His voice finds me again, quieter than before.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” he says. “Or to demand answers you’re not ready to give.”
The admission settles between us like a second pulse.
“I came because… you looked like someone trying to hold herself together with nothing but frayed thread. I didn't think you wanted to truly be alone.”
My breath slips.
His hand slides from my hip to the edge of my wrap, not pulling, not daring, just resting there like a promise he has no right to make.
When I turn to face him, my hands are shaking.
The air between us crackles, thick with heat, heavier with everything we’ve been dancing around for far too long. I reach for the rag in his hands, but my fingers hesitate at the last second, brushing against his knuckles instead. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But his breath catches, just slightly, and the sound of it sends a ripple down my spine.
“I shouldn’t have let you in here,” I whisper, my voice rough and frayed at the edges. “That was probably a poor idea.”
He still says nothing, but his eyes don’t leave mine. There’s no judgment in them, no smirk, no sharp retort. Just pure, quiet restraint, like he’s bracing himself against whatever I’m about to do.
I take his hands, gripping them between mine. They’re warm and solid and dangerous in a way that has nothing todo with magic. And everything to do with the way they’ve touched me in my dreams.
“Because you’re right,” I mutter, and my voice breaks on the admission. “I don’t want to be alone.”
A slow exhale leaves his chest. His fingers twitch in mine, like he’s waiting for permission. Or absolution.
“And I want you here,” I say, even quieter now, “for all the wrong reasons.”
I guide his hands to my chest.
The contact is instant and explosive. My breath hitches, my nipples tightening beneath the thin cotton of my wrap as his palms mold over the swell of me. His eyes widen, gaze flickering between my face and where he’s touching me, like he can’t quite believe I’m letting him. Like he doesn’t want to mess it up by moving too fast.
I can see the strain in his jaw. The pulse jumping in his throat. The sheer force of his willpower as he holds himself still.
“I’m tired of you using the rag,” I breathe, and it’s not just a confession, it’s a surrender.
That’s when something in him snaps.
His expression darkens instantly, like a switch has been thrown. One second he’s barely holding on. The next, he’s falling to his knees in front of me, and I feel the rush of heat surge between my thighs at the sight of him,kneeling, like he belongs there, like he’s meant to be at my feet.
His hands are on me before I can breathe again. They slide to the curve of my hips, gripping me hard as he presses his mouth to my stomach. Through the fabric. Just once. A kiss that feels more like a brand.
He doesn’t say a word as he finds the zipper of my skirt. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait.
Heundoesme.
The soft sound of metal partingechoes louder than it should in the quiet room. His fingers are slow, reverent, dragging the zipper down with maddening precision. The fabric loosens around my waist, and then, with a careful tug, it falls.
The skirt slips to the floor, pooling around my knees like a silk offering.
I stand there in my underwear and wrap, trembling, while he looks up at me with something unholy in his eyes.
His hands trail up the backs of my thighs, fingertips brushing just beneath the edge of my panties. My breath stutters. My knees nearly buckle. His touch is light, teasing, but full of promise, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and hewantsme to feel every second of it.
“Fuck,” he breathes, finally speaking. “Look at you.”
I do.
I look down and see him there, on his knees, hands splayed across my thighs, his mouth just inches from where I’m already soaked for him. His pupils are blown wide, jaw tight, lips parted. I’ve never seen him like this, utterly undone... maybe even ravenous.
