His brow furrowed, his mind struggling to catch up. "What are you talking about? You didn't do anything wrong."
"Didn't I?" Her voice rose, cracking with a fear she couldn't contain. "My whole life, I've lived by rules. Control. Discipline. You earn respect by being perfect, by never slipping. Tonight, I slipped. I wanted too much. I let myself feel...everything. Now I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to see how messy I am, how much I need, and decide it's too much. For you to pull back because I've broken the one rule I promised myself I'd never break."
He stared at her, the raw, unvarnished truth of her fear hitting him like a physical blow. He saw it then, the carefully constructed walls of her own making, the discipline she wore like armor, just as he did. He could offer her a platitude. He could tell her it would be okay, that he'd never leave. It would be a lie, because he didn't know the future, and he didn't lie.
So, he gave her the only thing he had that was real.
"Blair," he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through her panic. He shifted, closing the sliver of space she’d created, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her temple. "Look at me." He waited until her eyes met his. "You think you're the only one who's terrified right now? I'm lying here next to you, and I feel like I've been turned inside out. Every part of me I've kept locked down for a lifetime is screaming in the light. You didn't break a rule by wanting me. You broke my goddamn fortress. You walked into the dark room I was hiding in, and you didn't run from the monster you found there."
His thumb stroked her cheek, a grounding, gentle pressure. He leaned down and brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth, a brief, tender reassurance. "You think your passion is a flaw? It's the only thing I see. It's the most powerful fucking thing I've ever witnessed. You want too much? I want more. You're messy? So am I. I'm a goddamn disaster of a man, and you're the first person who's ever made me feel like being a disaster isn't a death sentence."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. He kissed her then, a slow, deep press of his lips that was meant to soothe, not ignite. His voice dropped to a raw, intimate whisper. "You're scared that if you show me your whole heart, I'll use it, or judge it, or leave. I'm scared that if I give you mine, I'll destroy it. We're both standing on the same cliff, afraid of the same fall. But you're not alone in it." He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his gaze unwavering. "I'm right here with you, and I'm not going anywhere." He sealed the promise with one last soft kiss on her lips, a quiet, certain anchor in the storm.
She was the most precious thing he’d ever found.
Everything plummeted, and crashed, his hold on his Pandora’s Box slipping, his grip fragile, but clarity pounding through him that this wasn’t weakness…what he was doing here was strength.
He’d just never seen it that way.
She moved closer, snuggling her face into the hollow of his throat, her warm breath as much an anchor as the way she possessed him without making him feel the least bit suffocated. Her hand moved over his ribcage, like a master stroked a brush, or manipulated clay, and he was putty in her hands, her grip slipping all the way to his heart, steady and sure and grounding.
He trembled with his need, the aching exposed want to have her…in his life, in his heart, beneath his shuddering body until she broke every single thing in him open.
How was he supposed to handle all of this in a life that had been so numb, so restrained that his muscles didn’t know how to relax, and neither did he.
She ran her hand down over his hip, the pleasure of her touch, silken and rough, he rolled her, climbing on her lacey body, feeling the give of her as he slid his leg over hers, that predator move to secure his prey before devouring it.
She made a soft sound of invitation, wanting, an open murmur that made him melt and harden in the same, delicious moment.
He lowered his head, his gaze tracing the soft lines of her face in the gloom. He didn't want to miss a single detail. He pressed his mouth to her forehead, a benediction, then her temple, his lips a whisper against her skin. His hands followed, one cupping her jaw, his thumb stroking the delicate skin there, while the other settled on the curve of her waist, feeling the warmth of her through the lace. He kissed the corner of her eye, then the bridge of his nose, his breath mingling with hers. This was a map he wanted to learn by heart.
He moved to her lips, but didn't take them, not yet. He traced their soft swell with the tip of his tongue, a slow, reverent exploration. Her mouth parted on a sigh, and he finally covered it with his own, a deep, searching kiss that was less about passion and more about connection.
