Chapter 13
13
ANNA
T he rain fell harder.
It rattled the windows and slicked the roof, thunder rolling across the harbor like the sound of something ancient waking up. The storm wasn’t just outside. It was in me. Every heartbeat, every breath, every inch of my skin felt lit from within, like I’d swallowed lightning.
Atlas carried me through the condo like I weighed nothing. Like I wasn’t shaking in his arms. Like I wasn’t one second away from falling apart. Or falling completely, finally, into something I didn’t fully understand.
I had no idea who this man truly was. But I knew what he made me feel.
I wasn’t afraid of him.
I was afraid of what I was willing to give.
He set me down gently beside the bed, his fingers grazing my hips like he wasn’t sure I’d stay. His eyes searched mine, wild and dark and stormlit, like he was waiting for a sign. For a stop. For me to wake up and change my mind.
I didn’t.
I didn’t want to.
My hands found the front of his chest, slick and hot from the rain, and I leaned in. I kissed the hollow of his throat, then up to his jaw.
God, that beard.
I felt the moment his restraint snapped—his breath caught, his fingers digging into my waist. He gritted something against my ear that sounded like Jesus , but I didn’t stop.
I wanted him to feel it. That I was here. That I was ready.
“I want you,” I whispered, right against his lips. “All of you.”
He groaned—low, rough, ruined. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Then show me.”
That was it.
He kissed me again—harder this time, deeper. Not a tease. Not a test. His mouth was fire and rain and everything I’d ever been denied. His hands gripped my thighs and pulled me closer until I was straddling him, wet skin to wet skin, his cock a thick pressure against my core, separated only by the flimsy cotton of my panties. I wished I hadn’t worn any.
I was soaked, but not just from the rain.
His mouth moved down my neck, over the line of my collarbone, then lower, until he reached the bare curve of my breast. There was no lace between us, no barrier to slow him. His breath grazed my skin, hot and reverent, and then his lips closed around one aching peak. My back arched, a soft cry slipping from me as his tongue circled, teased, claimed. His hand found the other, warm and steady, kneading gently like he was learning me by touch alone.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“You make me shake.”
He groaned again—longer this time—and pushed me back until my knees hit the edge of the bed. I let myself fall, sprawling across the mattress as thunder cracked outside, loud enough to rattle the walls. The sky flashed white for a second, and in that flicker of light, I saw the way he looked at me.
Like I was something he’d been searching for without even knowing it.
He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and pulled my panties down with a quiet kind of reverence that nearly broke me. He kissed my inner thigh like it meant something. Then he looked up at me from between my legs—and I knew, with shattering clarity, I’d never recover from this man.
Then he touched me.
And everything disappeared.
His fingers parted me with aching slowness, like he wanted to savor every inch, every reaction, every tremble in my breath. I gasped—his touch was light at first, barely there, a ghost of pressure that made my hips rise instinctively.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice ragged. “You’re already so wet for me.”
He didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t need it.
His mouth replaced his fingers.
And then I forgot my own name.
The first stroke of his tongue was slow. Deliberate. He mapped me like he had all night to learn me, to ruin me, to put me back together in pieces. I moaned, my hands fisting the sheets, my legs trembling around his shoulders.
He growled—God, he growled—and wrapped his arms under my thighs, locking me in place like I might run.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
He devoured me.
Every flick of his tongue, every suck, every gentle bite sent lightning straight through my spine. He was methodical and unrelenting. Patient, but not passive. He wanted this—wanted me—and he worshiped with his mouth like it was a prayer he was born to speak.
“Atlas—” I choked out, and he responded with a low hum that sent vibrations straight through my core.
My thighs started to shake. My hips bucked helplessly.
He didn’t stop.
He latched onto my clit with just the right amount of pressure and slid two fingers inside me, curling them like he’d been made to wreck me.
I came undone.
It hit me hard—sharp, hot, spiraling through every nerve. I cried out, legs clamping around his head, and he didn’t stop. He rode me through it, licked me through it, until I was writhing against the sheets, babbling nonsense, and begging for air.
When I finally came down, I felt like I was floating.
He rose slowly, body moving over mine like a tide, and kissed the corner of my mouth.
“I’ve never—” I breathed, still dazed.
“I know,” he said, brushing damp hair from my face. “I could feel it.”
And then I felt him.
Hot, hard, thick against my thigh. He was holding himself back, barely.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t hold back.”
His breath caught. He closed his eyes like it hurt.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
He searched my eyes like he needed to be sure. Like he was still carrying something sharp and heavy behind his ribs.
“I shouldn’t have touched you like that when we met,” he said, voice low. “At Garrison Green. Against the wall. I didn’t know if it was too much. I was trying to stop, but you ...”
“You didn’t scare me,” I said gently, brushing my thumb along his jaw. “You didn’t take anything I didn’t want to give.”
