God, she feels like fire in my arms, and the heat of her sinks into my skin, into my ribs, into every place that was cold without her. Her damp hair sticks to my chest, her breath ghosts over my throat, and my pulse trips as it tries to keep up with hers. There’s this wild, breathless energy buzzing between us—leftover laughter, leftover need, leftover desire—and it wraps around me tighter than her arms do.
I didn’t know a person could feel like this. I didn’t know being burned alive could be the sweetest goddamn thing in the world.
I lay her back on the bed, following her down, unable to stand even an inch of space between us. Her body gives beneath my hands, pliable and trusting, and I kiss the water from her throat with slow, hungry drags of my mouth. For a second, it feels like the world collapses to that small patch of skin. Like nothing exists outside the rise of her breath or the way her pulse flutters against my lips.
The sheets are warm beneath us, but she’s warmer, pulling me in with every shift of her hips, every sigh, every trembling exhale. Her hands roam over my shoulders, my jaw, my lower back. Mapping me. Claiming me. Touching me like she’s trying to memorize the entire shape of me before I can disappear.
She moves under me, a seductive dance I don’t think she’s even aware of. Her hips rise to meet me, breath rushing in and out of her mouth, thighs trembling, and I haven’t even entered her yet.
“Jason,” she murmurs, voice husky, “wait.”
I freeze instantly, lifting my head. “Are you okay?”
She nods, breath trembling. “Yeah. Just one second.”
Her hand reaches out blindly toward her nightstand, fingers sweeping over the surface until she finds the drawer handle. She slides it open with a soft scrape, then starts feeling around inside for something.
There’s a muted rustle and when she draws her hand back, she’s holding a simple black blindfold. I pause.
The crease between my eyebrows deepen. Because for a heartbeat, all I can think is she’s already blind. She already moves through the world in darkness.
“Uh… ” I manage, half amused, half nervous. “Sweetheart… what exactly do you need that for?”
She lifts it, brushing her thumb over the black silk.
“I want you to try something,” she says, cheeks flushing. “Only if you’re willing.”
There’s so much trust in her voice that it nearly knocks the wind out of me.
“I’m willing,” I say immediately. “Tell me what you want.”
She takes a breath, as if she’s about to step off a ledge and fall right into a deep abyss.
“I want you,” she whispers, “to know what it’s like to experience the world like I do. To feel what I feel.”
Her words hit me like a second heartbeat under my skin, soft, then crushing.
This isn’t simply some kinky flourish she thought I’d enjoy. This is her. Her truth. Her vulnerability gift-wrapped in black fabric and placed in my hands.
She wants me to step into her darkness, for just a moment, because that’s the closest she can get to letting me all the way in. To letting me see her the way she sees the world. My chest pulls tight, like my ribs are trying to make room for something too big to fit. God, she doesn’t even realize what she’s doing to me.
Or maybe she does.
Maybe that’s why her hands are trembling slightly, waiting for my reaction, waiting for me.
“Do it.” Two simple words that hold the weight of our trust for each other.
She ties the blindfold gently around my head, her fingers grazing my temples. Darkness folds over me instantly—not wolf-darkness, not night-running darkness, but a blunt, human kind. No edges, no distance, no shapes in motion.
I feel her breath. I smell her warm, sweet skin. Every sound is louder.
Every shift of the sheets feels amplified—too loud, too intimate, like the whole room is listening. Her knee brushes mine, and even that feels sharper, closer, as if my nerves have climbed to the surface of my skin.
“Violet…” My voice comes out rough, scraped from somewhere low in my chest. “This is… different.”
She goes still for a heartbeat. Then, softly, almost afraid to hope, she asks. “Good different?”
Her question punches right through me. She isn’t asking if I’m turned on. She’s asking if she’s crossed a line. If the thing she offered, the thing she is, is welcome here.
