Chapter 23 #2
She hummed, thinking, her fingers playing with the short hair at the nape of my neck in that absent way that made warmth bloom in my chest. "Paris, maybe. Or Tuscany. Somewhere old and romantic where time feels different. Where you can just ... exist without the weight of everything pressing down."
I kissed her shoulder, tasting salt and her. "We should go."
Her eyes flicked to mine, surprised and pleased and so full of hope it made my chest hurt, made breathing difficult. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I meant it. In that moment, lying naked with her in a bed that cost more than my monthly salary, I meant it with everything I had, even though I had no idea how to make it happen, how to build a future when I couldn't even figure out the present. "Someday."
"Someday," she echoed, smiling softly, believing me because she had no reason not to yet.
But someday felt fragile in my mouth. Like a promise I might not keep. Like a future I didn't deserve to imagine with her. Like another lie I was telling us both because the truth—that I was probably going to disappear the moment things got complicated—was too ugly to say out loud.
"Kiss me," she whispered.
I did.
Slow at first. Soft. My lips brushing hers like I had all the time in the world, like tomorrow didn't exist and never would. She sighed into my mouth, her hands sliding up my back, nails dragging lightly, sending sparks down my spine.
I deepened it gradually, my tongue sweeping past her lips, tasting wine and chocolate and Sophie. She moaned softly, arching under me, her breasts pressing against my chest, nipples hard points that made me groan in response.
I wanted her again. Needed her. The first time had been desperate, consuming—a release of years of pent-up want.
This time ... this time I wanted to savor.
To take her apart slowly, piece by piece, until she was begging, until she forgot her own name, until the only thing left was us and this and the way I could make her feel.
I broke the kiss, trailing my mouth down her neck, nipping at her pulse point hard enough to make her gasp, to make her hips buck against mine.
My cock was already hard, aching, pressed against her thigh, but I ignored it. Focused on her. On the way her skin flushed under my lips, the way her breath came faster when I sucked a mark into the curve of her shoulder, claiming her in a way that felt permanent, possessive, mine.
"Wyatt ..." Her voice was breathy, needy, and it went straight to my dick, making me throb against her.
I moved lower, kissing the swell of her breast, circling her nipple with my tongue before sucking it into my mouth.
She whimpered, her hands fisting in my hair, holding me there.
I lavished attention on one, then the other, alternating between soft licks and hard suction until she was writhing under me, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Wyatt ... please ..."
I smiled against her skin. "Patience, babe."
She growled—actually growled—and tugged my hair hard enough to sting. "I don't want patience."
I laughed, low and rough, and slid lower still, settling between her thighs. She was already wet, glistening, her arousal coating her inner thighs. The sight of it—the evidence of how much she wanted me—made my cock throb painfully.
"Fuck, Soph," I murmured, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "You're dripping for me."
She blushed, but didn't look away. "Your fault."
"Damn right." I licked a slow path up her thigh, tasting her salt and sweetness, stopping just short of where she wanted me. "And I'm going to clean up my mess."
Her breath hitched. "Wyatt—"
I didn't let her finish. I spread her open with my thumbs and dove in, my tongue flat and broad as I licked her from entrance to clit in one long, slow stroke. She cried out, hips bucking, and I pinned her down with one arm across her hips, holding her steady.
I ate her like I’d been born for it. Licking. Sucking. Circling her clit with the tip of my tongue until she was trembling, her thighs clamping around my head. I slid two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that spot that made her back arch, made her moan my name like a curse and a prayer.
She was soaking—wet enough that every thrust of my fingers made obscene sounds, slick and filthy and hot as hell. I added a third finger, stretching her, feeling her clench around me, her arousal coating my hand, dripping down my wrist.
"God, Wyatt—yes—don't stop—"
I hummed against her clit, the vibration making her shudder, and doubled down—fingers pumping faster, tongue working her relentlessly, sucking her clit into my mouth and flicking it until she was sobbing, her hands fisting the sheets, her body taut as a bowstring.
She came with a cry—her inner walls pulsing around my fingers, flooding my mouth with her release, so wet it spilled down my chin, soaked the sheets beneath us. I licked her through it, gentling my touches as she trembled and gasped, drawing out every aftershock.
I crawled back up her body, kissing every inch I passed, until I was braced over her again. My cock ached, leaking steadily, but I ignored it—focused on her flushed face, her parted lips, her eyes hazy with pleasure.
"You're incredible," I murmured, brushing a kiss across her mouth. "Watching you come ... nothing better."
She smiled lazily, her hands sliding down my sides. "Your turn."
I shook my head. "Not yet."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Wyatt—"
I silenced her with a kiss, deep and claiming, pouring everything into it—the want, the need, the love I'd said out loud but still couldn't fully believe she felt for someone like me. Then I rolled us so she was on top, straddling my hips, her wet heat pressing against my cock.
"Ride me," I said, voice rough.
She bit her lip, eyes darkening, and lifted her hips. Reached between us to grip me—her hand soft and sure—and positioned me at her entrance. Then she sank down—slow, inch by inch, taking me deep until I was buried to the hilt, her ass flush against my thighs.