As his lips met hers, the last of the tension drained from her body, the fight going out of her limbs in a rush. She melted against him, soft and pliant, her curves molding to his hard planes like she was made to fit there. The kiss was a deep, searching anchor, and she met it with a quiet, desperate hunger of her own. Her mouth was just as greedy as his, her tongue twining with his not in a frantic rush, but in a slow, deliberate dance that said, I see you, I feel you, I'm right here with you. It was a conversation without words, a silent acknowledgment that in this shared space of raw honesty, they were finally, perfectly, equal.
His fingers found the delicate strap of her camisole, and he slid it down her shoulder, his knuckles brushing her skin. He repeated the action on the other side, his hands returning to her waist to gather the soft lace. He peeled it away slowly, his eyes never leaving hers as he revealed the soft, heavy weight of her breasts.
He shifted, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of her chest, his kisses trailing down until he could take one peaked nipple into his mouth. He wasn't in a hurry. He lavished attention on her, his tongue swirling, his lips pulling gently, his hand shaping and caressing the other breast. She arched against him, a silent plea for more, and he gave it, switching sides, ensuring no part of her was neglected. His thoughts were quiet, desperate prayers. Don't take. Give. Give her everything.
His fingers hooked into her panties, but her hand covered his. "Eyes on me, Kelly," she whispered, her voice husky. "Let me see you." He held her gaze as he drew the lace down. When he settled between her thighs, he paused, his breath ghosting over her.
"Tell me," he said, his voice raw. "Show me."
Her hand slid into his hair, guiding him gently. "Like this," she murmured, her hips lifting as he finally tasted her. He wasn't just giving, but he was following her lead, learning her rhythm, and the soft, broken sounds she made were a conversation, her pleasure a direct answer to his touch.
He settled between her thighs, his gaze fixed on the heart of her. He lowered his head, his first touch a soft, exploratory kiss against her folds. She shuddered, a small gasp escaping her lips. He used his hands then, parting her gently, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin on either side of her clit. He leaned in and licked, a slow, flat stroke that had her hips lifting off the bed. He did it again, and again, finding a rhythm that was unhurried, deliberate.
He focused on that small, swollen bundle of nerves, his tongue circling, flicking, then pressing firmly. Tension built beneath his hands, her breathing becoming ragged, her hands twisting in the sheets. He was so lost in the act of giving her this pleasure, so focused on her responses, that the terror of using her, of detaching, seemed a distant memory. With her, there was only this. Only her.
He felt her tighten, a tremor starting deep within her, and he doubled his efforts, sucking her clit gently into his mouth as his tongue worked against her. Her back bowed, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as she shattered. Her eyes flew open, wide and dazed, her chest heaving as she panted for air. Her hands flew to his head, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her as the waves of her orgasm washed over her.
He didn't move, just stayed with her, his mouth still pressed against her, letting her ride it out, his own heart pounding with a fierce, protective tenderness. She kept asking for pieces of him, and he was helpless to do anything but give them all.
He lifted his head, moving up her body slowly, settling his weight beside her, propped on an elbow to look down at her face. She was beautiful in the aftermath, her features soft, her eyes hazy with satisfaction and trust. So real. It was that reality that both called to him and terrified him.
He wanted her. The want was a physical ache, a primal demand that had him hard and ready, his body screaming to sink into the warmth she was offering. He wanted to feel her around him, to lose himself in that ultimate connection, to claim and be claimed. But the thought of moving forward, of positioning himself between those open, trusting legs, brought a cold wave of resistance that washed over the fire of his desire.
This was the precipice. The moment where it could all go wrong. Where the profound act of giving he just performed could curdle into the selfish act of taking. He was terrified of it. He knew the beast inside him, the part that knew how to use a body for its own release, how to detach and participate in flesh only, to walk away unscathed while leaving a part of himself behind. He’d done it a thousand times.
