Chapter 48 – Azaria
AZARIA
Neither of us spoke. The kettle was hissing behind me, the sound thin and distant, belonging to a version of this evening that involved tea and conversation and careful distance. That version was already gone.
Quinton crossed the kitchen slowly, each step deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine.
He stopped close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that his scent hit me—steel, smoke, and something clean beneath it, like he’d bathed before coming here. He’d prepared for this too.
“Hi,” I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt.
“Hi,” he said. And then, quieter: “You have no idea how good it is to see you standing up.”
I laughed, and the tension cracked just enough to let me breathe. “Three days. I know.”
“Three days,” he repeated. His eyes moved over my face again, slower this time, lingering. Then on my mouth. On the damp ends of my hair curling against my neck. On the loose collar of my shirt where it exposed the line of my collarbone.
He reached out. Slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. His fingers found a strand of damp hair and tucked it behind my ear, his knuckles brushing my jaw on the way down. The touch was barely anything, but I felt it everywhere.
“You smell like lavender,” he said.
“I smell like a person who finally bathed.”
His mouth curved. “That too.” His hand stayed where it was, fingertips resting against the side of my neck.
The kettle screamed.
Neither of us moved.
“Quin,” I said.
“Az.”
“The kettle.”
“I know.”
“It’s going to?—“
He kissed me.
Not like the patient kisses of the past month, when I’d been half-asleep, and he’d been holding himself back with both hands. This was different. This was the kiss of a man who knew I was awake and rested, and that I’d told him I wanted him, and that there was nothing left to stop us.
His mouth was warm and sure against mine. One hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my still-damp hair, tilting my head to deepen the angle. His other hand found my waist, pulling me forward until my body was flush against his.
I kissed him back. Hard. Let the heat I’d been carrying since that conversation on the couch pour into it. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and the sound that came out of him settled in my sternum, low and hungry.
The kettle kept screaming. I reached behind me blindly, found the handle, and shoved it off the heat without breaking the kiss. Water sloshed. I didn’t care.
He pressed me back against the counter, his body hard against mine, and I let him. I felt the edge of the stone dig into my lower back and didn’t care about that either. His mouth left mine and dragged along my jaw, down the side of my neck, and my head fell back to give him room.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he said against my throat, between slow, open-mouthed kisses that left heat blooming on my skin. “Every night. Watching you sleep. Wanting to wake you up.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I promised.” His teeth grazed my collarbone, and a shiver ran the full length of my body. “Because I wanted you like this. Present. Choosing it.”
I was choosing it. Every nerve in my body was choosing it.
His hands found the hem of my shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of my waist, and I inhaled sharply. He paused.
“Yes,” I said, before he could ask. “Upstairs,” I managed. “Please.”
His hands dropped to the backs of my thighs, and in one seamless motion, he lifted me. My body folded against him like it belonged there. My arms looped around his neck, lips dragging across his jaw as he carried me toward the stairs.
He didn’t take me straight to the bed. He stopped in the middle of the bedroom, still holding me, chest rising and falling against mine, fast and shallow, like he wasn’t sure if he could slow down.
Then he looked at me, and that look dragged me open from the inside out.
There were no words and no need for them, just heat and intent and something aching behind his eyes.
He set me down slowly. My legs trembled when they touched the floor, but his hands stayed at my waist until I steadied.
He reached first, fingers finding the hem of my shirt.
I lifted my arms without a word. He peeled it off like the act of uncovering me was a prayer.
The fabric cleared my head, and he dropped it without looking where it fell.
His eyes stayed on me: my breasts rising with every breath, the line of muscle at my abdomen, scars and softness.
He exhaled through his nose and shuddered.
“Beautiful,” he rasped. “So fucking beautiful.”
His fingers found the scar beneath my ribs—the long, raised line that curved from my side to my stomach. He traced it slowly. “This one?”
“Tallis.” My voice came out steadier than I expected. “I shoved him out of the way, remember?”
“I remember.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to the scar.
