Chapter 12
MICAH
She said it like a challenge wrapped in silk. "Then don’t be polite."
My control snapped. Not all at once, like some amateur losing his shit. No, it frayed first—a slow unraveling that started with her eyes on mine, wide and steady, daring me to cross the line I'd drawn in my own head.
I reached for her. My hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers threading into that soft braid, pulling her closer with just enough force to let her know I wasn't playing. Her breath hitched, but she didn't pull away. She leaned in.
Our mouths met. Not soft. Not tentative.
I kissed her like I'd been starving for it, like the taste of her was the only thing that could fill the hollow I'd carried.
Her lips parted under mine, warm and yielding, and I took the invitation without asking twice.
My tongue swept in, claiming the sweetness there—coffee and something uniquely her, like sunlight on fresh-cut stems.
She made a sound. Small. Surprised. It went straight to my cock, already straining against my jeans like it had a mind of its own.
I deepened the kiss, angling her head back, my other hand finding her waist and pulling her flush against me.
Her body molded to mine—soft curves pressing into hard lines—and I felt her tremble.
Not fear. Want. The kind that mirrored mine.
I broke the kiss first, trailing my mouth down her jaw, nipping at the skin there just hard enough to mark without breaking. "You sure about this?" I murmured against her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my lips.
"Yes," she whispered, her hands fisting in my shirt. "Don't stop."
Fuck. That voice. Soft but insistent. It undid me.
I pulled back enough to look at her—cheeks flushed, lips swollen from my mouth, eyes dark with the same hunger twisting in my gut. She was beautiful. Too beautiful for a man like me, with hands that had ended lives and a soul stained beyond recognition. But she was here. Wanting this. Wanting me.
I didn't deserve it. But I'd take it, anyway.
My hands slid down her sides, tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
I hooked my fingers under the hem of her shirt, waiting for her to tense, to hesitate.
She didn't. Instead, she lifted her arms, letting me peel it off her in one slow motion.
The fabric whispered against her skin as it came free, revealing pale lace that cupped her breasts like an offering.
Jesus.
I tossed the shirt aside and just looked. Her skin was flawless—smooth, warm under my palms as I traced the line of her collarbone, down to the swell above her bra. Goosebumps followed my touch, and her nipples hardened against the lace, begging for attention.
"You're perfect," I said, voice rougher than I intended.
She shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "No one's perfect."
"You are." I meant it. In that moment, she was everything clean and good that I'd forgotten existed.
I leaned in, pressing my mouth to the hollow of her throat, tasting salt and sweetness. My hands cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over the peaks through the lace. She arched into me, a soft gasp escaping her lips. I did it again, harder, rolling them between my fingers until she whimpered.
"More," she breathed.
That word. From her. It lit a fire in me.
I reached behind her, unclasping the bra with one hand—old skills never die—and slid it off her shoulders.
Her breasts spilled free, full and soft, nipples dusky pink and begging.
I took one in my mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, my tongue flicking over the tip while my hand worked the other.
She moaned, her fingers digging into my scalp, pulling me closer. "Micah ..."
Hearing my name like that—breathless, needy—nearly broke me. I switched sides, giving the other breast the same attention, my free hand sliding down her stomach, tracing the soft skin there. She was trembling now, her body responding to every touch like it was the first time.
Maybe it was.
The thought hit me like cold water. I pulled back, searching her face. "Have you done this before?"
Her cheeks flushed deeper, but she met my eyes. "No."
Virgin. Of course, she was. Sweet, careful Joy. Untouched. And here I was, ready to wreck her.
I started to pull away. "We should—"
"No." Her hands caught my shirt, holding me in place. "Don't stop. I want this. With you."
Fuck. The trust in her voice. It should've scared me off. Instead, it pulled me under.
I kissed her again, slower this time, pouring everything I couldn't say into it. My hands explored—down her sides, over her hips, hooking into the waistband of her shorts. I tugged, and she lifted her hips, letting me slide them off along with her panties.
Naked. Completely naked in front of me.
I drank her in—long legs, the soft curve of her belly, the neat triangle of blonde curls between her thighs. She was wet already, glistening, and the sight made my cock throb painfully against my jeans.
"Beautiful," I murmured, my voice gravel.
She shifted under my gaze, not hiding, but vulnerable. "Micah ..."
