually sits on—and simply watch her.
Then, it hits without warning—the certainty of it, sharp and absolute. She’s moving in. She’sstaying.There’s nowhere else she has to return to, no night waiting to take her from me.
The realization crashes through me with a force that leaves me breathless. This is what I’ve fought for since the first time she slept in my bed—what every moment after has been moving toward. To have her here, under my roof, no distance left to close. To know that when morning comes, she’ll still be mine to reach for. It feels too enormous to contain—this quiet, devastating fulfilment.
My mind, drunk on relief, leaps too far ahead:If she’s under my roof, she’s already halfway to forever. Sooner rather than later, she’ll wear my ring.
Suddenly, I can’t sit still.
I rise, drawn to her as if movement itself has found its purpose.
She’s sliding hangers across the rail when I come up behind her, close enough for my breath to brush the curve of her neck.
She falters. “Nathaniel,” she scolds, the warning softened by a smile.
My fingers brush hers when she reaches for a hanger; she stills, and I feel the smallest intake of her breath. My hand finds her hip.
“You don’t have to do it all at once,” I murmur.
She turns, her jade eyes lifting to mine. “If I stop, you’ll start doing it for me.”
“Is that such a terrible thing?” I press a kiss beneath her jaw.
“It would defeat the purpose.” Her breath catches—not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh—and she turns away, pretending to be concerned with the clothes on the rack. The gesture does nothing to hide the flush rising along her neck. I want to kiss the exact spot where it starts.
I reach for her again—her arm, the slope of her shoulder, the back of her neck. She’s tense under my touch, not resisting but holding herself still, the way she does when she’s trying not to give herself away. Her pulse beneath my thumb beats fast.
“Nathaniel…” she starts again, her tone edging toward something unsteady. “If you’re trying to help, this isn’t?—”
I smirk against her skin. “Believe me, baby… I’m not trying to help.”
I turn her, guiding her back until she meets the wardrobe wall.
Her hands rise, uncertain, brushing against my chest. She exhales when I lean in.
“Then what are you trying to do?” she asks, the words soft, unsteady.
“Remind myself,” I say, tracing my lips along her jaw, “that you’re mine to come home to now.”
Her fingers tighten in my shirt. The sound she makes is low, caught somewhere between restraint and want. When I kiss her, she meets me with equal heat, matching the hunger I’ve carried alone for too long.
She’s pressed against the paneled wall, her body yielding beneath my hands. The cardigan she’s wearing—buttoned all the way up, soft and pale—does nothing to hide the shape of her.
The plaid skirt, the stockings, the socks pulled just below her knees—she looks studious, unassuming, but the effect is ruinous. Every inch of her was made to undo me.
My hands stay at her waist, memorizing the feel of her through the knit fabric. I hook a finger in the waistline of her skirt where it meets the small of her back, and my mind blanks.
Mine.
My grip tightens before I can stop it, the thought turning feral—no one else will touch her like this, see her like this, breathe this close to her.
She shivers when I pull back, my mouth finding the place just below her ear. Her pulse stirs beneath my tongue. I taste the salt of her skin, inhale the lilies and bergamot of her perfume—hers, always hers. I think of it mingling with the cedar on my clothes, the scent filling this space, living here now,permanently. The notion hits like a spark to tinder.
Her breath stumbles when I start unfastening her cardigan, one button, then another. I mean to be careful, but my patience snaps and the fabric gives under my hands, buttons scattering to the floor. She gasps, startled, and the sound only spurs me on.
Her top falls open, revealing soft skin and the blush-toned lace she wears beneath—simple, practical, yet devastatingly intimate. The sight pulls the ground from under me.
