She planted them for herself.
But they were always ours too.
I don’t say it out loud.
But I feel Cassian’s arms tighten around me.
Like he already knows.
He always knows.
He takes his time.
Helps me forget.
• • •
More time than I have patience for, which is saying something, because I have been patient for a decade and a half.
Every touch is deliberate, hungry.
Every inch of skin he traces lights up like a fucking wildfire.
Like I’ve been numb for years and he’s the spark that brings me back to life.
Every touch fires off thousands of nerve endings, electric and intense.
I kiss him the way you do when you've been denied something too long.
Like I'm settling a score.
Like every single time he disappeared is something I'm addressing personally, slowly, with my mouth.
Which is not a mature or necessarily good payback plan.
But I'm committed.
He pulls my shirt over my head and sits back, his eyes raking over me in the low light.
I reach for him, my voice steady and sure. “Your turn.”
He pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing every hard line and muscle. I take my time, running my hands over his chest, his stomach, the cut of muscle along his sides. I explore every inch of him because I’ve earned this and I’m going to savor it every time.
Throat. Chest. The tight skin over his abs. I leave marks everywhere I go. Every place I've wanted to put my mouth. Every place I spent years pretending I wasn't obsessing about.
“You’re staring,” he says, his voice low.
“I’m appreciating,” I correct him. “There’s a difference.”
He pulls me back in, his hands moving over me slowly, finding every spot that makes me forget my own name.
His mouth trails down my throat, my collarbone, moving lower with deliberate patience.
He learns me carefully, like he’s memorizing a map, like he intends to know this by heart. Like it’s the first time every time.
“Cassian,” I murmur, my voice desperate.
“Mmm?” He looks up, his eyes dark and unhurried.
