Chapter 21
POV: Marina
Outside the restaurant, the air was cool enough to sting.
The city hummed around us, headlights sliding across the pavement, distant laughter spilling from open doors.
He stepped close.
Not rushed.
Not greedy.
Just close enough that my breath tangled with his.
His hand settled at my waist, fingers spreading slowly like he was reacquainting himself with something he’d been denied all evening.
“I can’t stop thinking about you on that couch this morning,” he murmured against my hair.
My pulse jumped. “We were late.”
“I’m waiting since.”
His palm slid lower, resting at the small of my back.
Warm. Steady. Possessive without squeezing.
“You have no idea how hard it was to sit across from you for two hours,” he continued.
My lips parted. “You were the one who said you couldn’t have me.”
His smile was slow. Dangerous.
“I have excellent self-control.”
“And now?”
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
“I don’t need it.”
The kiss wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t frantic.
It was intentional.
His hand tightened slightly at my back as his mouth claimed mine — deep, slow, thorough. Like he had memorized restraint and was now choosing to let it unravel thread by thread.
My fingers curled into his blazer.
The world narrowed.
The city blurred.
He pulled back just enough to look at me.
“That dress,” he said quietly, voice rougher now, “has been testing me all night.”
“You told me to wear it.”
“I did.”
His thumb brushed the edge of the fabric at my waist.
“And I’ve been thinking about peeling it off you since you walked into my apartment.”
Heat spiraled low in my stomach.
He stepped back first.
Opened the passenger door.
Gentleman again.
But when he shut it and walked around the car, I could see it in the set of his shoulders.
He was done being patient.
The drive back was quieter.
Charged.
His hand found my thigh within minutes.
Not playful now.
Firm.
His fingers traced upward slowly, deliberately, stopping just short of where I needed him.
His thumb pressed slightly higher.
My breath caught.
“Still thinking too much?” he asked.
“I’m thinking about how fast you’re driving.”
He smirked faintly. “I’m driving under the limit.”
“Barely.”
His hand slid higher again.
“I told you,” he said calmly, “I have excellent self-control.”
My thighs tightened instinctively.
He noticed.
His hand stilled.
“You don’t close your legs,” he said quietly.
I swallowed. “I don’t want to.”
A pause.
Then softer — darker — “Good.”
When we stepped into his apartment, the door barely closed before he turned me toward him.
Not rough.
Not wild.
Controlled.
His hands framed my waist. His forehead rested briefly against mine.
“One more chance,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“To tell me to slow down.”
I didn’t.
His mouth found mine again — deeper this time, less patient, all that contained tension finally slipping its leash.
He kissed like he meant to dismantle me carefully.
Like he had all night to do it.
His hands slid along my sides, down my hips, back up again, exploring without rushing.
“You have no idea,” he murmured against my mouth, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you properly.”
The word sent a shiver through me.
“Ruin?” I whispered.
“In the best way possible.”
His hand slid to the zipper at my back.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Not pulling it down yet.
Just holding it there.
There it was again.
That edge.
That promise that sounded like devotion.
And like something else.
But when he kissed me again, deeper, slower, unraveling every thought in my head, I stopped searching for warnings.
For a few suspended seconds, there were no ghosts.
No red flags.
No future consequences.
Just his hands.
His mouth.
And the way he said my name like it already belonged to him.
He didn’t walk me to the bedroom.
He carried me.
Firm hands under my thighs, lifting me without warning, my gasp swallowed by his mouth as I wrapped my legs around his waist.
“You’re crazy,” I breathed against his lips.
“Crazy for you.”
He kissed me while moving, steady steps down the hallway like he’d memorized this path.
I could feel him already — hard, urgent, pressing against me through fabric. The promise of him made my stomach tighten.
I laughed into his mouth, half breathless, half drunk on him.
He laid me on the bed like something sacred.
Not thrown.
Placed.
His hands went to the straps of my dress slowly, deliberately. His eyes never left mine as he slid them down my shoulders.
“Inch by inch,” he murmured, almost to himself.
The red fabric descended like a curtain.
His mouth followed.
Not rushed. Not frantic.
Reverent.
He kissed my collarbone like he was memorizing it. My sternum like he was tracing a map. Lower. Slower. Every exposed inch greeted with lips and heat.
I arched without meaning to.
“Don’t rush,” he whispered against my skin. “I’ve been wanting this all night.”
His hands roamed, but his mouth worshiped.
It didn’t feel like hunger.
It felt like devotion.
When he turned me onto my stomach, it wasn’t abrupt. His palms guided me gently, reverently.
His lips traced down my spine, vertebra by vertebra.
I shivered when his breath ghosted over the curve of my hips.
He pressed his face there like he was overwhelmed.
Like he needed a second.
“Marina,” he exhaled.
It wasn’t lust in his voice.
It was awe.
And that did something to me.
I turned before he could decide what came next. Pushed him back. Stripped his shirt from his shoulders, fingers impatient now.
He watched me.
Control slipping.
The composed, commanding doctor unraveling right in front of me.
“You look at me like that,” he muttered, jaw tight, “and I lose every rational thought.”
“Good,” I whispered.
I pushed him back onto the mattress.
And this time, I was the one taking my time.
My hands mapping muscle. My mouth trailing heat down his chest. Feeling his breath grow heavier. His control thinning. And I take him on my mouth.
He gripped the sheets once.
Then my hair.
Then let go.
“Jesus, Marina…”
There was no command in his voice now.
Only reaction.
Only need.
I loved that.
He was always so controlled. So deliberate. So certain.
And here, he let me dismantle him.
His head tipped back.
His voice broke on my name.
And when he finally pulled me up to him again, flipping us back with a growl that vibrated through my bones, his control returned — but different.
Shaken.
Earned.
“Enough,” he said, breathing hard. “My turn, sit in my mouth.”
He laid back and guided me over him.
His hands settled on my waist, firm, steady, positioning me with confidence that made my skin buzz.
His mouth found me.
And I lost the ability to think.
His tongue worked on my clit, then his lips sucking.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t attack.
He explored.
Like he was learning the language of my body and refusing to mispronounce a single syllable.
His eyes lifted once — locked with mine — and the look there wasn’t lust.
It was something deeper.
Something frighteningly close to love.
My hands tangled in his hair.
My hips moved without permission.
He held me steady when I trembled. Held me in place when pleasure started climbing too fast.
“Stay with me,” he murmured against my skin.
And I did.
I stayed.
The build was unbearable.
Slow. Intentional. Overwhelming.
His hands brushed my nipples overlapping the sensations.
The orgasm there, coming.
Being with Brennan was never just bodies colliding — it was souls recognizing each other and refusing to let go.
When it broke, it broke through my entire body. I collapsed forward, breathless, shaking, his hands still firm at my hips, anchoring me.
He pressed his forehead to my stomach.
“You’re unreal,” he said softly.
Not triumphant.
Reverent.
He didn’t let me fall.
Even breathless, even trembling, Brennan never lost control.
He kissed me and rolled us, his body covering mine — not crushing, not overwhelming, just enough weight to remind me he was there. Solid. Real. Anchoring.
His mouth moved against mine like he was sealing something sacred.
This wasn’t tongues tangling.
This was claiming.
This was promise.