Page 114 of Honeyfires

"Petra," she breathed when we broke apart. "You don't have to—"

"I need this." My voice came out rough, desperate. "I need you. I need to feel something other than…” I couldn't finish. Couldn't put words to the chaos in my head.

She understood anyway. She always understood.

"Okay," she whispered, her forehead pressed to mine. "Okay, baby. I'm here. Let me help."

She kissed me again, slow and deep, her small hands framing my face. I could taste salt from my tears or hers, I couldn't tell. Maybe both. She kissed me like I was the most precious thing in the world, like I mattered, like I was worth all the trouble I’d brought into our home tonight.

I could have died today. Stevens could have died. We all could have. But I was here, alive, with Vera. And that had to mean something.

My hands slid under her shirt—my shirt—finding warm skin, her bare breasts beneath my calloused palms, nipples crinkling. She gasped against my mouth, arching into my touch. I needed to feel her, needed proof that this was real, that I was real, that life existed outside of fire and ash and impossible choices.

"Bedroom," she murmured, but I shook my head.

"Here. Now. Please."

She didn't argue. Just kissed me again and started working the buttons on my filthy shirt, peeling it off my shoulders, her fingers gentle on skin that felt too sensitive, too raw. I should have showered first. Should have washed off the smoke and soot and evidence of everything that had happened today.

But Vera didn't seem to care. She kissed my collarbone, my shoulder, the hollow of my throat, like she was mapping every inch of me, making sure I was whole.

"I love you," she whispered against my skin. "You're safe. You're here. I've got you."

The words broke something loose in me. I pulled my shirt off her body and just looked at her. Beautiful. Alive. Mine. She'd been here waiting while I'd been running from fire, had probably spent hours imagining the worst, and now here she was, offering herself as an anchor when I was drowning.

I kissed her like she was air and I'd been suffocating. Like she was water in the desert. Like she was the only thing keeping me tethered to earth. My hands mapped her body with something close to desperation—the curve of her waist, the soft skin of her thighs, the heat between her legs when I slid my hand into her panties and found her already wet.

"Petra," she gasped, her hips rolling against my hand. "God, yes."

I stroked her slowly, watching her face, memorizing every expression. The way her eyes fluttered closed. The way her lips parted. The way her breath hitched when I found that perfect spot and circled it.

She was saying something—my name, pleas, encouragement—but I couldn't focus on the words. Could only focus on this: the way she felt against my fingers, the way she moved against me, the way she trusted me with her body even after I'd shown up broken and shaking.

"I want to taste you," I said roughly. "Please, Vera. Let me."

She was already moving, standing long enough to shimmy out of her panties before settling back on the couch, legs spread. I knelt between them like a supplicant before an altar, my hands trembling again, but for different reasons now.

She was perfect. Pink and wet and perfect. I lowered my mouth to her, and she cried out, her hands flying to my hair.

The taste of her, sweet and musky, grounded me in a way nothing else had since I'd left our home for the call. This was real. This was life. This was something I could control, something I could give her, something good in a day full of impossible choices and consequences.

I worked her with my tongue, learning her all over again like it was the first time. Found the rhythm that made her gasp. The pressure that made her thighs tremble. The spot that made her pull my hair hard enough to hurt.

"There," she whimpered. "Right there, don't stop, please don't stop."

I didn't stop. Couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to. I lost myself in her, in the sound of her moans, in the way her body responded to every touch. This was what I needed—not to think, not to replay the day, not to count homes or second-guess decisions. Just this: Vera falling apart under my mouth, her pleasure the only thing that mattered.

My tongue pressed insistently against her throbbing clit, licking in rough strokes, flicking over her at a rhythm that was quickly undoing her. She tasted so fucking good.

"That's it," I murmured agaisnt her, slipping a finger inside her.

"Petra. Fuck, don't stop."

"I'm not stopping, baby." I curled inwards, locating her g-spot with experienced ease, and hammered my finger against it, fucking her hard and fast as my tongue resumed its torture on her clit.

She came with a cry that echoed through our apartment, her body arching, thighs clamping around my head. I gentled my touch, tonguing her through it, pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs as she trembled and gasped.

When I looked up, she was staring at me with something like wonder in her eyes. Then she was pulling me up, kissing me deeply, tasting herself on my tongue.