Chapter 35 #2
"I’ll never treat you like that," he said, voice low. “But I need to get my mind around being with you. After all the women I fucked, that’s not going to happen here.”
She smiled faintly, teasing gently. He was so damn adorable the way he vowed to protect her. “The fucking?”
He blew out a breath and shook his head. “Goddammit, Blair. You know what I mean.”
She did, and she loved him for the effort he was making, even as he fought himself tooth and nail.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands locked tight like they were the only thing holding him together.
Blair didn’t speak right away. She didn’t rush to fill the silence. Her chest tightened. Underneath all that, beneath the scars and the control, was someone who had never once stopped wanting to be good.
He just didn’t know how to believe he already was.
She reached for him again, her hand settling against the curve of his neck, thumb stroking over the pulse hammering there. His skin was warm, a little rough from stubble, and beneath it she felt the strain in every tendon. Still holding on. Still fighting.
But he didn’t pull away. He let her touch him. That meant everything.
She pressed her mouth to his temple. Stayed there for a beat longer than necessary. Letting him feel what words couldn’t carry yet. He took a shuddering breath, then exhaled slowly.
“You don’t have to fight alone,” she whispered.
He made a soft sound as if she’d punched him in the gut and rose. “Fuck me,” he swore softly. “I’m going to die right the fuck here.”
She stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to see the restraint tighten in the corners of his mouth.
He looked down at her, tilted his head. That slow, almost imperceptible lean toward her.
His body shifted, his mouth hovered over hers.
Not touching. Not quite. But the energy crackled between them like fire threatening to catch.
Her breath stopped. Her body stilled. Everything in her reached toward him.
“It’s safer this way,” he whispered.
“Go,” she murmured not bothering to hide the heat in her. “Before I do something that I can’t control,”
Then he groaned, soft, wrecked, and stepped away like it cost him everything.
She let him go. Not because she wanted to. Because she respected the man he was trying to become.
He stripped down to bare skin and got into the bed, pulling the sheet over him.
His body was burning up, a fever of his own making.
Sweat dampened his chest, tracing paths over his pecs, beading on his brow.
His breath was ragged, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a defeated puff of air.
And his cock… fuck, his cock was throbbing so hard it felt like a punishment, a relentless, aching pulse against his lower abdomen.
The ache was a physical torment, but it was nothing compared to the one in his chest.
His own nipples were tight, sensitive points that chafed against the sheets, a phantom echo of her hands on him, a frustrating reminder of the pleasure he was denying himself.
He kicked the sheets off and lay there, exposed and raw in the dark.
He couldn't cool off. Couldn't shut down.
Couldn't stop the goddamn loop in his head of taking her like an animal, of burying himself so deep inside her, he forgot his own name, exactly like he promised himself he wouldn't.
But the way she touched him, the way she trusted him with her tender eyes and her open heart, her soft mouth, the way she’d moaned into his kiss like she was starving for him, the way her hips had rocked against him like she couldn’t help it pushed him over an edge he’d been walking since he’d laid eyes on her.
The shame burned right alongside the desire, a sick, twisted cocktail.
He was ashamed of his want, ashamed of the violent, primal need to possess her, and he was ashamed of the shame itself.
He was a man at war with his own nature, and the battlefield was his own body, aching and burning for a woman he was terrified he would debase, use.
He choked against that thought, his chest so heavy, he couldn’t breathe.
Geezus.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness offered no refuge.
If anything, the memory burned brighter.
Her, beneath his hands. The sweet, intoxicating heat of her skin.
The way she’d arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her breath coming in soft, desperate pants against his mouth.
He could still feel the perfect curve of her waist in his palms, the exact weight of her breast. He could still taste her on his lips, a flavor he knew he’d crave for the rest of his life.
He wanted her skin, her cries, her unraveling.
He wanted to watch her face as she came apart for him, to be the one to give her that pleasure.
So what the fuck was he doing in here?
Alone. Aching. Suffering, and by extension, making her suffer, too.
