GAGE
He had been waiting for months.
Despite his reputation, he knew his patience wasn’t endless. But he’d let her take her time. Let her hold back, when what he wanted to do was take.
Now she stood in front of him, flushed and beautiful, lips trembling as she whispered it.
I love you.
For one terrifying second, he thought he might ruin it, might lose every bit of discipline he’d been clinging to.
Instead, he moved, slow. So slow it hurt.
They’d both waited this long. He was going to memorize each second, map every inch of her before he took what was his.
He cupped her face, thumbs tracing the delicate lines of her cheeks. Kissed her forehead. Her nose. The corner of her mouth. Reverent touches. Like prayers. Like she might vanish if he wasn’t careful.
“I’m going to take care of you,” he murmured, voice rough from the effort it took to stay steady.
Bea nodded, wide-eyed. “I trust you.”
The words penetrated deep into him. Assurance he hadn’t thought he needed. Responsibility he had been built to bear.
He kissed her. Marking each moment with intention. “Sweetheart,” he whispered against her mouth. “Once I start…I don’t know if I can stop.”
Her answer was soft. Certain. “I don’t want you to stop.”
The thread snapped. Everything he’d knotted tight over the past few months unspooled. Restraint wasn’t needed anymore.
Finally. Finally.
He stood, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to his bedroom. Laid her down like she belonged there. Because she did.
Every curve, every sound she made as he undressed her, every shy breath—he collected them all. A series of details locked away. Where he could revisit them later.
When she was finally bare beneath him, he stopped.
His hands pressed to the mattress on either side of her head.
She didn’t cover herself. He’d thought she would.
She couldn’t quite meet his eyes, but she lay still under his scrutiny, like she’d decided he’d earned this moment and wasn’t going to deny him any of it.
“Look at you,” he breathed, voice dark and reverent.
No other man had seen her like this. And she had entrusted him with it.
His fingers skimmed down her sides, light and slow, just to feel her shiver. It was addictive.
The small part of his brain still capable of conscious thought realized that she was his first, too. Not in practice. In meaning. No one else had ever mattered. No one else had ever been this.
He traced his mouth across her collarbone, down the valley between her breasts, over the delicate dip of her stomach.
Trailing the path his mind had mapped months ago.
The places she’d be most sensitive. The spots she wouldn’t know yet.
The ones she’d remember later. She gasped—throaty, broken. His lips curved against her skin.
He wanted her imprinted with him. More than that, he wanted her to remember. To know exactly how careful he’d been. Because he’d thought about this. In detail.
He glanced up, making sure she was watching. She was. Barely breathing, lips parted. She didn’t flinch when he reached between her knees, or when he grazed his fingers up the inside of her thigh.
He watched her face as he touched her—watched the moment her eyes darkened, the way her lashes fluttered once, then stilled. She was holding herself like she didn’t want to miss anything.
Neither did he.
His hand curved under her knee, lifting, opening her a little more. He gave her just enough to make her burn in place, desperate for friction he wasn’t giving. He was studying her—every breath, every shift of muscle, every sound she bit down on.
Her thighs were shaking. Her fingers gripped the sheets like she was trying to anchor herself and pull him closer at the same time.
“Gage…I need…please…” Her voice was a soft, breathless plea.
“I know what you need.”
Guiding her thighs open, he rose over her, bracing one hand beside her head. As he pressed forward, her breath caught the moment his tip breached her. Her body clamped around him instantly. Her nails pressed into his shoulders.
This wasn’t going to be fast.
But that small beginning felt better than anything he’d ever known.
Gage dropped his forehead to her shoulder, breath ragged.
“Bea…” His voice was rough. “You feel like heaven.”
She whimpered softly, straining as though she were pushing up onto the tips of her toes, trying to find space for him.
Gage fought for control even as he soothed her. He pressed his lips in a line along her neck.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “Let me in.”
She trembled, trying to obey.
His hand slid to her nape, threading through her hair as he brought her mouth to his. Respite. A distraction from the place where he was invading and her fear was holding him back. Her breath shuddered out against his lips.
Eventually he felt it. The give. The way her body yielded by degrees, opening up for him.
He pushed deeper. A little more—
And then he was all the way in.
Her breath stuttered, and he caught her jaw, thumb caressing her cheek. “Look at me.”
A tiny nod as her lucent eyes met his.
He began to move, ignoring the demand of his body to go deeper, harder. His muscles coiled tight with the effort to keep the rhythm steady, watching her face for any flicker of discomfort. But there was none. Only the way her hands clutched at his back.
Her eyes, glossed over and unfocused, eventually fluttered closed. Her head tipped back, a quiet moan slipping free. She felt like perfection. He leaned in, mouth dragging over her throat, his teeth scraping gently against the soft skin there. Just enough to leave a mark.
