He locked the door behind us like he always did. Set his gun on the nightstand. Checked the window, the corners, the hallway behind.
Then he turned.
And looked at me.
Not like I was fragile.
Not like I was broken.
But like I was his.
His to protect.
His to hold.
His to worship.
“Get in,” he said, voice low.
I crawled onto the bed without question. Settled into the pillows, my knees tucked beneath me. I thought he’d join me. Thought he’d curl up beside me like last time.
But he didn’t.
Not right away.
He stood there watching me. Slowly peeled off his cut, his shirt, the tension in his shoulders. One layer at a time until he was bare from the waist up and glowing in the lamplight like something carved from steel and sin.
Fucking hell, he was beautiful.
He moved toward me with slow, deliberate steps.
I felt every one of them.
When he reached the bed, he didn’t climb in beside me.
He sank to his knees in front of me.
Hands on my thighs.
Eyes locked on mine.
A storm beneath the surface.
“I keep thinking about what could’ve happened,” he said, voice rough. “What if I’d been slower? What if I didn’t get there in time?”
“You did,” I whispered. “You got to me.”
“Doesn’t stop the fire in my chest, Amanda.” His fingers tightened on my legs. “Doesn’t stop the way I need to touch you. To feel you. To make sure you’re here and safe and mine.”
“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days.
Then his hands slid up, slow and reverent.
From my thighs to my hips.
From my hips to my waist.
