Page 185 of Operation: Defiance

“Take off your shirt.”

He freezes, shock turning his eyes a darker shade of blue. “Are you sure?”

The answer comes without hesitation. “Yes.”

Slowly, as if he’s afraid to shatter the moment, Asher puts another few inches between us before tugging the Henley over his head. Goosebumps race over his skin.

I lay my hand flat on his chest, tracing the lines of muscle, the warm rise and fall of each breath, the stutter in his pulse. He stills under my touch, and the quiet awareness in his eyes makes something inside me tighten. When I reach the center of his chest, he exhales, slower this time, and I follow the sound down the length of him.

“Put your hand on my lower back,” I murmur. “Under my shirt. On my skin.”

His fingers are soft. Gentle. Warm. I kiss him again, and he settles his palm fully against me. His thumb traces a short arc, slow enough I can track it.

I don’t have words for what I’m feeling. As the intensity spikes, too many thoughts and emotions crowd my brain. I can’t keep pace with it, and I need a moment to catch up. Pressing my forehead to his, I curl my fingers against his skin.

My racing heart calms from the sound of Asher simply breathing. The next kiss comes from him. It’s not urgent. He’s giving me the chance to close the distance rather than pulling me to him. His mouth finds mine with quiet certainty, and my heart shifts, tilting and aligning with his in a way I’m wholly unprepared for.

I slide my fingers into his hair, needing proof he’s real—that I’m real, and here with him.

The edges of my thoughts soften, all the static usually filling my head quieting at the same time. A tiny moan catches in my throat, and the sound of it shocks me enough, I draw back, eyes wide. Heat floods my cheeks. I stare down at my hand still pressed to his bare skin.

“We can stop,” he breathes.

A part of me hates the idea. The other part knows my body is still too depleted for more. I sink against him, limbs heavy, movements lagging a half-step behind intent.

“That was more than I expected,” I manage. My muscles are warm and weak at the same time—too much exertion, too fast. The good kind…even if the sensation tells me I’m done for the night.

“I think you might have a bit of an overachiever streak.” He chuckles, then pulls a blanket from the back of the couch and draws it around us. “We have time. I’m not going anywhere.”

I settle closer to him, my cheek resting on his shoulder, my hand over his heart. The warmth of his skin heals a part of me I thought would be broken forever. I wish I had a map for this—a pattern I could use for what I’m feeling.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe I have to trust myself as much as I trust him.