I knelt in front of her, parting her thighs with my hands. She gasped as I settled between them, my breath hot against her skin. I kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, working my way up slowly, savoring the way she trembled.
When my mouth finally reached her center, I paused, looking up at her. Her eyes were wide, lips parted, watching me.
"Tell me if it's too much," I said.
She nodded, biting her lip.
I leaned in, my tongue flicking out to taste her. Sweet. Slick. Perfect. She bucked against my mouth, a soft cry escaping her. I held her hips steady, licking slowly at first—long strokes that parted her folds, circling her clit without touching it directly.
Teasing.
Building.
Her hands fisted in my hair, pulling me closer. "Please ..."
That word again. I gave in, sucking her clit gently into my mouth, my tongue working it in circles. She moaned louder, her body arching off the sofa. I slid one finger inside her—tight, so fucking tight—and curled it, searching for that spot.
Found it.
She gasped, her walls clenching around me. I added a second finger, pumping slowly while my mouth worked her clit harder, faster.
"Micah—oh, God—"
She came undone under me, her body shaking, thighs clamping around my head as she cried out. I didn't stop, drawing it out, licking her through the aftershocks until she was limp and breathless.
When I pulled back, her eyes were glazed, cheeks flushed. "That was ..."
I kissed her inner thigh. "Just the start."
She reached for me, pulling me up. Her hands fumbled with my shirt, tugging it over my head. I let her, watching as her gaze roamed over my chest, my scars, the ink that told stories I wasn't ready to share.
"You're beautiful," she whispered, tracing a tattoo on my shoulder.
I almost laughed. Beautiful wasn't a word for men like me. But the way she said it—like she meant it—made something twist in my chest.
She unbuckled my belt next, her fingers trembling but determined. I helped her, shoving my jeans and boxers down, kicking them off. My cock sprang free, hard and aching, and her eyes widened.
"Oh," she breathed.
I cupped her face. "We can stop."
"No." She shook her head, her hand wrapping around me tentatively. I groaned at the touch—soft, curious. She stroked once, experimental, and I fought the urge to thrust into her grip.
"Like this?" she asked.
"Fuck—yes."
She grew bolder, her hand moving faster, thumb brushing over the tip where pre-come beaded. I kissed her hard, walking us backward toward the bedroom without breaking contact. We stumbled through the door, her back hitting the mattress as I followed her down.
I settled between her thighs, my cock pressing against her entrance but not entering. Not yet. I rocked against her, sliding through her wetness, the friction making us both groan.
She wrapped her legs around me, pulling me closer. "Please, Micah. I need you."
Those words. From her. They broke the last of my restraint.
I positioned myself, the head of my cock nudging her entrance. She was so wet, so ready, but tight—God, so tight.
"Slow," I murmured, more to myself than her.
I pushed in an inch, watching her face. She bit her lip, eyes fluttering closed.
"Look at me," I said.
She did. Our gazes locked as I sank deeper, inch by inch, her body stretching around me. It was agony—sweet, torturous agony—not to thrust hard and bury myself to the hilt.
Halfway in, she winced.
I froze. "Hurt?"
"A little," she admitted. "But don't stop."
I kissed her, deep and slow, my hand sliding between us to circle her clit. She relaxed under me, moaning into my mouth. I pushed further, feeling her open for me, until I was fully seated inside her.
Buried deep.
We both stilled, breathing hard. She was velvet heat around me, clenching in a way that made my vision blur.
"You okay?" I asked, voice strained.
"Yes," she whispered. "Move. Please."
I did. Slow at first—pulling out almost completely, then thrusting back in, building a rhythm. She met me, her hips lifting, nails digging into my back.
"Faster," she breathed.
Fuck.
I picked up the pace, driving into her harder, the bed creaking under us. Her moans grew louder, breathless, and I captured them with my mouth, swallowing every sound like it was mine to keep.
She came first—her body arching, walls pulsing around me, pulling me over the edge with her. I thrust deep one last time, spilling inside her with a groan that felt ripped from my chest.
We collapsed together, sweaty and spent. I rolled to the side, pulling her against me, my hand stroking her back as our breathing slowed.
She nestled closer, her head on my chest. "That was ..."
"Yeah," I agreed.
We lay there in the quiet, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin. I should've felt regret. Shame. The usual shadows that followed moments like this.
But with her warm against me, all I felt was peace.
For the first time in years.
And that scared me more than anything.