Chapter 13
Devin
The side entrance of the bar is dark and quiet. Silas takes my hand, leads me up the narrow staircase, and I'm acutely aware of every point of contact. His fingers laced through mine, his thumb moving against my knuckle, the warmth radiating off his body in the cold stairwell.
"Quiet," he murmurs. "Supernatural hearing."
"Everyone's?"
"Knox's is the worst. He can hear a conversation through two walls."
"That's terrifying."
"That's why we're being quiet."
We make it to his door without incident.
He unlocks it one-handed, not letting go of me, and pulls me inside.
The room is small. I knew it would be, from what Robin's said about the living situation above the bar.
But it's his. His books on the shelf, his jacket on the hook, his bed against the far wall with a reading lamp and a stack of novels on the nightstand.
The room smells like him, cedar and something warm, the scent I've been cataloging since the first morning he brought me vending machine coffee.
The door closes. The lock clicks. And suddenly we're alone in a way we've never been. Not the library, not the café, not the overlook with its open sky. A room with a bed and a lock and no one watching.
He cups my face. Studies me in the dim light from the street. His eyes are serious, careful, full of the focused attention he gives everything. Books, conversations, me.
"We can do whatever you want," he says softly. "Just kiss. More. Nothing. Everything. Your choice."
My choice. Like it's always been with him. My choice to take the break, my choice to hold his hand, my choice to show up at Lucia's after the wall. He gives me the decision every time. Not because he doesn't know what he wants, but because he knows what it means for me to choose.
"I want everything," I say, and I'm surprised by how sure I sound. "I want you."
"Thank fuck," he breathes, and kisses me.
This kiss is different from every kiss before it. Not the quick brave press of the overlook, not the desperate heat of the sidewalk, not the soft goodnight kisses at Haven House. This is intent. Purpose. The kiss of a man who's been given permission and plans to use it well.
His hands slide under my shirt, Robin's black henley, the one I'm already thinking of as the shirt I wore the first time, warm against my skin. I arch into the touch, gasping against his mouth.
"Bed," he says. Then catches himself. "I mean, we're in — this is the bedroom. It's a studio."
"I noticed."
"Right. Bed, then."
"Smooth."
"I'm very nervous. Give me a break."
He's nervous. This gorgeous, confident, man who reads fantasy novels and fixes bikes and once stared down a drunk at Murphy's without saying a word. He's nervous. About me.
I pull him toward the bed by his henley, the green one, the devastating one, the one I'm about to take off him. We fall onto it together, him catching his weight on his forearms, careful even now. His body over mine is solid and warm, grounding but not trapping.
"You're so beautiful," he says, looking down at me.
"So are you." I pull at his shirt. "Take this off."
He sits back, pulls it over his head. Lean muscle, a scattering of scars I want to learn the stories of, a trail of dark hair leading down from his navel.
His body is lived-in. Not a gym body, not performative.
A body that works on motorcycles and carries books and holds me tightly like I'm something valuable.
"My turn," he says, voice lower now.
He pushes my shirt up, and I lift so he can pull it off. The air is cool against my skin for one second before his hands are there, mapping my chest, my ribs, the dip of my waist. His thumbs brush over my nipples and I arch off the bed with a sound I didn't know I could make.
"Sensitive," he murmurs, and does it again. Deliberately. Watching my face.
"Silas —"
"I want to learn everything." He kisses my throat. My collarbone. The center of my chest. "Every sound you make. Every place that makes you react."
His mouth finds my nipple and I nearly come off the bed. His hand holds my hip, steadying me, and the combination, his mouth, his hand, the weight of him between my legs, is overwhelming in the best possible way.
"Please," I say. I'm not even sure what I'm asking for. Just more. Everything.
He kisses down my stomach, taking his time. Teeth grazing my hip bone, I gasp. Tongue dipping into my navel, I moan. His mouth sucking a mark just above my waistband, I arch into it, my hands tangling in his hair.
"Silas, please, I need —"
"What do you need?" His fingers hook into my jeans but don't pull. "Tell me."
"Your mouth." The words come out in a whisper, my face burning. "Want your mouth on me."
He works my jeans open slowly, pulls them down. I lift my hips and he takes everything, jeans, boxers, in one smooth motion.
The air on my skin. His eyes on me. I'm fully exposed and he's looking at me like I'm something extraordinary.
"Beautiful," he says, and the word sounds like a vow.
