Chapter Forty-Three
Raine
The mug of tea Asher made me is half gone by the time my thoughts settle. When they do, fatigue hits in a way I can’t ignore.
I set the cup on the coffee table, tuck my legs under me, and curl against Asher’s side. He has his arm draped over the back of the couch. I don’t feel trapped. Just…supported. He’s warm. His scent wraps around me like a blanket, stopping the memories from pulling me under.
“Do you want to lie down?” he asks, his voice low and soft.
“No. I want…this.”
It’s been less than a week, but I’ve come to depend on his steadiness. That should scare me. I can’t make sense of why it doesn’t.
Maybe because he’s never tried to take control. Never asked for anything I couldn’t give him.
I curl my arm around his waist. His hand slips from the back of the couch, landing gently on my shoulder for half a second. “Shit. I’m sorry,” he says as he pulls it away.
“Wait. If your hand is a little lower—on my arm?—you could try holding me.”
“Raine. That’s—”
I tip my head up and press my lips to his. The kiss is gentle. Almost sweet. But my core flutters with a heat I’m unprepared for. I should stop, but instead, I cup the back of his neck and pull him closer.
My tongue flicks against his mouth. I want more.
Asher doesn’t press, doesn’t move except to kiss me back in a way I didn’t know could make me feel so…alive.
I follow the shape of his jaw with my fingertips, memorizing the heat of his skin, the rasp of stubble, the beat of his pulse. Each sensation gets filed away, precious now that there’s so much we could lose.
The rush sharpens. Thrilling, yet steadying at the same time.
Every nerve lights up, my thoughts narrowing to the space between us.
The ache deep inside me demands more. I lean into him, chasing the heat building inside me.
I’ve never felt anything like this before.
Want and need so sharp, I can hardly breathe.
Asher exhales softly against my lips. “You’re going to undo me if you keep that up.”
I ease back half an inch. Far enough to take a breath. To make a choice. To let Asher see my eyes when I do.
“Take off your shirt.”
He freezes, shock turning his eyes a darker shade of blue. “Are you sure?”
The answer comes without hesitation. “Yes.”
Slowly, as if he’s afraid to shatter the moment, Asher puts another few inches between us before tugging the Henley over his head. Goosebumps race over his skin.
I lay my hand flat on his chest, tracing the lines of muscle, the warm rise and fall of each breath, the stutter in his pulse.
He stills under my touch, and the quiet awareness in his eyes makes something inside me tighten.
When I reach the center of his chest, he exhales, slower this time, and I follow the sound down the length of him.
“Put your hand on my lower back,” I murmur. “Under my shirt. On my skin.”
His fingers are soft. Gentle. Warm. I kiss him again, and he settles his palm fully against me. His thumb traces a short arc, slow enough I can track it.
I don’t have words for what I’m feeling. As the intensity spikes, too many thoughts and emotions crowd my brain. I can’t keep pace with it, and I need a moment to catch up. Pressing my forehead to his, I curl my fingers against his skin.
My racing heart calms from the sound of Asher simply breathing.
The next kiss comes from him. It’s not urgent.
He’s giving me the chance to close the distance rather than pulling me to him.
His mouth finds mine with quiet certainty, and my heart shifts, tilting and aligning with his in a way I’m wholly unprepared for.
I slide my fingers into his hair, needing proof he’s real—that I’m real, and here with him.
The edges of my thoughts soften, all the static usually filling my head quieting at the same time. A tiny moan catches in my throat, and the sound of it shocks me enough, I draw back, eyes wide. Heat floods my cheeks. I stare down at my hand still pressed to his bare skin.
“We can stop,” he breathes.
A part of me hates the idea. The other part knows my body is still too depleted for more. I sink against him, limbs heavy, movements lagging a half-step behind intent.
“That was more than I expected,” I manage. My muscles are warm and weak at the same time—too much exertion, too fast. The good kind…even if the sensation tells me I’m done for the night.
“I think you might have a bit of an overachiever streak.” He chuckles, then pulls a blanket from the back of the couch and draws it around us. “We have time. I’m not going anywhere.”
I settle closer to him, my cheek resting on his shoulder, my hand over his heart. The warmth of his skin heals a part of me I thought would be broken forever. I wish I had a map for this—a pattern I could use for what I’m feeling.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe I have to trust myself as much as I trust him.