His shoulders dropped a fraction, like he’d been holding that fear in silence ever since.
“I wanted you,” I whispered. “From the second you looked at me. I still do. Every time you touch me ... it’s not too much. It’s never too much.”
His eyes closed for a moment, as if the relief hurt almost as much as the fear had.
“I’ve spent a long time not trusting myself,” he murmured. “I can’t afford mistakes.”
“You didn’t make one,” I said, leaning in until our foreheads touched. “That night was a beginning. Not a mistake.”
He exhaled slowly—like I’d handed him something precious he didn’t know how to hold.
And in the beat of silence that followed, I realized something: he wasn’t just afraid of hurting me physically. He was afraid of being the one who ruined something real. Afraid of being too much, too damaged, too dangerous.
But he wasn’t.
Not to me.
I reached between us, wrapped my hand around him, and felt his whole body shudder. He was big—thick and heavy and so hot it made me ache all over again.
He kissed me hard then, and I felt the restraint snap.
He braced his hand beside my head and guided himself to my entrance.
And when he finally pushed inside—inch by aching inch—I thought the world might split open.
I gasped. He swore. Our eyes locked.
There was no going back. There was only this.
The storm outside. The fire between us. The way my body opened for him like it had been waiting all its life to be claimed.
I clawed at his back, not to pull him closer—he was already there—but to anchor myself to something solid, because I was coming apart.
He didn’t move at first.
Just stayed there—buried deep—his forehead resting against mine, his chest heaving. His body was trembling, like he was trying to hold back something feral.
“You feel like heaven,” he rasped. “Like fucking salvation.”
My lips parted, but I couldn’t speak. Could only breathe.
Then he moved.
Slow at first. Testing. Stretching. Possessing.
I moaned, a broken sound that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with being filled—finally, fully—by the man I hadn’t known I’d been waiting for. His hands framed my face like he couldn’t bear to stop touching me, like he wanted to memorize every line, every breath, every desperate sound I made.
“I should go slow,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint. “I should take my time.”
“Don’t,” I begged. “Don’t you dare.”
Something inside him snapped.
He drove into me with a force that stole the air from my lungs and the thoughts from my head. His grip tightened on my hips, holding me in place as he thrust again—deeper, harder, as if he wanted to carve his name into the deepest part of me.
“Mine,” he growled into my throat. “Say it.”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Yours.”
He fucked me like he was claiming territory. Like he was erasing every man who’d ever touched me before him. Like he knew I’d never be the same after this, and he needed to make sure of it.
And God, I let him.
Every thrust pushed me closer to the edge again. My body burned, overstimulated and ravenous, desperate for more. For all of him. My nails raked down his back, and he hissed, then pinned my wrists above my head with one large hand.
“Stay,” he growled. “Right here. Don’t move unless I move you.”
I whimpered, completely undone.
Then his free hand slid between us, fingers finding the place where we were joined. He rubbed tight, fast circles against my clit, and my entire body seized.
The second orgasm hit like a freight train. I cried out—shaking, writhing, unraveling beneath him—and still he didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, chasing his own release, and when he came, it was with a low snarl buried in my neck, his body trembling as he spilled into me, his breath hot and broken against my skin.
He didn’t let go.
Not when the tremors passed. Not when the thunder faded. Not even when the rain began to slow.
He stayed inside me, chest pressed to mine, arms locked around me. Like if he let go, I’d vanish. Or worse, that he would.
I threaded my fingers through his damp hair and kissed the corner of his mouth.
He whispered my name like it meant something. Like it was the last truth he had left in the world.
Maybe it was.
Because that’s what it felt like now. Like everything had changed. And we were standing on the edge of something dangerous, holy, and absolutely unstoppable.
We lay tangled in silence, our bodies still pressed together, the sheets twisted beneath us like wreckage after a storm. My skin was damp with sweat and rain. My heart was still racing, still trying to catch up to what had just happened.
Atlas hadn’t moved.
He was still inside me, still holding me like he didn’t quite believe I was real. One of his hands was splayed at the small of my back, the other curled loosely around my wrist.
Eventually, I broke the silence.
“Well,” I whispered, my voice rough with the weight of everything, “that was … not how I imagined my night going.”
A slow exhale left his chest. Then—softly, warily—he laughed.
“Was it terrible?” he asked, mouth brushing the edge of my jaw. “Because I can try harder.”
That earned him a breathless laugh from me. “God, no. It was—” I paused, searching for the word. “It was everything. And more.”
He finally pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were darker now, more open, the storm in them softer somehow.
“You feel different,” he said quietly.
I blinked. “Different how?”
“Like something I wasn’t ready for. Something that makes the rest of the noise stop.”
That wrecked me a little.
