"I've got you," he murmurs against my skin. "I've got you, Sparrow."
And somehow, impossibly, I believe him.
His hands move to my back, finding the clasp of my bra with surprising deftness. It falls away, and his breath catches. For a long moment, he just looks at me, and I fight the urge to cover myself, to hide the vulnerability of being seen.
Then he drops to his knees.
The sight of this man — this powerful, dangerous, beautiful man — kneeling before me like I'm something worth worshiping makes my chest ache with an emotion I can't name. His hands settle on my hips, thumbs tracing circles on my skin, and he presses a kiss to my stomach that's so tender it brings tears to my eyes.
"Breaker," I whisper, fingers threading through his hair.
He looks up at me, and the intensity in his gaze steals what's left of my breath. "Tell me what you want."
"You." The word comes out broken, honest. "I just want you."
Something shifts in his expression — a wall crumbling, a door opening. He rises in one fluid motion, lifting me as he goes, and my legs wrap around his waist on instinct. Three steps and we're at the bed. He lays me down as if I'm made of glass, then stands there, looking down at me with an expression that's equal parts hunger and hesitation.
"Riley." His voice is raw, burning.
His fingers find the buttons to my jeans, his eyes meet mine, looking for an answer.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, I want that.”
His hands are steady as they find the button of my jeans, even though I can see the tension coiled in every line of his body. The metallic rasp of the zipper sounds impossibly loud in the quiet room, and then he's easing the denim down my hips, my thighs, my calves — slow, deliberate, like he's memorizing every inch of skin he reveals.
I shiver as the cool air kisses my legs, but his hands follow immediately after, warm and rough, smoothing over my calves as he pulls the jeans free and tosses them somewhere into the shadows.
He stands there for a moment, just looking at me. I'm laid out before him in nothing but simple cotton underwear, and I've never felt more exposed in my life. More seen. The vulnerability should terrify me — it has terrified me, with other men, in other moments that turned sharp and cruel. But the way Breaker looks at me... it's not predatory. It's reverent.
"So fucking beautiful," he breathes, and the words land somewhere deep in my chest, warming places that have been cold for so long. “You can’t be real.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear, and he pauses, eyes meeting mine one more time. Asking.
I lift my hips in answer.
He slides the fabric down slowly, achingly slowly, and I'm bare before him. Completely bare. The last of my armor stripped away.
For a heartbeat, panic flutters in my chest — old instincts, old fears, the ghost of hands that took instead of asked. But then Breaker kneels at the foot of the bed, and his lips press against the arch of my foot, and every dark thought scatters like smoke in the wind.
The kiss is soft. Almost chaste. But it sends electricity shooting up my leg, and I gasp at the unexpected intensity of it.
He smiles against my skin — I can feel the curve of his lips — and then his mouth moves higher. The inside of my ankle. The curve of my calf. Each kiss is deliberate, worshipful, like he's mapping territory he intends to claim, and I ache to give to him.
My hands fist in the sheets as his lips trail over my knee, lingering at the sensitive hollow behind it. I didn't even know Icould feel things there, but his tongue traces a small circle and my back arches off the bed.
"Breaker," I gasp, and his name sounds like a plea.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my skin, the words vibrating through me. "Let me take care of you."
His mouth moves to my inner thigh, and the world narrows to nothing but sensation. Soft lips. Rough stubble scraping delicate skin. The hot brand of his breath as he works his way higher, impossibly slow, driving me to the edge of madness with every passing second.
My thighs tremble. I can't help it. The anticipation is a living thing, coiling tighter and tighter in my core, and I'm not sure if I want to beg him to hurry or to never, ever stop.
He presses a kiss to the crease where my thigh meets my hip, and I make a sound I've never heard from myself before — a shaking, desirous, broken noise that knows exactly what it wants: him. His hands slide beneath me, cupping the curve of my backside, tilting me toward him like I'm an offering he's finally ready to accept.
"Look at me," he says, voice rough as sandpaper.
I force my eyes open, force myself to meet his gaze. What I see there undoes me completely. There's hunger, yes; it’s raw and primal and undeniable. But beneath it is something softer. Something that looks terrifyingly like tenderness.