The thought was a physical blow, his gut clenching so hard it felt like he’d been sucker-punched.
He rolled to his side, gritting his teeth as his forearm slammed across his eyes, blocking out the sliver of moonlight from the window.
You fucking idiot coward. You’re scared.
He sucked in a harsh breath, every muscle in his body drawn tight as a wire.
He wasn’t scared of her. He was scared of himself.
Scared of what he might do if he let go completely, if he gave the animal inside him the key to the cage.
He was terrified that the moment he buried himself in her body, he’d cross some invisible line he didn’t know how to find again.
That he’d take everything she so freely offered and twist it into something else.
Something familiar. Something selfish. Something that would gut her instead of honor her.
Because that’s what he did, wasn’t it? He used women for escape, took their bodies to numb his own pain, and gave them nothing but emptiness in return. He’d perfected the art of detachment until he couldn’t even feel guilt anymore.
But Blair wasn’t like them. This wasn’t like that.
This was her. The woman who’d gotten under his armor without ever asking for permission.
The one who saw him, really fucking saw him, and didn’t flinch.
Who had handed him her pain and her trust just like he’d begged her to and then respected him enough to let him walk away with grace rather than judgment or pressure.
So what had he done? He’d left her alone on the couch, the fire he’d started still burning in her eyes.
He scrubbed both hands down his face, his heart a frantic, heavy drum against his ribs. What was he doing? Running again? Hurting the one person he wanted most in the goddamn world?
He fisted soft cotton in his hands, his jaw tight with a vicious triad of restraint, shame, and want.
His cock was still hard, a demanding, physical ache.
His chest was still full, an emotional wound.
But more than that, something deeper burned through the pain.
The need to be better. Not perfect. Not fixed.
Not polished. Just… better. For her. Because she deserved better than a broken man hiding in the dark.
Somehow, impossibly, she had chosen him anyway.
The silence in the room was a living thing, thick and heavy, pressing down on him with the weight of every unspoken fear. He was a man accustomed to the quiet, the disciplined stillness of a hunter waiting for the perfect shot.
But this was different. This silence wasn't peaceful.
It was a void, echoing with the ghosts of past hurts and the deafening roar of his own self-doubt.
If he couldn't trust himself, he couldn't get past this. The thought was a cold, hard knot in his gut. His passion was part of him, part of the way he was wired, a current that ran deep and powerful. That intensity wasn’t the enemy…his intent was, his detachment was, the numbness he’d cultivated as a shield was.
God, his fear was almost tangible, a bitter taste on the back of his tongue.
She could hurt him, gut him in a way no bullet ever could, and he’d worked his whole life to stave off that kind of pain.
But here, now, he recognized that none of that mattered.
None of it was as important as the terrifying, exhilarating act of giving himself to her.
Just as he braced his hands against the mattress, the muscles in his arms coiling to push himself up and end this torment, the door creaked open. He froze, a statue of apprehension, every nerve ending suddenly alight. His mouth went dry, the air vanishing from his lungs.
She stepped into the room like a vision conjured from his most desperate fantasies.
The firelight, which had been casting dancing shadows on the walls, now seemed to bend and worship her, tracing a molten path along her skin.
She was wrapped in pink lace, a garment so sheer and delicate it was less a covering and more a promise.
Thin straps clung to the elegant slope of her shoulders, framing the soft hollows of her collarbones.
The lace cups of the bra were a web against her skin, their floral pattern barely concealing the dusky peaks of her nipples, which pressed against the fabric as if seeking freedom.
The hem hit her midriff, its intricate design drawing his eyes to the narrow span of her waist and flat belly before flaring out over the generous curve of her hips.
Her long legs were bare, the firelight glinting off the satin sheen of her skin.
He needed no encouragement to follow the mesmerizing line leading his gaze to the shadowed junction of her thighs.
The panties were little more than a scrap of lace, a triangle of shadow that hinted at the soft, welcoming warmth beneath.