My hands slide to his shoulders, gripping him tightly. It must be answer enough because he slides one hand into my hair and deepens the kiss, his fingers threading through the strands and binding me to him.
He takes his time kissing me, savoring every second, every response my body displays. My fingers curl tighter into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he obliges this time, his free hand finding my waist. He tastes like coffee and something sweeter, something that’s entirely him, and I think I could drown in it, in him.
So, I let myself drown.
I let myself sink.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against mine, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes are still closed as he holds me to him, his hand still tangled in my hair.
“I meant it,” he whispers. “You’re beautiful. And crazy. Smart, skilled, sassy, and funny.” His eyes open and intently bore into mine. “And I’m a fucking fool for you.”
We hold each other’s gazes for several long moments, my heart aching with emotion as I toy with a piece of his hair. “You should’ve been a musician,” I murmur, still hearing his song. “Not a mentalist. You’re too good.”
His lips quirk into a soft smile, and his hand slips from my waist to rest on my knee. “I like what I do. But if it makes you look at me like that, maybe I’ll consider a career change.”
I laugh again, but it’s quieter this time, more breathless. My gaze drops to where his hand rests on my knee, its simple intimacy making my heart feel like it might burst.
I am so gone for him.
Koen is everything I never thought I’d crave, and yet, here he is, holding me like I’m something precious, and I’m letting him.
“I think I’m in trouble,” I whisper.
“Good,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to my forehead. “Because I’m already there with you.”
His lips wander to graze the tender spot beneath my ear, then trail down my neck. The heat of his breath sends a slow shiver through me, but it’s not nerves—it’s anticipation. Need. Want. Every place he touches feels like it belongs to him already.
I shiver involuntarily, my shoulders tilting toward him, desperate for more.
He plants a kiss right over the racing pulse at my throat. “You’re precious.”
“I’m not,” I breathe, the protest weak as it leaves my lips, more habit than belief.
Koen freezes. “Are you questioning my judgment now?”
“What? N-no. Why would I—” I stammer.
“Because you’re ignoring what I tell you and repeating the bullshit someone else fed you instead.” His tone isn’t angry, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something protective, fierce. He doesn’t just want me. He wants me to see myself the way he does.
He pulls back to fully look at me, his fingers sliding beneath the hem of Sylus’s shirt. His knuckles brush the bare skin of my stomach, and heat pools low in my belly.
“Have I not told you how smart you are, how skilled, how sassy and funny…” His fingers inch higher, dragging the shirt with them. His voice is softer now, but the conviction in it is unshakable. “Have I somehow failed at making you understand how utterly precious you are to me?”
It’s not just a compliment. It’s a demand. A plea. A truth he won’t let me ignore. The words punch through my defenses, exposing something raw and making me swallow hard. “Koen, honestly, I’m a foster girl who made it to a pickpocketing stripper. I’m not?—”
His hands glide up my ribs, his thumbs tracing the curve of my waist as he lifts the shirt over my head, cutting me off. It slips away, pooling beside us and leaving me bare from the waist up. My skin pebbles with goose bumps, but it has nothing to do with the air and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me.
“It doesn’t matter who fed you those lies. What matters is that you believe them.”
One of his hands cups my face again, his thumb sweeping gently over my cheekbone, but the other trails lower. His fingers ghost below the bandage on my arm, brushing the uninjured skin. He gave me some painkillers before dinner so it’s not hurting right now, but the softness of his touch feels like an apology, even though he doesn’t say it. I want to tell him it’s not his fault, and I don’t regret a damn thing that’s led me here to him. But I know Koen. He won’t believe me.
“I’m fine.” I lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth, lingering there as if I can press the words into his skin.
He pulls back and searches my eyes, measuring the truth of my words.
“I hate that you were hurt.” His fingers slightly tighten on my waist, not possessively, just steadily, like he needs the physical connection, to feel that I’m not lying, and I’m really fine. He slowly lifts his other hand to cup my face, his thumb brushingover my cheekbone. “Hate that I wasn’t there. Hate that I can’t go back and fix it.”
I exhale softly, reaching up to cover his hand with mine. “I don’t need you to fix it. I just need you to be here.”