He starts slow. Kissing around the base, my inner thighs, everywhere except where I need him. The sounds I'm making are soft, desperate, beyond my control.
"Silas, please, stop teasing —"
He licks a stripe from base to tip and I cry out, hips jerking. His arm pins me gently, holding me still.
"Let me take care of you," he murmurs against me. "Let me make you feel good."
He takes me in his mouth and the world narrows to the wet heat of him, the suction, the devastating thing he does with his tongue. My hands tighten in his hair, just holding on, anchoring myself, because without the grip I'd fly apart.
"Oh god." I breathe. "Oh fuck, Silas —"
He takes me deeper, hollowing his cheeks, pressing his tongue against the spot under the head that makes my vision blur. My thighs are shaking. Nobody has ever. I've never.
"So good," he pulls off to say, voice wrecked. "You taste so good, Dev."
"Silas, I'm — if you keep — I'm going to —"
"That's the idea." He takes me deep again, throat relaxing, and the feeling of him swallowing around me.
"Fuck!" My hips buck. "Sorry, sorry —"
"Don't apologize. Love how responsive you are. Love the sounds you make."
He goes back, one hand cupping me gently, adding sensation that layers on top of his mouth until I can't distinguish one pleasure from another. I'm close. He can tell.
"Silas, I'm gonna — you should —"
He takes me deeper in response, eyes locked on mine. The eye contact does it. I come with a cry I muffle against my arm, back arching, and he swallows everything, working me through it until I'm whimpering from oversensitivity.
He pulls off gently. Kisses my hip. My stomach. Works his way back up my body, pressing his mouth to every part of me.
"Holy shit," I manage.
"Good?"
"No one's ever done that for me before."
Something protective flares in his eyes. "Their loss."
He kisses me, deep and tender. I can taste myself on his tongue and I don't care, I just pull him closer. He's still in his jeans. I can feel him hard against my thigh.
"Your turn," I say, reaching for his waist.
He catches my wrist. Gently. "Wait."
"What?"
"I want more." His voice is rough, careful. "Want to be inside you. If you want that. Only if you want —"
"Yes." No hesitation. "God, yes. I want that."
He kisses me hard, then pulls back. Looks at me.
"You've done this before?"
The question.
The truth: no. Never. Not this, not the mouth, not anything beyond fumbling kisses and one terrible handjob in a group home when I was seventeen that lasted ninety seconds and meant nothing. I am, by every meaningful definition, a virgin.
The truth will stop him. I know this with the certainty of someone who has studied this man for weeks.
If I say no, I've never done this, his brain will fire.
The responsible brain. The one that did the math on the sidewalk and decided the sum was too dangerous.
He'll stop. He'll be kind about it, he's always kind, but he'll pull back and suggest we wait, and the evening will end with him holding me while his conscience wrestles with his desire.
I can't do that again. I can't watch him retreat because my inexperience tips the balance even further between us.
So I lie.
"Twice," I say. "A while ago. Not... not like this, though." I make myself meet his eyes. "Not with someone who matters."
His face softens. "You matter to me too. So much."
The lie sits in my throat like a stone. But his hands are on me and his mouth is on mine and he reaches into the nightstand without hesitation. He's not stopping. He's not spiraling. He's here, with me, because I removed the obstacle.
I'm not proud of it. But I'd do it again.
He warms the lube between his fingers, making sure it's not cold, making sure even this small thing isn't a discomfort.
"How do you want to do this?" he asks.
"Like this. On my back. I want to see you."
"Perfect." He settles between my legs, kisses me softly. "We go slow. You tell me if anything doesn't feel good."
"Okay."
His finger circles me, gentle, patient. I tense, the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, and he pauses immediately.
"Relax," he murmurs, kissing my thigh. "I've got you."
I breathe. Focus on his voice, his hand on my thigh, the warmth of him. He works one finger in slowly, watching my face, and the sensation is strange. Not bad. Fuller than I expected. More intimate than I could have imagined.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Keep going."
When he finds the spot inside me, I gasp, a sharp, full-body reaction.
"Oh." I breathe. "Oh fuck, that's —"
"Good?"
"So good. More. Please."
A second finger. The stretch is more now, but his other hand is stroking my thigh and his mouth is pressing kisses to my hip and he's watching my face with such focused attention that I feel seen in a way that's almost unbearable.
"You're doing so well," he says, and the praise goes through me like electricity. "Taking me so perfectly."