Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
He chose his brotherhood over our family. He got Anya’s mom killed. He shot a man in the face. What I saw tonight only confirms what I already knew. He’s capable of unspeakable violence, of killing without hesitation. I saw the look in his eyes when he pulled the trigger. I heard the sound.
He’s also the man who called our child “Beloved.” None of it makes sense when I put it together like that.
My breath quivers.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, grounding me. “Say something,” he murmurs.
I want to feel anything but the terror brewing inside me. I’m shaking and cold and overwhelmed, and I need to reclaim something inside myself. So I lean forward and kiss him. It’s hot and desperate and full of all the words I can’t begin to say.
He inhales sharply against my mouth, surprised, but when my fingers slip into his hair and anchor him to me, he gives in without hesitation. He kisses me back like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His palm slides to my waist and pulls me closer. The world tilts, not from fear this time, but from something fierce and aching and painfully human unfurling inside my chest.
I climb into his lap, straddling him, my thighs trembling as I settle over him. My towel comes undone, leaving me naked against him. His breath stutters against my lips.
“Molly,” he whispers, “you just went through hell. You should rest. You should let me take care of you.”
“I am taking care of myself,” I say, my voice shaking. “Please. Let me.”
My words cause something to shift in him. His hands stay exactly where they are, one at my hip, the other at the back of my thigh, but he waits for me to make the first move. He lets me choose.
For the first time in hours, I feel my lungs open. I kiss him again, slower and deeper, giving him every word I can’t say and every feeling I can’t express. His lips part under mine, and I slide my tongue along his, swallowing the rough sound he makes. My hands move to his shoulders, then down his chest, feeling the tension in him, the way it vibrates under my palms. He’s holding himself back. He’s afraid to hurt me.
That’s not what I want at all. I don’t want or need him to be so gentle. I need him inside me, under me and then above me, all around me, touching every part of me. This is what we’re good at. This is the language we both speak fluently.
I tug at his shirt until he lifts his arms and lets me pull it off. His skin is warm under my hands. His breath catches when my fingers trail down the line of muscle beneath his ribs. I feel the hitch in his lungs, the way he shivers when I press my mouth to his throat and taste the salt of his skin.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, his voice frayed at the edges. “If you’re just doing this because you’re afraid, then tell me to stop.”
“I’m not,” I whisper against his pulse. “I’m doing this because I want to. Because I need to.”
He exhales slowly, shakily, and I feel the moment he gives in. His hands slide up my back, firm and strong, pulling me closer until our bodies meet in a desperate press of heat and need. I grind down against him, and his breath breaks out of him in a harsh, guttural sound that sends a tremor through me.
I kiss the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then lower, my lips tracing the path of his breath. When I reach the place beneath his ear, he inhales sharply and grips my hips.
“Let me look at you,” he whispers, pulling away only slightly.
I let the towel fall to the floor. His eyes sweep over me with such raw emotion that it feels like another form of touch. I take his hands and place them on my hips, guiding him the way I want. His fingers dig into my skin, hungry but restrained.
I kiss him again and grab his hand, placing it where I need it. His breath leaves him in labored spurts.
“You want control,” he says quietly, understanding dawning in his voice.
“Yes.”
He nods once, slowly, and leans back against the mattress, offering himself to me in a way that feels more intimate than any touch we’ve shared. He doesn’t guide me. He lets me move, lets me set the pace, lets me take what I need.
I lift his chin so he’s looking directly at me when I sink down onto him. He inhales sharply, his hands gripping the duvet so tightly his knuckles turn white. I move slowly at first, testing my balance, testing the way my body feels around him. The stretch is grounding. The heat is grounding. The weight of him inside me is grounding.