Chapter 23
ELLA
For a second, I thought he might refuse.
Kane stood in the living room, coat off, eyes dark and stunned, like the ground had shifted beneath him and he wasn’t sure how to find his footing again.
And maybe it had.
Because mine certainly had.
Nothing in my life looked the same as it had forty-eight hours ago. Not my sister. Not my family. Not even myself.
Grief stripped things down. Burned away the unnecessary.
And what remained was brutally simple.
Life was short.
And I wanted him.
Not tomorrow. Not when things were safer or cleaner or emotionally convenient.
Now.
Because the world didn’t always wait.
I tugged his hand again, and this time he moved. Slow, reluctant steps like he was walking toward something dangerous—and knew it.
We reached the bedroom doorway. The air felt warmer here, heavier, as if the apartment itself understood what was about to happen and held its breath.
I stepped backward until the backs of my knees hit the mattress.
Kane stopped just in front of me.
Still holding my hand.
His gaze dragged slowly down my body, not rushed, not hungry in the careless way men sometimes looked at naked women, but deliberate.
Almost reverent.
And something vulnerable flickered across his face before he crushed it down.
“You’re grieving,” he said quietly. Roughly. Like the words hurt coming out. “And in shock. And you just found out your sister had a secret child and—”
“And I still want you,” I interrupted softly.
Silence.
His jaw flexed.
“This changes things,” he muttered.
“Everything already changed.”
I stepped closer, pressing my body lightly against his. Warmth meeting warmth.
His breath caught.
“I don’t want to think right now,” I admitted. “I don’t want mystery or fear or death or responsibility.”
My hands slid up his chest, feeling the steady strength beneath his shirt. The dangerous man everyone else saw.
The man who had quietly become my safe place.
“I want you,” I whispered. “Just you.”
His eyes closed briefly.
Like he was losing a fight.
When they opened again, something had shifted.
Control was still there—but thinner. Frayed at the edges.
“Ella,” he said, voice low. Warning. Promise. “If we do this, I’m not doing it halfway.”
A tremor slid through me.
“Good.”
His free hand came up, fingers sliding into my hair, gripping gently but firmly at the back of my head.
Possessive.
And the kiss, when it came, erased the last of my doubts.
Not tentative this time.
Not careful.
His mouth claimed mine with a hunger that stole the breath from my lungs, like he’d been holding this back for too long and didn’t know how to do restraint anymore.
I gasped, and he took advantage instantly, deepening the kiss, pulling me against him so there was no space left between us.
His body was heat and strength and barely controlled force.
Everything he kept contained finally slipping.
My hands fisted in his shirt as sensation overwhelmed thought. Need. Relief. Want.
God.
So, this was what he’d been holding back.
The kiss turned slower, deeper. Less urgent and more consuming. His thumb brushed my cheek, then my jaw, then slid down the line of my throat like he was memorizing me.
“Still want this?” he murmured against my mouth.
My answer came out breathless. “Oh, yes.”
His forehead rested briefly against mine.
“Then stop talking.”
He lifted me effortlessly, and the sudden movement tore a surprised laugh from me as he set me on the bed.
For one suspended moment, he just looked at me.
Like he was trying to imprint the sight into memory.
Red sweater discarded on the floor. Morning light filtering through curtains. Me bare and waiting for him.
Something dark and satisfied flickered in his expression.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me later,” I whispered. “Show me now.”
His mouth curved faintly.
Then he bent and kissed me again, slower this time, hands exploring, learning, grounding himself in touch.
Every brush of his palm sent heat spiraling through me. My nerves felt too close to the surface, everything heightened, sharpened.
His hands slid along my sides, over my hips, mapping me like unfamiliar territory he intended to claim.
Possession, but chosen.
Given.
And my body answered instinctively, arching toward him, wanting more contact, more heat, more of him everywhere at once.
His mouth trailed along my jaw, down my throat, kisses slower now, like he was savoring the reaction he pulled from me.
A soft sound escaped before I could stop it.
His hand tightened slightly at my waist.
“You’re killing me,” he murmured.
“You’re taking your time.”
“I’ve imagined this too vividly to rush it.”