Her body met his, and he saw the exact second she shattered. She clenched around him, the sensation so acute it nearly broke his control. Her mouth parted on a cry that barely escaped. He didn’t falter, took her through it, holding her there until he’d wrung every last tremor from her.
Only then did he let go. His grip firmed, hands splayed against her hips as he finally let the restraint snap. He drove into her one last time, and then everything splintered.
He pressed his forehead to hers, pulse roaring in his ears, feeling the aftershocks ripple through both of them. Bea was boneless beneath him, warm and pliant, and undeniably his.
Then, against the shell of her ear, barely above a whisper—he let the word slip. “Mine.”
She blinked up at him, but didn’t argue.
Gage closed his eyes. Thinking of all the ways he was going to make her say it back.
Morning felt different.
Bea awoke slowly, the pale light of dawn creeping through the curtains. For a moment, she didn’t move. She was too warm, comfortable, aware.
Of him. Of last night.
She shifted under the sheets, feeling the dull, delicious ache low in her body. The stretch and tenderness she hadn’t quite expected. Proof of him. Of what they’d finally done.
Gage lay on his side next to her, already awake. The second she moved, his attention snapped to her.
His eyes traced her face, slow and indulgent, and the smirk that tugged at his lips was so damn smug she nearly rolled over and buried herself under the covers. But she knew better. He’d just pull them back.
“Morning,” he murmured.
She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Morning.”
His fingers traced the length of her arm. Then slid under the covers, down her hip, along her thigh, stopping where he’d marked her. She tensed slightly, just enough for him to notice.
“Sore?” he rumbled against her shoulder.
Bea nodded into the pillow, half embarrassed. “A little.”
“Good.”
Her eyes fluttered open in sleepy outrage. “Gage.”
But he wasn’t done. “I went easy on you, sweetheart. Next time, I won’t.”
Her pulse climbed. He was teasing. Mostly.
“I should get up.” She pushed the covers back.
Gage reached out, fingers wrapping loosely around her wrist. “Where are you going?”
“Class.”
“You’re kidding.”
Bea shook her head, finally meeting his gaze properly. “My group is meeting today to go over our IGNITE presentation. If I don’t show up, they’ll murder me.”
Gage studied her a beat, as if he were calculating how much trouble it’d be to make her stay anyway.
“After the night you just had,” he said coolly, “you’re going to class?”
Bea’s mouth parted, then closed. She bit her lip.
“I’m just trying to picture how you plan to sit through it,” he said, reasonably.
Bea grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at him.
He caught it easily. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and disappeared down the hall.
By the time she was ready—well, as ready as she could be—she was back in last night’s outfit, tugging at the hem with a sigh.
Gage sipped his coffee. “You’re really wearing that to class?”
Bea’s mouth puckered to one side. “I don’t have a choice.”
“You do,” he said. “You could stay.”
She caught her reflection in the oven door and grimaced. There was no way she could walk into class like this. Lillian would notice instantly. Then she’d ask questions. And Bea wasn’t ready to answer them.
Gage just waited.
Bea turned back to him. “Can I borrow something?”
He looked mildly surprised that she’d asked. Then, without a word, he set his mug down, took her hand, and led her to his walk-in wardrobe.
“You should bring some clothes over,” he said, brushing his lips against her temple. “Or, let me buy you some to keep here.”
Bea clasped her hands low. “I’ll think about it.”
He didn’t push.
Gage’s closet was orderly, which made it easy to glance around.
He watched her curiously as she surveyed her options.
Pants were obviously out of the question.
It was too warm outside for a sweater. Maybe…
a shirt? She found one in light blue, a thick linen, with a hem that was slightly longer than the others.
She glanced down at her own dress, fingers brushing the thin brown belt with its silver buckle. Reaching for the shirt, she held it up. “Can I borrow this one?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, thanks. I’m going to change now.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just loitered there, apparently waiting for a live show. “Go ahead.”
Bea’s brows drew together. “Gage.”
Wearing a rare grin, he finally spun on his heel.
She waited until he was gone before unbuttoning last night’s dress, slipping it off her shoulders and reaching for the shirt. It slid over her skin, soft and cool, falling past mid-thigh. The sleeves hung well beyond her fingertips. Too big, but not unworkable.
She cinched the belt carefully at her waist, gathering the excess material so it looked intentional—shaped rather than swallowed. She rolled the sleeves up neatly just below her elbows. Stepping back, she smoothed the fabric over her hips. It was the best she could do.
“Is it too obvious?” Bea asked when she returned to the kitchen.
“It looks good.” He slid her a smirk. “And if anyone asks, feel free to tell them it’s mine.”