We both groaned.
She was tight. Wet. Perfect. Clenching around me like she never wanted to let go.
She started moving—slow rolls of her hips at first, grinding down, circling, finding her rhythm. Her breasts bounced with every movement, full and heavy, nipples hard points begging for attention. I reached up, palming them, circling the peaks until she moaned, her head falling back.
"Fuck, Soph ... you feel so good ..."
She picked up speed, rising and falling, her hands braced on my chest for leverage. Every downstroke made a wet slap—her arousal coating us both, slick and messy and hot. I could feel it dripping down my balls, soaking the sheets, the sound obscene and addictive.
I gripped her hips, not guiding, just holding on, feeling her move above me, watching her take her pleasure like she owned it, like she owned me.
Because she did.
She always had.
Her pace turned frantic—hips slamming down, grinding hard against me on every thrust, chasing her release. I slid one hand between us, found her clit swollen and slick, and rubbed tight circles.
"Come for me again," I growled. "I want to feel you soak me."
She shattered—clenching around me so tight it bordered on pain, her release flooding out, wet and hot, splashing against my skin where we joined. She cried out, body shaking, nails digging into my chest hard enough to draw blood.
The sight of her—the feel of her coming undone—pushed me over the edge.
I thrust up once—hard, deep—and came with a roar, spilling inside her in hot pulses, filling her until it leaked out around me, messy and perfect and ours.
She collapsed against my chest, both of us panting, slick with sweat and release.
I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close as aftershocks rippled through us both.
"I love you," she whispered again after, like she needed to say it, needed me to hear it, needed the words to exist in the air between us.
"I love you, too," I said back, meaning it more than anything I'd ever said in my life, even as the weight of what that meant—what it would cost her to love someone like me—settled heavier on my chest. "So much it scares me."
And that, at least, was the truth.
We stayed like that—joined, tangled, breathing together—until sleep pulled us under, dragging us down into darkness that felt safe for once, felt earned, felt like something we'd fought for and won.
And for the first time in years, I didn't dream of war or loss or failure.
I dreamed of her. And us. And a future I didn't deserve but wanted, anyway, wanted so badly it ached like a physical wound, like something vital had been carved out of me and only she could fill the space.
I woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting gold across the bed, across Sophie's naked back where she lay beside me, face down in the pillow, hair a wild copper tangle that made me smile despite the heaviness settling back into my chest like it had never left, like the night had been a temporary reprieve but morning brought the bill due and I couldn't pay it.
She was still asleep, her breathing deep and even, one arm thrown out like she'd reached for me in the night and found me there, like she trusted I wouldn't leave even in sleep, like she believed in permanence in a way I'd stopped believing in years ago.
I watched her for a long moment, memorizing the way the light played across her skin, the freckles scattered across her shoulders like constellations I wanted to trace with my tongue, the curve of her spine disappearing under the sheet tangled low around her hips, the rise and fall of her ribs with each breath that said she was here, she was real, she was mine.
At least, for now.
God, she was beautiful.
And I was going to break her heart.
The thought settled in my gut like lead, heavy and cold and undeniable, a truth I'd been avoiding all night but couldn't escape in the harsh light of morning.
Because I couldn't tell her about Klein.
Couldn't explain why an FBI agent from my past had shown up in Charleston.
Couldn't tell her about Dominion Hall and the decision hanging over me, the choice between everything I'd been and everything I could be, between staying in the military and joining something I didn't fully trust yet.
Couldn't drag her into the mess my life had become, the complications I'd accumulated, the enemies I'd somehow made just by existing, just by being a Dane from Valentine with a father who'd disappeared and brothers who'd scattered and a mother who was forgetting me one day at a time.
And I sure as hell couldn't stay.
Not really. Not the way she deserved. Not when everything I touched eventually turned to ash, when everyone who got close to me ended up hurt or disappointed or both.
I'd promised her forever last night. Promised her Paris and Tuscany and someday, painted pictures of a future where we could just be together without the weight of the world pressing down.
But someday was a lie.
A beautiful lie, maybe. The kind you told yourself when you wanted something so badly you could taste it. But a lie, nonetheless.
And I was still a coward.
Just a coward who'd gotten one perfect night with the only woman who'd ever mattered, who'd ever seen me clearly and loved me, anyway.
I reached out slowly, carefully, and brushed a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek for just a second—warm and soft and real—before pulling back like I'd been burned.
Then I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could, every movement careful and deliberate, grabbing my clothes from where they'd been scattered across the floor in our desperate rush last night, and started getting dressed.
My hands shook as I buttoned my shirt.
I should wake her. Should tell her the truth. Should give her the choice instead of making it for her like I always did, like I'd done twelve years ago when I left Valentine without saying goodbye properly.
But I didn't.
Because staying would only make it hurt worse when I had to leave.
And I always had to leave.
That's what I did best.
Running. Disappearing. Convincing myself it was for the best, that I was protecting people by staying away, that my absence was a gift instead of a betrayal.
I looked back at her one more time and committed it to memory.
Then, I walked out.
Because I was my father's son, after all.
And cowards ran.