His skin suddenly heats, which feels amazing against my aching muscles.
Has he dealt with trauma like this before? He seems to know exactly what to say and do to make me feel comfortable. Being billions of years old must be a traumatic experience in itself. Especially if he spent most of that time alone.
There’s so much more to him than the pompous dick he pretends to be.
“Yes, Ezra. That would be fine.”
When his hand covers mine, I thread our fingers together and guide his other arm around me. He holds me like that for a while, wrapped up in silence, before easing onto his back again, letting me curl into the space beneath his chin.
My hand returns to his chest, and when I nuzzle into his neck, I notice the ink peeking out from the collar of his sweater.
So, he does have tattoos.
Feeling brave, and literally out of fucks to give, I trace the ink, barely skimming his collarbone.
“Do you like them?” Ezra asks, making me jump. Lost in the softness of his skin and the hollow at the base of his neck, I forgot where I was.
“They’re beautiful, Ezra,” I say as a massive yawn steals my voice. I keep my palm flat against his chest while my fingers continue idly tracing the line where ink gives way to unmarked skin.
“Mm. You smell so good,” I whisper, running my nose along his neck. “If I were a smut author, I’d probably say you smell like … cinnamon, spice, everything nice … and something distinctly male.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Which, what even is that? Ball sweat?”
Ezra chuckles, then stills. “I … what do I actually smell like?”
“Hm, you smell like cinnamon brooms,” I mumble into his chest, my voice hoarse and raw.
“My mom used to hang one up every fall.” I press my cheek to his chest, letting the memory linger. “Whole house would smell like spice and pine and magic.”
He doesn’t move. Not even a breath.
“It always made me feel safe.”
The silence stretches long enough to make me wonder if I said something wrong. But then—barely there—his arms tighten around me. Not possessive. Not lustful. Just … there.
He feels so fuckingright, but something still bothers me.
“Ezra? Can I ask you something?”
How Ezra answers the next few questions will determine if our story continues … or ends.
“You may ask me anything, Aurora.” His arm tightens around me, the delightful pressure making my questions seem less and less important.
“If you had come into my home that night and I said someone else’s name, or I wasn’t dreaming at all, would you have … touched me?”
Ezra takes a deep breath, then buries his face in my hair.
“No, little lupine.” His voice is quiet. “I would not have touched you the way I did. But when you said my name, when you begged, I let myself believe it was an invitation.”
His arms tighten slightly. “Or maybe I convinced myself to hear it that way.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. The storm in his eyes doesn’t rage, it churns, slow and endless.
When he finally speaks again, his words are calm, but final. “I am sorry. But I do not regret it. And given the same situation? I would most likely do the same thing.”
The words should terrify me. They should feel like a warning. But his touch is soft and steady. This is not a man who takes without asking. Not anymore.
“You were correct when you called me a monster in the bookshop,” Ezra murmurs, “but I want to be better. For you.”
