4. CHAPTER THREE #2
Razor noticed. Of course he did. His hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb gently stroking my skin. "Stay with me," he murmured. "Just us here. No ghosts allowed."
I nodded, grateful for his understanding without explanation. His lips found mine, soft at first, a question rather than a demand. I answered by leaning into him, my body making a decision my mind was still catching up to.
The kiss deepened slowly, like sinking into warm water.
His hands remained gentle on my waist, holding but not constraining, waiting for mine to explore before he moved his own.
I found myself growing bolder, fingers tracing the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the texture of scars I didn't yet know the stories behind.
When we finally made it to the bed, Razor laid me down with a reverence that caught in my throat. He moved above me, his weight supported on his forearms, careful not to crush me beneath him.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice rough with restraint.
Tyler had never asked. Had never cared if it was okay.
"Yes," I whispered, pulling him closer.
What followed was nothing like what I'd known before.
Where Tyler had been rough and demanding, Razor was attentive and responsive.
He seemed to read my body, finding places I didn't know could feel pleasure, watching my reactions to guide his touch.
When his lips traced a path down my neck, across my collarbone, I arched toward him instinctively.
"Tell me what you like," he murmured against my skin. "Show me."
The request startled me. Tyler had never cared what I liked. Had mocked me for having preferences at all.
"I don't... I'm not sure..." I admitted, shame heating my cheeks.
Understanding flickered in Razor's eyes. "Then we'll figure it out together."
His hands and mouth continued their exploration, patient and thorough, and soon I found myself responding in ways I never had before.
My hands clutched at his shoulders, my body moving beneath his, seeking more of his touch.
Sounds escaped me that I didn't recognize—small gasps and moans that seemed to encourage him.
The scent of his cologne mixed with the clean cotton of hotel sheets and the faint sweetness of champagne still on our breath.
Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, then faded, a reminder of the world beyond our temporary sanctuary.
But here, in this bed, with this man, I found myself forgetting to be afraid.
"Ophelia," he breathed against my skin, my name a prayer on his lips.
The sound of it unraveled the tight knot in my chest. I whispered his name in return—not Razor, but "Cruz," his real name, the one on our marriage certificate. The air between us turned heavier after that, intimacy settling into a deeper place neither of us could pretend away.
His hands grew more urgent, and mine matched their rhythm. The lingering taste of champagne on his tongue mingled with mine as our kisses deepened. When he finally joined his body with mine, it wasn't the intrusion I'd braced for, but a completion I hadn't known I was seeking.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
I opened eyes I hadn't realized I'd closed, finding his gaze steady on mine. He held me there, connected, as our bodies moved together. No hiding, no pretending. Just us, raw and real in the shifting casino lights.
Tension gathered low in my body, winding tighter with each movement until I could barely breathe through it.
I recognized the feeling only distantly—real pleasure, sharp and consuming, nothing like the hollow encounters I'd endured with Tyler.
But this was stronger, deeper, pulling me toward some edge I both feared and craved.
"Let go," Razor urged, his voice strained with his own control. "I've got you. Let go."
And I did. The tension shattered, pleasure cascading through me in waves that left me gasping, clinging to him as the only solid thing in a world suddenly fluid and bright. His own release followed, my name on his lips again as his body tensed above mine.
After, he didn't immediately roll away as Tyler always had. Instead, Razor gathered me against him, my head finding a place on his chest, his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath my ear. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, touch now soothing rather than arousing.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
The question was simple, but weighted with understanding of all I'd been through, all the ways intimacy had been weaponized against me before.
"Yes," I answered, surprising myself with how true it was. "I'm okay."
Beyond our window, the Strip continued its endless carnival—car horns, distant music, the constant hum of a city that never slept. But in our bed, wrapped in Razor's arms, I drifted toward a peace I'd spent years believing I would never have again.
The first hint of dawn crept through the gap in the curtains—a thin line of pale gold that sliced across the rumpled sheets.
I watched it slowly widen, bringing definition to the shadows that had hidden us through the night.
My body felt different, lighter somehow, as if the constant weight of fear had temporarily lifted.
I lay with my head on Razor's chest, my blonde hair spread across his skin like spilled sunlight, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear more soothing than any lullaby I'd ever known.
His breathing had the deep, even quality of near-sleep, but his fingers remained active, tracing lazy patterns across my bare shoulder.
Circles, spirals, invisible words I couldn't decipher but somehow understood as calming, as claiming.
The heat of his skin warmed me through, chasing away the perpetual chill I'd carried since the first time Tyler had raised his hand to me.
I felt my lips curve upward—a small, genuine smile that came without effort or pretense.
