Chapter Twenty-Five
Riley
Our kiss starts soft. Tender. A whisper of lips against lips, a gentle question that I answer with everything I have. His mouth moves over mine like he's savoring me, like I'm something precious he's afraid to break. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding on, anchoring myself to this moment that feels too perfect to be real.
But it is real. He is real. And the love swelling in my chest is the most real thing I've ever felt.
His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. I sigh against his mouth, and he swallows the sound as if it belongs to him. Maybe it does. Maybe all of me belongs to him now.
The thought should scare me. It doesn't.
I press closer, needing to feel him, needing the solid warmth of his body against mine. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against him until there's no space left between us. I can feel his heartbeat through his chest, strong and steady, matching the wild rhythm of my own.
"Breaker," I breathe against his lips, and his name tastes like a prayer.
He groans, rough, and the sound vibrates through me, settling somewhere deep in my belly. The kiss shifts, transforms. What was tender becomes hungry. What was gentle becomesurgent. His tongue sweeps against the seam of my lips, and I open for him without hesitation, welcoming him in, wanting more, needing everything.
The taste of him floods my senses — whiskey and something darker, something that's purely him. I chase it with my tongue, exploring, claiming, giving as good as I get. My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling in my desperation to touch skin.
His hand catches mine, stilling my movements.
"Slow," he murmurs against my mouth. "We have all night, Sparrow."
The words send a shiver down my spine. All night. With him. The promise of it makes my head spin.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and what I see in his eyes steals my breath. There's desire there, burning and undeniable, but beneath it is something softer. Something that looks like reverence. Like I'm not just a woman in his bed, but something sacred he never expected to find.
"You're so beautiful," he says, voice rough as gravel. "Every damn time I look at you, I forget how to breathe."
Emotion clogs my throat. I reach up, tracing the hard line of his jaw, the stubble rough against my fingertips. "Then stop looking and kiss me again."
A smile curves his lips. It is slow, devastating, and makes my insides flutter. "Yes, ma'am."
This time when his mouth finds mine, there's no hesitation. He kisses me like he's drowning and I'm air. Like he's been waiting his whole life to taste me.
My hands resume their mission, working his buttons free one by one, revealing the planes of his chest inch by devastating inch. Scars map his skin like constellations, stories of survival and sacrifice. I trace each one with my fingertips, learning the geography of his pain.
"These don't scare me," I whisper against his collarbone, pressing a kiss to a jagged line near his shoulder. "Nothing about you scares me."
His breath catches, and I feel the tremor that runs through him. "Riley..."
"Shh." I push the shirt from his shoulders, watching it fall away. "Let me."
I press my palms flat against his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath my hands. He's warm, so warm, and solid in a way that makes me feel anchored. Safe. His muscles tense and release under my touch as I explore — the ridges of his abs, the curve of his ribs, the dip of his hip bones where they disappear beneath his waistband.
His hands find the zipper at my back, and he pauses, waiting.
"Yes," I breathe before he can ask.
The sound of the zipper sliding down is impossibly loud in the quiet room. Cool air kisses my spine as the dress loosens, and then his hands are there, warm and rough, tracing the newly exposed skin. I shiver, not from cold, but from the electric current that runs through me at his touch.
He eases the straps from my shoulders, letting the emerald silk pool at my waist. For a moment, he just looks at me, and the intensity of his gaze makes my skin flush.
"Christ, Sparrow." His voice is wrecked. "You're perfect."
I shake my head, suddenly shy despite everything we've already shared. "I'm not—"
"You are." He cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. "To me, you're fucking perfect."