I reached up, brushed a wet strand of hair from his temple. “You feel like that, too.”
His gaze held mine for a long moment. “I don’t usually stay.”
I nodded. “I don’t usually let anyone in.”
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick with truth. With something growing.
“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice quieter now. More cautious.
“Not even a little,” I whispered.
A flicker of relief crossed his face—so fast and subtle it would’ve been easy to miss. But I didn’t.
I was beginning to see all of him now. Not just the command and the heat and the body that made me burn. But the man beneath it. The one who didn’t say things unless they mattered. The one who hadn’t let go of me since the second he touched me.
I rested my forehead against his. “Tell me something real. Anything.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then: “I haven’t wanted anything in a long time. Not like this.”
God.
I kissed him again, softer this time. Slow. He melted into it for a moment, then pulled back with a rough smile.
“You always kiss like that?” he murmured, brushing his nose against mine.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re giving me something you can’t take back.”
I swallowed, my chest tight. “Maybe I am.”
His gaze searched mine, quiet and careful. “You scare me a little.”
I blinked. “Me?”
He nodded. “You make me want to stay.”
I didn’t know how to breathe after that. My fingers slid to his jaw and I held his face in my hands.
“You think I don’t feel it, too?” I whispered. “You walk into my life, and suddenly I’m not hungry for anything but you.”
His hand moved over mine where it still rested on his cheek, holding it there like it steadied him.
“I don’t even know what you do for work,” I said, half-laughing through the emotion clogging my throat. “Isn’t that insane? At least, you know I’m a harpist.”
He hesitated, but only for a breath. “I’m in security. Technically. For my family’s estate. And other … things. We keep a low profile.”
I tilted my head. “Because?”
He gave a humorless smile. “Because of the danger.”
I stilled. “You mean that?”
He nodded. “I’m not just some guy in a tux, Anna.”
“I never thought you were.”
He exhaled like that mattered. Like he didn’t quite believe it until now. “What about you? Tell me something that scares you.”
My breath hitched. “I’m terrified of wasting my life doing things that look good on paper but don’t feel like anything real.”
His brow furrowed. “Like Eugene?”
“Exactly like Eugene.”
Atlas leaned down, kissed my temple. “Then don’t waste another second.”
I looked at him. At the bare truth in his face. At the man who’d touched me like I was sacred, kissed me like he’d never tasted sweetness before, held me like the world was falling apart and I was the only thing that made sense.
“You’re dangerous,” I whispered.
“And you,” he said, his voice low and reverent, “are the first person who’s ever made me want to be known.”
We lay there for a long time after that. Skin against skin. Breath against breath. Not needing more than that.
Eventually, I curled into his side, resting my head on his chest, and asked the question that had been lingering in my mind like the aftertaste of a dream.
“What now?”
His fingers traced lazy circles on my back. “We figure it out. One hour at a time.”
“You think we can?”
He paused. Then: “We just survived a thunderstorm and a first date that started with me showing up soaking wet at your door. I’d say we’ve got a shot.”
I laughed, soft and honest.
He grinned against my shoulder, his voice rough with satisfaction. “Actually, was this the first date? Or was it Garrison Green, when I had you pinned against a stone wall within what, an hour of meeting you?”
I smirked, brushing a lazy hand down his chest. “That depends. Are we ever telling our kids about this?”
He choked on a laugh. “Christ. We’re already talking about kids?”
“Not now,” I said, mock stern. “Someday. When they ask how we met.”
“Oh, great,” he said, pretending to think. “So we say, ‘Well, your mother looked like a goddamn dream in a silky dress, and I lost all sense of reason. Then I found her again, soaking wet and half-feral with need.’ Very bedtime appropriate.”
I grinned. “Maybe we just say we met at a dinner party.”
“And leave out the part where you kissed me like a woman possessed?”
“That was your fault.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and sinful, “you started it.”
I laughed again, tucking into his side, his arm wrapping tighter around me like he couldn’t bear the space.
“Whatever version we tell,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest, “I hope it ends with this. Right here. You and me.”
He didn’t answer right away.
He just held me closer, kissed the top of my head, and whispered, “I like that.”
Outside, the rain slowed to a hush. Inside, I finally felt warm.
Safe.
Held.
And as his fingers found mine under the covers and laced them together, I knew one thing with quiet certainty: Whatever this was, it had already begun.
“You’re not tired, are you?” he asked.
I arched a brow. “Are you asking for a round two?”
His smirk was wicked, but his voice was reverent. “I’m asking if I can make you come again. Slower this time.”
My breath caught.
“I don’t have to be anywhere tonight,” I whispered. “Do you?”
His mouth ghosted over my neck as he shook his head. “Good. Because I’m not done with you.”
Then he flipped me onto my back, his hands already trailing down, and the need began to rise all over again.