27. Zyran #2
That I genuinely don’t know, and I’m the man who makes it his business to know things, and not knowing sits in my chest like a fucking elephant.
I look over at her in the dark, asleep, and I think about whatever it is, whatever she was forced to do when she was six years old, she’s carried that alone for a long time. Only she doesn’t have to—not anymore.
Reaching over slowly, I slide my arm around her, drawing her to my side.
She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake up, and for a second I think I’ve miscalculated and that she doesn’t want me touching her—then she exhales, long and slow, her whole body settling against my side.
Her head finds my chest like it already knows where it belongs, and her hand finds a new place, resting just above my ribs.
I stay very still, waiting for her body to relax.
Only when she does do I find myself whispering, “You don’t have to stop being there, mio cuore,” into her hair. “You just have to know you’re here too.”
I’m met with silence, not that I was expecting her to say anything. But then so soft, I feel it more against my chest than I hear her, ”That’s the hardest part.”
I don’t say anything right away, just let her words settle into the quiet around us, her breath warm against my chest and her hand loose above my ribs.
Looking down, she’s almost out of it, hovering right at the edge of sleep, her eyes closed as her body finally gives up the last of the tension she’s been carrying around all day.
I hesitate. Not often something I do—always making decisions and moving without a blink of an eye. That’s how I’m built, how I’ve always been built.
But this is different; she’s different. Esperr deserves more care than the way I usually move through the world.
I lower my head slowly, pressing my lips to her hair.
Just once, briefly, enough to say what I don’t have the words to say right now—that she isn’t carrying it alone anymore, that I’ve heard her, and that whatever happened that night when she was six, and whatever came after it, none of it changes the way I look at her.
She doesn’t stir, thankfully, and I settle back against the pillow, my eyes growing heavy. For the first time in a long time the quiet feels like something I can rest inside instead of something I have to survive.
The first thing I notice is her hair; it’s everywhere—across my chest, my shoulder, and one strand stuck to the corner of my mouth that I’m trying very hard not to think about. Her head is heavy against my ribs, while one hand sits somewhere on my stomach, her breathing slow.
I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her pressing against my side, when she starts to stir.
It’s slow at first, a breath that changes, a small shift of her hand against my stomach, and the particular stillness that follows when someone wakes up.
I feel her go still against me, letting her feel the moment she realizes where she is and who she’s on.
And then she lifts her head, looking at me with her hair everywhere, cheek creased from my shirt, and eyes soft with sleep.
Something moves across her face that goes through several things in quick succession—surprise, something warmer, and then that internal negotiation I’ve watched her run a hundred times.
In the blink of an eye, she’s pushing up and kissing me.
The shock of it hits me before anything else does, not because I didn’t want it—God, not because of that—but because she moved so fast, so certain, and with all that careful deliberation she does.
Her mouth is on mine, her hand braced against my chest?—
She pulls back in an instant. Her eyes wide, searching my face, I can see the exact moment she misreads my stillness—her lips parting slightly, her weight already shifting back, and her entire body beginning to do that thing where she turns something into nothing before it can hurt her.
I don’t let her.
My hand finds the back of her head, bringing her back down, and I kiss her—really kiss her this time.
I don’t hold back. My fingers curl into her blonde hair, tilting her head back exactly where I want it, and I feel the moment she stops hesitating—the small exhale that escapes her.
Her hand on my chest stops bracing and starts holding, her fingers twisting into my shirt.
I pull her closer with the hand at the back of her head, closing the last inch between us, and she makes a sound low in her throat.
Deepening the kiss, Esperr’s lips open slightly and I waste no time, dipping my tongue into her mouth.
My toes curl the moment she moans into me and her hand finds my jaw, thumb racing along it slowly.
Her tongue runs against my teeth before dipping into my mouth. I let her take over, having no problem just lying here. I’ve been patient for two years, and I can be patient for another five minutes even when every part of me is pulling in the opposite direction.
I want to slam her onto the bed and rip her clothes off just so I can fuck her into next week.
It’s the same thought I’ve had for two years now, and I swear my cock is going to explode with how rock hard it is.
Two days of being in her space, two days watching her move and laugh and hide in her room when she finds herself slowly breaking down the walls.
And now she’s kissing me like that; her body is warm and close.
My brain has supplied me with a detailed plan for the next twenty minutes, but I can’t act on it.
Not yet, anyway.
Esperr’s the first to break the kiss, pulling back just enough to breathe, her forehead dropping to mine.
I lie very still because she is pressed against my side and is going to notice in approximately three seconds that my self-control has a very obvious and inconvenient limit and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Three seconds.
Her breath catches, eyes dropping down as she goes very still against me, though she doesn’t pull away like I’d expect her to.
I stare at the ceiling, hairy balls, old grandmas—anything that will get it to go away.
“So,” she whispers carefully.
“Yup,” I grunt.
“That’s—”
Why is she still staring at my cock? It’s standing at fucking attention, and with her eyes on it, the big fella might as well be waving a fucking flag.
“You’re not going to do anything about it?” she asks, blinking up at me.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. Because what kind of question is that?
“Not until you’re ready,” I mutter.
“What if I’m ready?”
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath before I open them again and look at her. “Are you?”
She lifts her head and looks at me, truly looks, her eyes inches from mine, and I hold her gaze, letting her work through whatever battles inside her head.
“I don’t know,” she finally mumbles.
I smile, not because I’m glad she’s not ready, because believe me, if it were up to me, she’d never wear clothes around me. But, for the first time, she is allowing herself to feel. She just told me the truth and trusted me to do something reasonable with it.
“Okay,” I say, smiling.
She frowns, head tilting back. “Okay?”
“Okay.” I bring my hand up and push her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears, slow and easy, because now she’s letting me touch her. “When you know, tell me; I’ll be here.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What else do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know,” she sighs, resting her chin on my chest as she searches my face. “Most people would push.”
“Well, I’m not most people.”
She holds my gaze for another second, something moving through her eyes that I can’t quite read before she turns her head on my chest, lying down on top of me.
My fingers begin to run through her hair, both of us finding something beautiful in the quiet together. After a moment her hand comes up, sitting around the front of my neck, her middle finger finding where the scar is.
And for the first time, someone else touches my neck without me flinching.