His hands slid to the button of my trousers.
He undid it gently, kneeled as he pulled them down.
I watched his head lower. Watched his eyes dip as my hips came bare, then my thighs.
His gaze found the scar on the outside of my right thigh.
Thicker, rougher, the skin still puckered where it had healed badly. He traced it with his thumb.
“And this?”
“Dravareth soldier. Caught me off guard.”
Something flickered in his expression. “Did you kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He pressed his lips to that scar too, and the word vibrated against my skin like an oath.
He didn’t speak after that. Just leaned forward and pressed his mouth to my lower stomach.
Hot lips on bare skin, right above where I burned for him.
A groan slipped out of me as his breath dragged across my skin.
Then he looked up from his knees. That look—half worship, half possession—hit me like a fist of heat low in my stomach, so sudden my thighs pressed together.
He stood slowly and turned me around. His hands settled on my shoulders, then slid down my back.
I felt the moment his fingers found the old marks between my shoulder blades—the thin, scattered lines that spoke dozens of stories.
His hands paused, just for a breath. I didn’t tense.
Didn’t pull away. Just leaned back into his touch until his palms pressed flat against the marks and held them there.
He understood. His hand pressed warm and steady against my skin, and after a moment, his lips followed. One kiss, placed between my shoulder blades. Then his arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest.
I turned in his arms, cupped his face, and kissed him slowly, because thank you didn’t feel big enough for what he’d given me.
When I pulled back, his hands cupped my face. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones. “I’ve got you,” he said, low and certain. “Let me take care of you.”
The words landed differently here. It was an invitation to stop holding, stop controlling, stop being the one in charge.
“Say it,” he said, like he needed the words, not the gesture.
“Take care of me,” I said.
His expression shifted into something intent and gentle, like he understood exactly what I was offering and wouldn’t take a step further unless I wanted him to.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
The words hit me like a physical thing, low in my belly, up through my chest, into the base of my skull. I didn’t expect it—the flush of heat, the loosening of every muscle I’d been holding tight, the way something in me that had been clenched for years simply let go.
He saw it. Of course, he saw it.
“Oh,” he said, something like wonder crossing his face. “You like that.”
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
His thumb traced my lower lip. “Good to know.”
I needed to touch him. All of him. My hands trembled as they reached for the first button of his shirt. I popped it open. Then the next. Then the next. His eyes stayed on my face, watching me work, his breathing growing heavier with every inch of skin I uncovered.
By the time I reached his belt, something had cracked open inside me. I needed him bare. Needed to see everything, not because I wanted to take, but because I wanted to know him. Claim him.
My fingers curled at his waistband. I looked up.
He nodded once.
I pulled the fabric down, and my breath left me.
He was hard and heavy and flushed dark from base to tip, and the length of him sent a wave of heat through me that settled between my thighs and stayed.
I should have let him push me back, climb over me, take me slow, like he’d promised. But I couldn’t. Something primal tore loose inside me. I needed to touch all of him.
My palms cupped his face first. Thumbs over the hard line of his jaw, down the cords of his neck.
Across his shoulders, the stretch of muscle like coiled rope beneath warm skin.
Down his arms, every inch of strength, every callus.
Then back up to his chest, where I spread my hands flat, feeling his heartbeat kick against my palm.
Down over his ribs, the hard ridges beneath warm skin, the dip of his stomach; the line of muscle tightened under my touch.
I moved behind him. Circled him in a slow orbit, hands skimming his back.
I paused at his scars, fingers brushing gently over the raised lines.
A story in each one. A hundred of them. I traced them lower, down the taper of his spine, the solid tension in his thighs.
I stepped closer. Pressed my palm flat against his chest from behind, feeling his heartbeat slam against my hand. He shuddered.
I came back around to face him, and the heat in his eyes nearly scorched me. Something clicked inside my chest. Something inside me settled. I didn’t understand why I’d needed that—to touch every inch, learn every scar, claim every part. But my body had demanded it, and I’d listened.