Chapter 18-Micah
Fuck.
God.
Yes.
She is kissing me.
Really kissing me.
And I swear I could go off like a rocket from that alone.
But I can't.
I won't.
Not because I don't want to.
Because I've wanted this for so damn long that rushing it now would feel like disrespecting the miracle standing in front of me.
She's here.
In my cabin.
Wearing my flannel.
Choosing me.
After everything she's been through tonight.
Everything I confessed.
She's still choosing me.
Christ.
I don't think I've ever felt like this.
Elated.
Happy.
And so turned on I might die if I don’t touch her soon.
Sloane moans into my mouth as our tongues swirl, and I swear to God, I have never tasted anything quite like her.
There's a hint of lemon-lime soda she must've had earlier, but it doesn't mask her natural flavor.
She is sweet and bright, like lemons and sunshine.
Like every good thing I've been missing without even realizing it.
I can't get enough.
I don't think I ever will.
My hands cradle her like she's something priceless.
Because she is.
She's not just the woman I've been watching from a distance.
Not just the bartender I've been inventing excuses to see.
She's become the center of my damn world somewhere along the way, and I don't even know when it happened.
All I know is that I can't imagine a version of tomorrow that doesn't have Sloane in it.
Her hands find the hem of my shirt.
My pulse kicks.
I don't hesitate.
I yank it over my head, desperate to feel her touch against my skin.
She whimpers and pride surges through me.
I don’t need her to admire me, but I’m glad she likes what she sees.
I know I do.
I reach for her, skimming her curves with greedy fingers because I need the reassurance that she's here and she’s real.
Safe.
Whole.
Mine.
That this isn't another one of the fantasies I've tortured myself with while lying awake in bed thinking about her.
I move us backward until the backs of my knees hit the couch.
I sit, bringing her with me until she's standing between my splayed legs.
She's so much smaller than me.
So damn perfect.
I can still kiss her like this while my hands find the buttons on that flannel she's wearing.
It’s the one I'd left hanging in the bathroom earlier, and I’ve never been so grateful for a shirt.
Somehow seeing it on her transforms it into something entirely different.
Something intimate.
Something that belongs to this moment.
To us.
My fingers slow.
Not because I don't want to keep going.
Because I do.
God, I do.
But because I want her to know she can stop this at any second.
She can change her mind.
Walk away.
Tell me no.
And I'll let her.
Always.
Even as I pray she won’t.
Please don’t tell me no.
And she doesn’t.
She never once pulls back.
Never once looks uncertain.
Instead, she watches me with those warm brown eyes, and every wall I've spent years building around my heart starts crumbling.
“Fuck,” I hiss when flesh meets flesh.
The word slips out before I can catch it.
Not from lust alone.
From awe.
From gratitude.
From the overwhelming realization that the woman I've been quietly, hopelessly falling for is standing here, letting me touch her.
I peel the fabric away, and what I see steals my breath.
Every soft curve.
Every freckle.
Every inch of her she's probably spent years believing wasn't enough.
She is all peaches and cream skin with freckles dancing across her tip tilted breasts.
Her nipples are puckered, and the skin there is darker.
I want to taste it.
Hell, I’m fucking salivating for her.
She is easily the most beautiful woman I've ever known.
And my chest feels painfully tight.
I want to possess her.
To make her mine.
To shield her from the horrors of the world.
To keep her with me.
Always.
And I suddenly understand the weight of the trust she's placing in me.
It's humbling.
Terrifying.
Sacred.
I pull back from our kiss and lift my eyes back to hers.
She's watching me.
Searching my face.
Maybe wondering if I’m backing out—I’m not.
I smile before I can stop myself.
The kind of smile I haven't worn in years.
The kind that reaches places inside me I thought the military, loneliness, and too many sleepless nights had buried for good.
“You're beautiful,” I whisper, meaning every damn syllable.
“Micah,” she whimpers.
Then I close the distance between us once more.
I drag my hands up and down her body, worshipping every inch of her.
She’s thick. Bountiful. So fucking perfect.
And she is clinging to me now.
I lick a trail from her neck to the valley between her breasts. Stopping to take pleasure in tasting the ripe berries that tip each one.
Then I move lower, sipping from her navel, licking along her hip, nibbling at her inner thighs.
“Oh, God, Micah!”
She gasps when I spread her legs, and I lift her onto the couch with me. I slide down so my back is flat as I pull her closer.
“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes wide as she clutches at the couch.
“I wanna taste you, Princess. Let me? Please, let me,” I beg her—no I’m not too proud to.
“I’ll crush you,” she protests. But I shake my head.
“You won’t. Please, Princess. Let me have you,” I growl and it turns into a moan the second I see she’s made up her mind to trust me.
Next, I grab hold of her luscious ass and press down, forcing her to sit on my face—exactly where I want her.
And now, I eat.