Chapter 20
The next morning, I woke before him.
That surprised me—not because I slept late, but because something about Cassian felt like it should precede everything. Like he would always be the first to move, the first to wake, the first to re-enter the world with that quiet, controlled awareness that seemed to define him.
But the room was still.
Early light filtered through the tall windows in muted shades of gray and blue, the kind of winter morning that felt suspended between night and day.
The fire had burned down to ash, the last of its warmth lingering faintly in the air.
Outside, the snow lay untouched, smooth and endless, like nothing had disturbed it.
Inside, everything felt closer.
Quieter.
More real.
And Cassian—
He was still asleep beside me.
On his back, one arm bent loosely at his side, the other angled slightly toward me like he’d reached for me in the night and stopped halfway. His breathing was steady, deep, unguarded in a way I hadn’t seen before.
It changed him.
The tension that usually lived in his jaw had eased. The sharpness in his expression—softened. Without that constant awareness behind his eyes, he looked … younger. Not less dangerous, exactly, but like the edges of him had relaxed just enough to reveal something underneath.
I shifted slightly onto my side, studying him without trying to hide it.
He was so handsome.
Not in the polished, intentional way I was used to seeing—men who curated themselves, who understood exactly how they were perceived and adjusted accordingly. Cassian didn’t do that. There was nothing curated about him.
His short hair fell slightly out of place, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it. His jaw carried the faint shadow of stubble, roughening the clean lines of his face. Even at rest, there was something coiled beneath the surface, something that suggested restraint rather than ease.
And still—
He drew attention without trying.
It wasn’t just how he looked.
It was how he existed.
Grounded. Certain. Unmoved by things that would have shifted other people.
My gaze lingered longer than I meant it to.
And my thoughts followed.
What was he like in the softer parts?
Not just this moment—this quiet, unguarded version of him—but deeper than that. When he let himself care. When he let something matter enough to affect him beyond control and intention.
Did that version of him exist?
Or was this—this measured, deliberate way of moving through the world—as far as he ever went?
The question unsettled me more than I expected.
Because it led somewhere else.
Had there been other women here?
In this bed.
In this room.
Had someone else woken up beside him like this, watched him the same way, wondered the same things?
Or—
Was I something different?
I didn’t know. I wanted to know.
And I felt the absence of that knowledge in a way that wasn’t just curiosity.
Cassian shifted slightly, his brow tightening just enough to signal the transition from sleep to awareness. His eyes opened a second later—and just like that, everything changed.
The softness disappeared.
Not completely. Not harshly. But replaced by that same quiet, controlled presence that defined him.
His gaze found mine immediately.
“You’re staring,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.
I didn’t look away. “You were asleep.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m aware.”
“That’s new.”
“It’s not.”
“It is for me.”
He studied me for a moment, as if weighing that.
“You’ve been awake long?” he asked.
“A few minutes.”
“And?”
I hesitated, then answered honestly. “I was thinking.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“About you.”
That shifted something—subtle, but there.
His gaze sharpened just slightly. “That’s more interesting.”
I shifted onto my side, facing him fully now, the distance between us already minimal.
“Do you always sleep like that?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Like nothing can get to you.”
His expression didn’t change much, but something in it stilled.
“I sleep,” he said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I exhaled, but there was no frustration in it. Not this morning.
“Fine,” I said. “Be vague.”
“I’m consistent.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Something almost like amusement flickered through his eyes, brief but real.
I felt it, too—that small spark of lightness in the middle of all this quiet intensity. It made me want to close the distance again, to chase whatever this softer morning version of us might become before the day pulled us back into motion.
I shifted closer, sliding one leg over his hip until I was straddling him, the sheets pooling around us. His hands came to my thighs immediately, warm palms settling there—not gripping, just resting, like he was giving me the reins again.
“You’re awake now,” I murmured, leaning down until my hair curtained around us.
“Very.”
I kissed him slowly, not teasing like last night, but deliberate—lips brushing, parting, tasting the faint salt of sleep on his tongue.
