Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
Daphne
Ifound Micah in the greenhouse three days later, alone.
It was early evening, the sun hanging low and golden through the glass panels, and I'd come out to check on the seed trays I'd started the day before.
I hadn't expected to find anyone here—Oliver was in his office handling pack business, Garrett was working on repairs to the back fence, and Levi had gone into town for groceries.
But there was Micah, crouched near the control panel by the door, tablet in hand, making minute adjustments to something I couldn't see.
He looked up when the door opened, and something flickered across his face, surprise, quickly masked by his usual composed expression.
"Daphne. I didn't realize you were coming out here. "
"I wanted to check on my seedlings." I stepped inside, letting the door close behind me. The air was warm and humid, rich with the smell of soil and growing things. "What are you doing?"
"Calibrating the humidity sensors." He turned back to the panel, fingers moving across the tablet screen. "The readings were slightly off this morning. I wanted to make sure the system was functioning optimally before the overnight cycle."
Of course he did. That was so perfectly Micah, noticing a minor discrepancy and immediately setting out to fix it, even when no one asked him to.
I moved past him to check on my seed trays, running my fingers over the damp soil.
The tomato seeds wouldn't show signs of life for another few days, but I liked checking anyway.
There was something hopeful about it—trusting that something was happening beneath the surface, even when I couldn't see it.
"You don't have to do that, you know," I said without looking up. "Take care of the greenhouse, I mean. It's supposed to be my space."
"I know." There was a pause, and I heard him set the tablet down.
"I wanted to make sure everything was perfect for you.
" Something in his voice made me turn around.
He was standing now, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
The golden light caught the sharp planes of his face, softening them slightly, and I was struck, not for the first time, by how handsome he was.
Not in the obvious way Levi was handsome, or the rugged way Garrett was.
Micah's attractiveness was quieter, more refined.
The kind you noticed more the longer you looked.
"You're always doing that," I said softly. "Taking care of things in the background. Making sure everything runs smoothly without asking for credit."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "That's my role in the pack."
"Is it?" I moved closer, drawn by something I couldn't name. "Or is it just what you've decided you're allowed to have?" The question hung in the air between us. Micah's composure flickered, just for a moment—and I saw something raw underneath. Something that looked almost like longing.
"I don't know what you mean," he said, but his voice was rougher than usual.
"Yes, you do." I was close enough now to touch him, close enough to smell rain and bergamot and old books. "You hold back, Micah. With me. I've noticed."
He was very still, like a deer caught in headlights. "I don't want to overwhelm you."
"That's not it. Or not all of it." I reached out, letting my fingers brush his forearm. He inhaled sharply at the contact. "Tell me the real reason." For a long moment, I thought he wouldn't answer. Then his shoulders dropped slightly, and some of the tension bled out of his posture.
"Oliver is the leader," he said quietly.
"Garrett is the protector. Levi is the heart.
They have clear roles, obvious ways of showing they care.
I've never been... I'm not good at the emotional part.
I show love through actions, through making things work, through solving problems. But that's not.
.." He paused, jaw working. "It's not romantic.
It's not what sweeps someone off their feet. "
"Micah..." I breathed, eyeing him and he cut me off before I could say anything more.
"I didn't want to compete with them." The words came out rough, almost pained.
"For your attention. For your affection.
I thought if I just... stayed in the background, made sure everything was taken care of, that would be enough.
That you'd know how I felt without me having to—" He stopped abruptly, looking away.
My heart ached for him. This brilliant, careful man who had convinced himself that his way of loving wasn't enough. That he had to hide in the shadows while the others took center stage.
"You calibrated humidity sensors for me," I said softly. "You researched optimal soil compositions. You calculated light angles and set up automated irrigation and made sure my greenhouse would be perfect in ways I wouldn't even think to ask for."
He still wasn't looking at me. "That's just—"
"That's love," I interrupted firmly. "Maybe it doesn't look like grand gestures or pretty words, but it's love. And I see it, Micah. I see you."
His eyes finally met mine, and the vulnerability there made my breath catch. "You do?"
"I do." I stepped closer, eliminating the last of the distance between us. "And I want you, Micah. Just as much as I want the others. Not as a background character. Not as the one who holds everything together while everyone else gets the attention. I want you."
Something cracked behind his eyes. The careful control he always maintained, the composure that never seemed to waver, fractured, revealing the intensity he'd been hiding underneath.
"Daphne." My name on his lips was almost reverent. "If I start, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop."
"Then don't stop." He kissed me.
He kissed me like he'd been studying how to do it, like he'd analyzed every variable and calculated the optimal approach, and then executed it flawlessly.
His hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my head to exactly the right angle.
His lips moved against mine with deliberate purpose, learning my responses, adjusting, perfecting.
It should have felt clinical. Instead, it felt like being known.
I gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss.
His other hand found my waist, pulling me closer, and I felt the moment his control started to slip, the slight tremor in his fingers, the roughening of his breath, the low sound that escaped his throat when I pressed myself against him.
"Daphne," he breathed against my lips. "I've wanted—for so long—"
"Show me," I whispered back. "Show me how long."
Something snapped. Suddenly I was being walked backward, his hands gripping my hips with a firmness that sent heat racing through my veins. My back hit the potting table and Micah lifted me onto it in one fluid motion, stepping between my legs without breaking the kiss.
My heart stuttered as he pulled away from the kiss and looked down at me with a low growl "Micah.
..please." His hands tightened on my thighs, and he pulled me to the very edge of the table, flush against him.
I could feel exactly what I did to him now, the evidence of his want pressing against my core through layers of fabric—and the knowledge sent a bolt of heat straight through me.
