Chapter 10 #2
His eyes met mine, lust clouding his irises, turning the brown into something deeper and stormier. “Yes.”
“Good soldier.” My skin buzzed with excitement. I’d never expected to take control like this, and there was something intoxicating about being in charge of War. He was a big, strong man, but he was also under my spell. If I told him to jump, he’d fucking fly for me.
War didn’t belong to Dad anymore.
I reached up and gripped his jaw, forcing him to look down at me. His stubble bit into my palm, rough and real.
“Kiss me,” I whispered.
He didn’t move at first. I watched the conflict behind his eyes, the same battle he’d been fighting since the day we’d met.
Duty versus desire.
Control versus need.
Then, his hand came up to wrap around my wrist, not to pull me away but to anchor himself, and his mouth crashed down on mine.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. War kissed like he fought, with single-minded intensity and no room for retreat. His tongue pushed past my lips, claiming and tasting.
I moaned into the kiss and pressed my naked body against the hard line of his fully clothed form. The contrast sent a shiver through me as cotton rubbed against bare skin. I wanted him stripped down. I craved to see all of him.
I reached for his belt.
War broke the kiss with a sharp inhale. His hand closed over mine, stilling my fingers. “Kit.”
“I need this,” I insisted, tugging at the leather. “Let me.”
His throat worked. I could see the hunger in him and the desperate edge to his restraint. For a moment, I thought he’d let me and that he’d surrender to my hands and my pace. But then his grip tightened. It wasn’t painful or immovable. He drew my hand away from his buckle.
“Not this time,” he said, his voice rough as gravel.
“War—”
“Not this time,” he repeated, and something in his tone made me go quiet.
Not anger. Fear or shame, maybe. He closed his eyes, breathing hard through his nose.
“I can’t. If you touch me like that, if you take the lead, I’ll .
. . .” He shook his head, jaw tight. “I need to be the one. I need to know I won’t—”
I understood then—or thought I did. War had spent his life following orders, surviving by obedience and discipline. In bed, control was the one place he could trust himself. Giving it up, even to me, even in love, meant facing the chaos he’d spent years holding back.
I stepped closer and rested my forehead against his chest. His heart hammered beneath my temple. “Okay,” I whispered. “You lead.”
His body went slack with relief. His arms came around me, tentative at first, then crushing. He buried his face in my wet hair and held me so tight I could barely breathe.
“Thank you,” he murmured, raw and broken.
I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “But you have to look at me. All of me. No more staring out windows.”
Something cracked in his expression. He nodded.
War lifted me then, one arm beneath my knees, the other around my back, carrying me to the bed like I weighed nothing.
He laid me down on the cool sheets, and this time his eyes didn’t stray.
They tracked every movement as he stripped off his shirt, revealing the map of scars across his torso.
Knife wounds. Burns. A map of violence I’d never asked about and never would unless he offered.
He climbed onto the bed and settled between my thighs, still in his pants, his belt buckle cold against my hip.
He ran his hands up my sides with agonizing slowness, mapping me the way I’d memorized him.
His thumbs brushed my nipples, and I arched, gasping.
He did it again, watching my face, learning what made me shudder.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it hurt him. “Every fucking inch.”
He kissed my throat, my collarbone, and along my clavicle.
Each press of his lips was deliberate and reverent.
When he took my nipple into his mouth, I cried out, fingers tangling in his short hair.
He soothed me with his tongue, then bit down just hard enough to make me buck.
His hand slid lower, palming my hip, my thigh, and then, finally, closing around my cock.
“War—” I choked out.
“Easy,” he murmured against my skin. “I’ve got you.”
He stroked me slowly, too slowly, his grip firm and sure. I writhed beneath him, needing more and faster, but he held the pace with maddening patience. Every time I tried to thrust into his hand he pinned my hip with his free arm, keeping me still. Controlling me. Restraining us both.
“Please,” I whimpered, hating how desperate I sounded.
He released me only to shuck off his pants, and the sight of him fully naked and hard stole what little breath I’d managed to recover.
He was thick and heavy, flushed dark, a bead of moisture already at the tip.
I reached for him instinctively, but he caught my wrist, guiding it above my head.
He did the same with the other, pressing both wrists into the mattress with one large hand.
“Keep them there,” he ordered softly.
I nodded, breathless.
He retrieved lube from somewhere, the small bottle he stole and kept from the Norse Lords’ guest room.
He warmed it between his palms before slicking his fingers, and when he touched my hole, circling and pressing, I moaned loud enough to carry through the walls.
He worked me open with the same relentless patience, one finger, then two, curling to find the spot that made my vision blur.
I keened, toes bending and hands fisting the sheets above my head to keep from reaching for him.
By the time he slicked his cock and positioned himself at my entrance, I was trembling and overwrought with tears pricking the corners of my eyes from the sheer intensity of being handled so carefully, while also feeling completely undone.
He pushed in slowly. So slowly I felt every inch, the stretch and burn, and the overwhelming fullness.
He watched my face the entire time, stopping when I gasped, waiting until I nodded to continue.
When he was fully seated, he dropped his forehead to mine, breathing hard, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back.
“Okay?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “Yeah, War. Move. Please.”
He pulled back and thrust, and the sound I made was embarrassing, guttural, and needy.
He set a rhythm that built gradually, never rushing, each roll of his hips deliberate and deep.
He adjusted his angle until he hit that special spot inside me with every stroke, and I unraveled, babbling his name, begging and praising until the words lost all meaning.
His free hand roamed my body, tracing my ribs and hip, before finally wrapping around my cock again.
He stroked me in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation shattered me.
I came with a cry, my release painting our stomachs, my body tightening around him until he groaned, burying his face against my neck.
He followed seconds later, spilling inside me with a ragged sound that might’ve been my name.
For a long moment he stayed there, still buried deep, his weight a comforting blanket I never wanted to lose.
Then, he carefully withdrew, cleaned us both with a corner of the sheet, and gathered me against his chest.
I listened to his heartbeat slow down and felt the last tremors leave his muscles. He traced lazy patterns on my back, and I knew without asking that he was still awake and guarding, even in the afterglow.
“I love you,” I murmured into his skin. “It’s stupid and fast and everything’s falling apart, but I do.”
His hand stilled. He tilted my chin up and kissed me, soft and lazy and nothing like the desperate collision from before.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I think I’ve known for a while. Or at least that you were interested in me.”
It wasn’t the same words back. It was War, giving what he could, how he could. And lying there in his arms, I found I didn’t need the echo.
For now, I had him.