Heat pooled low in my belly.
“You’ve imagined this?”
His gaze lifted to mine, dark with honesty. “More than I should’ve.”
A small thrill shot through me.
“Good. And here I wondered if you wanted me.”
He groaned.
His hands slid lower, and the kiss deepened again, hunger rising with every breath.
The world outside the bedroom vanished. No dead sisters. No secrets. No threats waiting somewhere beyond the walls.
Just this.
Just him.
Just the slow unraveling of control we’d both been clinging to.
And when restraint finally gave way—
Kane's hands paused at the hem of his shirt, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
He pulled it off in one fluid motion, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars that mapped stories I hadn't yet heard but already ached to know.
They weren't flaws—they were proof of the life he'd survived, the strength that now hovered over me.
His skin was warm, taut over muscle that flexed as he leaned down, caging me gently against the mattress without trapping me. He was giving me space to pull away, even now, but I didn't want space. I wanted closer.
My fingers traced the ridges of those scars, light and exploratory, feeling the slight catch of his breath under my touch. He was beautiful in a way that wasn't polished or perfect—raw, like the edge of a blade honed too many times.
I pulled him down, our mouths meeting again in a kiss that started soft but built like a gathering storm, tongues sliding slow and deep, tasting the faint salt of his skin mixed with the sweetness of surrender.
He shifted, his knee nudging my thighs apart with careful intent, settling between them until the hard length of his cock pressed against my core through the barrier of his jeans. The friction sent a jolt through me, electric and insistent, and I rocked up instinctively, seeking more.
A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against my lips, and his hand slid up my thigh, fingers digging in just enough to anchor me, to remind me he was here, solid and real.
"God, Ella," he breathed, his voice roughened by restraint, forehead pressed to mine as his hips ground down once, deliberate and teasing. "You feel ... fuck." The word dissolved into a kiss along my collarbone, his stubble scraping deliciously against my skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
I arched into him, my nails grazing his back, urging him on without words.
He understood. His mouth moved lower, lips brushing the swell of my breast, tongue circling my nipple with agonizing slowness.
He didn't rush. Instead, he worshipped, sucking gently until I whimpered, the sound pulling a satisfied hum from him.
His free hand cupped my other breast, thumb rolling the peak in time with his mouth, building the ache between my legs into something molten and urgent.
“I want you,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the edge of a plea. It wasn't desperation; it was invitation, raw and unfiltered.
His eyes met mine as he released me with a soft pop, dark and blazing. "Tell me what you need." It wasn't a command—it was a vow, his hand sliding down my stomach, fingers splaying possessively over my hip before dipping lower, tracing the sensitive skin just above where I throbbed for him.
"You," I said simply, my hand covering his, guiding him down. "Inside me. Now. Slow."
A flicker of something fierce crossed his face—relief, maybe, or the last thread of his control snapping.
He nodded, once, and pushed up to his knees, unfastening his jeans with hands that trembled just slightly.
The sight of it, that tiny vulnerability in a man so unbreakable, made my heart stutter.
He shoved the denim down his hips, kicking it aside, and then he was bare, his cock thick and heavy, curving toward me with a need that mirrored my own.
He lowered himself over me, skin to skin, his weight a delicious pressure as he kissed me deeply, one hand bracing beside my head, the other guiding himself to my entrance. The broad head nudged against me, slick and hot, and he paused there, eyes locked on mine.
"Breathe with me," he murmured, and I did, inhaling as he pushed in—inch by torturous inch—stretching me with a burn that bordered on bliss.
He was big, filling me so completely that my body clenched around him, adjusting, welcoming.
A gasp tore from my throat, and he stilled, buried to the hilt, his jaw clenched as he fought for control.
"Too much?" he asked, voice strained, his thumb stroking my cheek.
"Perfect," I managed, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. It was—overwhelming, intimate, the kind of fullness that made everything else fade.
He exhaled shakily, then began to move. Slow, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside me, building friction like a tide rising.
His hips circled on the outstroke, grinding against my clit, sending sparks up my spine.
I met him thrust for thrust, our bodies finding a rhythm that felt ancient, instinctive—mine yielding, his claiming without conquering.