When was the last time I'd smiled like this?
Not the careful, practiced expression I wore for Dante's sake, not the polite mask I'd presented to my parents' friends.
A real smile, born of contentment rather than necessity.
"What's that for?" Razor's voice rumbled beneath my ear, the vibration of his words traveling through his chest into my cheek.
I didn't lift my head, didn't want to break the physical connection between us. "Nothing. Everything. I don't know."
His arm tightened around me slightly, drawing me closer.
The tattoos that covered his skin seemed softer in the dawn light, less intimidating than they'd appeared when I'd first opened the motel door to find him standing there.
Now I knew the gentleness those marked arms could offer, the safety they could provide.
"You're thinking too loud," he murmured, his free hand coming up to stroke my hair. The gesture reminded me of how he'd smoothed Dante's hair when they'd built the pillow fort, the same careful touch adjusted for different vulnerabilities.
"Sorry." I shifted slightly, tilting my head to look up at him. In the growing light, his features were softer, the hard edges blurred by intimacy and the aftermath of pleasure.
"Don't apologize. Just tell me where your mind's taking you."
I traced a finger along the line of a tattoo that curved across his chest—some kind of stylized flame that disappeared beneath the sheet draped low across his hips. "I was thinking about how you are with Dante. How you were with me just now. They're the same, in a way."
His brow furrowed slightly. "Not exactly the comparison a man wants to hear after sex."
A laugh escaped me, surprising us both with its ease. "That's not what I meant. I meant... the gentleness. The care you take. It's the same."
Understanding softened his expression. "That's just respect. For him. For you."
"It shouldn't be exceptional. But it is." I laid my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath it. "Tyler never..." I stopped, not wanting to bring my ex into this bed, into this moment.
"You don't have to tell me." Razor's hand covered mine, warm and steady. "But you can if you need to."
I shook my head. "Not now. Not here."
He nodded, accepting my boundary without question. Another small kindness that shouldn't have felt so significant.
The strip of sunlight had widened further, illuminating more of the room—our clothes scattered across the floor, the champagne glasses abandoned on the nightstand, the indentation in the pillow where my head had been before I'd moved to his chest.
"What happens when we leave here?" I asked finally; the question that had been circling my mind since our impromptu wedding. "When we go to your home, when this becomes real life and not just..."
"An escape?" he finished when I trailed off. "It's already real life, Ophelia. The paperwork's filed. You're my wife. Dante's my responsibility now too. That doesn't change when we leave Vegas."
“But your club, your life... I've disrupted everything."
His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. "Maybe disruption was what I needed. I've been the club's treasurer for years. Making money, spending it, fighting when necessary. But for what? A house I barely lived in? A future that looked exactly like my present?"
I hadn't expected this vulnerability from him. This admission that maybe he needed his life to change as badly as I did.
"I'm twenty years old," I whispered. "I have a four-year-old son. I've never even had a real job. What can I possibly offer you?"
His fingers found my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. "A purpose. A family. Things I've wanted longer than you know."
The intensity in his eyes made my breath catch. This wasn't only about protection or practicality anymore. The ground between us had changed during the night in a way neither of us could ignore.
"Can this actually work?" I asked, the question barely audible. "Us? This arrangement?"
"It's not an arrangement anymore," he said simply. "It's a marriage. And yes, it can work."
"How can you be so sure?" The hope rising in my chest felt dangerous, fragile.
"Because we both want it to." His answer was straightforward, without the complications or manipulations I'd grown to expect from men. "Because we'll both work at it. That's all it takes."
"Maybe this could work," I whispered, not quite a question, not quite a statement. A possibility I was finally allowing myself to consider.
Razor's response was simple but firm: "It will."
I settled back against his chest, my body completely relaxed for the first time in longer than I could remember.
The vigilance that had become second nature—the constant scanning for threats, the tension in my muscles ready to flee or fight—had temporarily receded, replaced by a bone-deep contentment I'd forgotten was possible.
Beyond our window, Las Vegas was awakening. Car horns punctuated the growing murmur of traffic. Somewhere, a jackhammer started up, its rhythmic pounding a reminder of the city's constant reinvention. Soon, the blazing sun would reclaim the Strip from the neon that had dominated the night.
But in our bed, in this moment suspended between night and day, past and future, I found myself drifting toward sleep without fear. Razor's arm curled protectively around me, his breathing syncing with mine, creating a small island of peace in a world I knew was still dangerous.
Tyler was still out there. My parents were still searching. Nothing had really changed in the world beyond our room.
But everything had changed within it. Within me.
As sleep claimed me, my last coherent thought was that for the first time in years, I wasn't just surviving. I was beginning to live again.