Geezus.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness offered no refuge. If anything, the memory burned brighter. Her, beneath his hands. The sweet, intoxicating heat of her skin. The way she’d arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her breath coming in soft, desperate pants against his mouth. He could still feel the perfect curve of her waist in his palms, the exact weight of her breast. He could still taste her on his lips, a flavor he knew he’d crave for the rest of his life. He wanted her skin, her cries, her unraveling. He wanted to watch her face as she came apart for him, to be the one to give her that pleasure.
So what the fuck was he doing in here?
Alone. Aching. Suffering, and by extension, making her suffer, too. The thought was a physical blow, his gut clenching so hard it felt like he’d been sucker-punched. He rolled to his side, gritting his teeth as his forearm slammed across his eyes, blocking out the sliver of moonlight from the window.
You fucking idiot coward. You’re scared.
He sucked in a harsh breath, every muscle in his body drawn tight as a wire. He wasn’t scared of her. He was scared of himself. Scared of what he might do if he let go completely, if he gave the animal inside him the key to the cage. He was terrified that the moment he buried himself in her body, he’d cross some invisible line he didn’t know how to find again. That he’d take everything she so freely offered and twist it into something else. Something familiar. Something selfish. Something that would gut her instead of honor her.
Because that’s what he did, wasn’t it? He used women for escape, took their bodies to numb his own pain, and gave them nothing but emptiness in return. He’d perfected the art of detachment until he couldn’t even feel guilt anymore.
But Blair wasn’t like them. This wasn’t like that. This was her. The woman who’d gotten under his armor without ever asking for permission. The one who saw him, really fucking saw him, and didn’t flinch. Who had handed him her pain and her trust just like he’d begged her to and then respected him enough to let him walk away with grace rather than judgment or pressure.
So what had he done? He’d left her alone on the couch, the fire he’d started still burning in her eyes.
He scrubbed both hands down his face, his heart a frantic, heavy drum against his ribs. What was he doing? Running again? Hurting the one person he wanted most in the goddamn world?
He fisted soft cotton in his hands, his jaw tight with a vicious triad of restraint, shame, and want. His cock was still hard, a demanding, physical ache. His chest was still full, an emotional wound. But more than that, something deeper burned through the pain. The need to be better. Not perfect. Not fixed. Not polished. Just… better. For her. Because she deserved better than a broken man hiding in the dark. Somehow, impossibly, she had chosen him anyway.
The silence in the room was a living thing, thick and heavy, pressing down on him with the weight of every unspoken fear. He was a man accustomed to the quiet, the disciplined stillness of a hunter waiting for the perfect shot.
But this was different. This silence wasn't peaceful. It was a void, echoing with the ghosts of past hurts and the deafening roar of his own self-doubt. If he couldn't trust himself, he couldn't get past this. The thought was a cold, hard knot in his gut. His passion was part of him, part of the way he was wired, a current that ran deep and powerful. That intensity wasn’t the enemy…his intent was, his detachment was, the numbness he’d cultivated as a shield was.
God, his fear was almost tangible, a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. She could hurt him, gut him in a way no bullet ever could, and he’d worked his whole life to stave off that kind of pain. But here, now, he recognized that none of that mattered. None of it was as important as the terrifying, exhilarating act of giving himself to her.
Just as he braced his hands against the mattress, the muscles in his arms coiling to push himself up and end this torment, the door creaked open. He froze, a statue of apprehension, every nerve ending suddenly alight. His mouth went dry, the air vanishing from his lungs.
She stepped into the room like a vision conjured from his most desperate fantasies. The firelight, which had been casting dancing shadows on the walls, now seemed to bend and worship her, tracing a molten path along her skin. She was wrapped in pink lace, a garment so sheer and delicate it was less a covering and more a promise. Thin straps clung to the elegant slope of her shoulders, framing the soft hollows of her collarbones. The lace cups of the bra were a web against her skin, their floral pattern barely concealing the dusky peaks of her nipples, which pressed against the fabric as if seeking freedom. The hem hit her midriff, its intricate design drawing his eyes to the narrow span of her waist and flat belly before flaring out over the generous curve of her hips.
Her long legs were bare, the firelight glinting off the satin sheen of her skin. He needed no encouragement to follow the mesmerizing line leading his gaze to the shadowed junction of her thighs. The panties were little more than a scrap of lace, a triangle of shadow that hinted at the soft, welcoming warmth beneath.
He couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The world had narrowed to this one perfect, terrifying woman. He was naked, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the discarded sheets pooled around his hips. His cock was thick and heavy against his abdomen, no longer just arousal, but a manifestation of a need so profound it was staggering. It pulsed with a life of its own, a silent, desperate plea.
Her eyes swept over him slowly, a lingering, deliberate journey from his face down his chest and back again. She saw everything. The tension in his jaw, the frantic beat of his pulse in his throat, the raw hunger in his gaze, and the part of him that throbbed with a need that bordered on pain.
“I want to respect your boundaries,” she said, her voice a low, steady hum that vibrated through the air and settled deep in his bones. “I do. If you want me to go. I will.” She took another step, the movement fluid and graceful, her bare feet silent against the cool wood floor. She waited.
“No,” he whispered, then stronger. “Don’t go.”
“I think you’re scared.”
“Goddamn right I’m scared. My past should scare you.” He clenched his fists in the sheets, the fabric twisting in his grip as he fought the urge to fucking jump her damn bones.
"I want to show you there's nothing to be afraid of." She kept walking, her hips swaying with hypnotic confidence. He swallowed hard as she neared the bed. The air grew thick with the scent of her skin, something warm and floral that made his head spin.
"This won’t be one-sided, Kelly." Her voice softened, the certainty giving way to a fragile edge of vulnerability. "I'm here to share. To give."
She stopped at the edge of the bed, a dark silhouette against the warm glow of the fire, looking down at him. Christ, he couldn’t hide a damn thing. Not the frantic desire in his eyes. Not the tremor in his hands. Not the aching need roaring through him like a tidal wave, threatening to pull him under.
“Don’t run from me,” she whispered, the words a caress. She reached for him, her fingers cool and soft as they brushed his knuckles, gently uncurling his fist from the sheet.
He let out a shuddering breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel the urge to run.
Her touch was a brand, a searing heat that melted the last of his resistance. So maybe he couldn't trust himself, not with this raw, untamed part of his soul. But fuck, God help him, he knew deep down, down to the very heart of him, he could trust her.
She ran the flat of her hand up his thigh. The heat of her palm was a shock against his bare skin, and he tensed, every muscle locking in anticipation. “Let me take this out of your hands…” Then she moved, a slow, deliberate slide upward. “…and into mine.”
