Chapter Nine
The apartment smelled faintlyof espresso beans and sugar cones, like the scent had seeped into the walls over time. Soft light from the streetlamps below filtered through her thin curtains, bathing the room in a warm, amber glow. The hum of the walk-in freezer downstairs vibrated faintly beneath their feet, but up here, the world felt quiet—softer.
Brandi had excused herself once they got upstairs. She’d wanted to change out of her work clothes. Tool stood by the window; waiting for her to come out. His broad shoulders silhouetted in the half-light. His leather cut hung off the back of the chair, and his white T-shirt clung to his chest, still damp from the rain.
He heard the creak of the bathroom door and the sound of her bare feet padding across the room. Hell, he heard every creak and squeak of the wooden floorboards.
Brandi sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, watching him, the sleeves of her oversized hoodie hiding her hands.
"You gonna keep starin’ at me like that?" he muttered, not turning around.
She smiled, just a little. "Depends. You gonna keep pretending you don’t want to touch me?"
She’d hoped the kiss would lead to more. But it hadn’t. Tool had broken the kiss and started pacing. Now, she was watching him stare out the window.
He looked over his shoulder, jaw tight. His eyes—stormy and guarded—flicked to hers. "You think this is easy for me?"
She got up slowly, barefoot on the creaky floorboards, and walked to him. Her fingers brushed his forearm. He flinched—just a breath of a movement—but didn’t pull away.
“I know you’re scared you’ll hurt me,” she whispered. “But the only way you can hurt me is by ignoring me.
Tool turned, towering over her. One of his hands cupped the side of her neck, his thumb brushing the corner of her jaw. “You don’t know what you’re askin’, Brandi. What I like… It’s not soft. And you—” His throat worked. “You’ve been through hell. I’m not gonna be the one who drags you back into it.”
She leaned into his palm. “It’s not the same. What they did to me wasn’t love. What you do? What you want? That’s control given, not stolen. And I trust you.”
His eyes shut for a beat like the weight of her trust was almost too much. When he opened them again, the heat was there, banked but fierce. He dipped his head and kissed her—slow at first, like he was asking a question with his mouth. She answered by fisting her hands in his shirt and pulling him closer.
Tool’s control was razor-sharp. Even as the kiss deepened, his hands stayed steady, reverent. He moved them to her hips, gripping gently like she might vanish if he pressed too hard.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured against her lips.
Brandi shook her head, voice breathy. “Not enough.”
He smiled then, crooked, tormented, but real. And when he backed her up toward the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate. Worshipful. Every brush of skin, every inhale between kisses, was laced with restraint.
He didn’t take. He waited until she gave.
Her knees hit the mattress first, the soft give of the bed behind her as Tool leaned over her, bracing one hand beside her head. He hovered like he was afraid to touch her too much too fast, but his eyes were all fire now—slow-burning and hungry.
Brandi reached for him, slipping her hands under his shirt, palms tracing the rough planes of his stomach, the ink that mapped across his ribs. "You don’t have to hold back," she whispered, "not with me."
He growled low in his throat, not from anger but from the effort it took to stay gentle. He let her pull the shirt up and over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him. The heat coming off him made her pulse skip. So did the way he looked at her—like he didn’t know whether to lay her down or drop to his knees.
"You don’t get it, do you?" His voice was rough as gravel. "Iamholding back. Because if I let myself go?—"
"Thenshow me," she said, fingers curling into his belt. Her breath hitched when he didn’t move. “Tool... I wantyou. Not the filtered version. Not the careful one.”
He stared at her, chest rising and falling like he was barely keeping it together. Then he kissed her again—no hesitation this time. His mouth claimed hers with a new intensity, all heat and tension and quiet desperation. One hand slid up her thigh, under the hem of the oversized sweatshirt, dragging the fabric with it. When he realized she wasn’t wearing anything underneath, he let out a ragged curse.
“Jesus, Brandi…”
Her skin flushed beneath his touch, a mix of nerves and anticipation. He dragged the hoodie over her head, slow enough to give her a chance to stop him. She didn’t. Her breath trembled, but her eyes never left his.
He looked at her like she was a work of art he wasn't sure he deserved to touch. But he did. With hands that roamed fromher collarbone to her hips, he traced her like he was memorizing every inch of her.
And when he finally pushed her back into the pillows and pressed his body against hers, it wasn’t with the rough edge of dominance—yet—but with the promise of what hecouldbe, if she kept asking.
His voice was gravel, hot against her neck. “If I go further… if I show you everything, I am… you have totell mewhen to stop.”