"Here?" His voice was strained, barely controlled. "In the greenhouse?"
"It's my space," I reminded him, echoing his earlier words. "I can do whatever I want in it."
Something that might have been a laugh escaped him—breathless and slightly wild. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Probably," I agreed, and pulled him back into another kiss.
His hands found the hem of my shirt, fingers skating across the bare skin of my stomach, and I shivered at the contact.
He was exploring every inch of newly revealed skin, cataloging my reactions, learning exactly where to touch to make me gasp.
"Here," he murmured, pressing his thumb against a spot just below my ribs that made me arch into him. "You like that."
"Yes," I breathed. His mouth followed the path his hands had blazed, lips trailing down my neck, across my collarbone, lower. Each kiss was deliberate, purposeful, building a map of pleasure across my skin.
"And here." He found another spot, just above my hip, and I made a sound I'd never made before—needy and desperate and completely beyond my control.
"Micah—" His name came out broken, pleading.
"I've got you," he said, and the steadiness in his voice—even now, even with desire clouding his eyes and his breath coming fast—anchored me. "I've always got you."
His hands slid higher, thumbs brushing the underside of my bra, and I arched into the touch, wanting more, wanting everything.
He watched my face as he touched me, reading every micro-expression, adjusting his approach based on what made me gasp, what made me moan, what made me grip his shoulders like I'd fly apart without the anchor.
"Beautiful," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "You're so beautiful."
I tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He obliged, pulling back just long enough to strip it off, and I got my first real look at him, lean and defined, more muscular than his clothes suggested, a scattering of dark hair across his chest.
"Your turn," I demanded, reaching for my own shirt.
He stopped me, his hands covering mine. "Let me.
" Slowly, reverently, he pulled my shirt over my head.
His eyes tracked across newly exposed skin with an intensity that made me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.
When his gaze found the simple cotton bra I was wearing, nothing fancy, nothing special—he looked at it like it was the finest silk.
"May I?" His fingers hovered at my back, near the clasp.
"Yes." The bra fell away, and Micah made a sound low in his throat, almost a growl, very un-Micah-like—that sent heat pooling between my thighs.
"Perfect," he breathed. "You're perfect.
" Then his mouth was on me, and I stopped being able to think at all.
He leaned me back against the potting table, careful of the seedlings but not of me, not anymore, and there was no polite hesitation in his mouth as he kissed down my chest. His tongue flicked across my nipple and I jolted as if shocked.
The next second I felt him smile against me, heard his heartbeat pick up—a staccato, startled rhythm I'd never expected from him.
He was usually so measured. Now he was tasting, mapping, hands sliding up to cradle my ribs with unexpected gentleness.
I managed to hook my ankles behind his hips, hauling him closer until I felt the hard length of him pressed between my thighs. The sensation, even through denim, made my hips move on reflex, grinding against him. He groaned, a sound that vibrated through his whole body and into mine.
"Fuck," I muttered, breathless. Micah's hands gripped my hips as if he'd never let go.
His mouth on my breast was at odds with the deliberate patience he always carried, his tongue tracing circles, lips toying with the sensitive tip until I shivered and pushed harder against him.
I fisted my hands in his close-cropped hair, that geometric fade perfect beneath my palms, and tugged until he looked up at me.
For a second, I could barely breathe. His pupils were blown, cheeks flushed high with color—not embarrassment, not anymore, but hunger.
He searched my face as if he was afraid I would vanish, as if he'd spent years preparing for this moment and couldn't quite believe it was happening.
"You sure?" he asked, and his voice was a rasp, every syllable clawed out from someplace deep.I nodded, and he gave a low rumble as he removed my pants, then my underwear.
The greenhouse air felt cool against my heated skin.
I half-expected him to hesitate, but Micah leaned in, mouth hot on my neck.
He licked a line up my pulse, tongue clever and careful, and then he bit—softly, but with promise.
He pressed me flat to the work table and knelt, careful of my legs hooked over his shoulders, methodical even as he abandoned every pretense of restraint.
The air at my thighs cooled, dampness gathering in the brief exposure, but then his tongue drew a line up my center and I couldn't tell where the greenhouse humidity ended and the fever of his mouth began.
I gasped, bucked hard, but Micah held me fast. His hands, large and slightly rough from tools and old calluses, kept me in place while his mouth made short work of my nerves.
He mapped me with his tongue—slow, scientific, committed.
Every flick, every change of pressure, every pass over the sharpest nerve centers felt calculated to make me sound out new names for God.
I could hear myself, whimpering, and for once didn't care; the greenhouse was sealed, humid, private.
He made a guttural sound of satisfaction as he felt the tremor in my hips, the stutter of breath, and doubled down—one arm pinning my thigh, the other crooked beneath me to pull me hard against his mouth, as if he'd decided pleasure was a contest and he simply refused to lose.
My vision receded at the edges. When I finally broke, I did not try to hide my cry, full-throated and ragged with release.
My fingers clawed into the table's edge, my knees nearly crushing his head, but Micah didn't let up—even when I thrashed.
He rode out my aftershocks, tongue drawing shapes that had long ago left the alphabet.
Only when I finally went limp did he ease off, planting a soft, reverent kiss where his mouth had been merciless.
I tried and failed to summon words as he stood, his jaw wet, eyes raw with awe and something that might have been fear. His hands rested on my bare knees, grounding me, and I wondered if he felt the static arc between our skin.
“I—I didn’t expect…” Words flatlined again. He gave a laugh as he leaned down for another kiss and I let myself be consumed by him again.