He kissed me back with the same measured hunger, one hand sliding up my back to cradle the nape of my neck, holding me exactly where he wanted me.
No rush. No demand. Just deep, languid exploration that made heat coil low and lazy in my belly.
I broke the kiss to trail my mouth along his jaw, down the side of his throat, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath my lips. When I nipped lightly at the spot where neck met shoulder, his fingers flexed against my skin, a low sound rumbling in his chest.
“You like that,” I said against his skin.
“I like you.”
Simple. Direct. It landed harder than any filthy promise could have.
I sat up, bracing my hands on his chest, and rocked my hips once—slow, smooth—letting him feel how wet I already was, how ready.
His cock, thick and heavy between us, twitched against my folds.
He didn’t thrust up. Didn’t try to take over.
He watched me, eyes dark and steady, letting me set the pace.
I reached between us, wrapping my fingers around him, stroking once, twice, spreading the slickness from both of us along his length. His abs tightened, a faint hiss escaping through his teeth.
“Lia.”
My name in that rough morning voice sent a shiver through me.
I lined him up, then sank down slowly—inch by careful inch—until he was seated fully inside me.
The stretch was exquisite, familiar now but no less intense.
I stayed still for a long moment, simply feeling him throb deep, feeling the way my body fluttered around him in response.
His hands slid to my hips, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above my pubic bone.
I began to move.
Not the rolling, grinding rhythm of last night.
This was different—long, slow lifts and descents, rising until only the head remained inside me, then sinking back down until my ass met his thighs.
Each downward stroke dragged him against every sensitive place inside me, building a steady, rolling pleasure that felt almost meditative.
No frantic chase. Just deep, measured connection.
His gaze never left my face. He watched every flicker of expression, every parted breath, every time my lashes fluttered when he hit that perfect spot. One hand drifted up to cup my breast, fingers circling my nipple in the same unhurried rhythm I’d set with my hips.
“You feel so good like this,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough. “Taking your time. Letting me feel every inch.”
The words made me clench around him involuntarily. He groaned softly, hips lifting just enough to meet my next descent—gentle, controlled, matching me rather than overpowering.
I leaned forward, changing the angle, bracing my hands beside his head so my breasts brushed his chest with every slow rock.
Our mouths met again—open, wet, messy in the best way.
Tongues sliding, breaths mingling. I kissed him deeper, harder, swallowing the quiet sounds he made as I kept that steady glide.
One of his hands slid between us, fingers finding my clit with devastating accuracy.
He didn’t rub fast circles. He pressed, held, then circled slowly—mirroring the pace I’d set.
The dual sensation—him thick and deep inside me, his fingers patient and precise on the swollen bundle of nerves—pushed the pleasure higher, slower, like honey spreading through my veins.
I broke the kiss to gasp against his mouth. “Cassian—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Just like this. Let it build.”
I did. I rode him with the same smooth rhythm, feeling every slide, every pulse, every subtle shift of his hips beneath me. The tension coiled tighter, deeper—not explosive, but inevitable. My thighs began to tremble. My breath came in soft, broken pants.
His other hand slid up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head so he could kiss along my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breast. When his mouth closed over my nipple—warm, wet suction followed by the lightest scrape of teeth—I arched, taking him deeper, clenching hard.
“That’s it,” he whispered against my skin. “Let go for me.”
The orgasm arrived like a slow tide—rising, rising, then washing over me in long, rolling waves.
I cried out softly, body shuddering as I ground down on him, milking every last pulse of pleasure.
He followed almost immediately—hips lifting in one deep, controlled thrust as he spilled inside me with a low, guttural groan, his fingers tightening in my hair, holding me close through the aftershocks.
We stayed locked together for long minutes, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. His arms wrapped around me fully now, one hand stroking slow paths up and down my back while the other cradled the back of my head.
I felt … held. Safe in a way that made my throat tight.
When I finally lifted my head, his eyes were soft—still dark with satisfaction, but unguarded in a way that stole my breath.