CHAPTER 16
ELISE
The second kiss is nothing like the first.
There is no careful beginning, no space left between us for either of us to pretend curiosity is the only thing moving me forward. I catch the front of Nolan’s shirt with my left hand and pull him down. His body follows, but his hands do not.
They remain at his sides.
The restraint irritates me immediately.
“You asked,” I say against his mouth.
“You said yes to a kiss.”
“I came downstairs.”
“That is not blanket permission.”
Even now. Even with his breathing uneven and my fingers twisted in his shirt, he chooses precision over assumption. The choice reaches deeper than desire should be able to reach.
I kiss him again, slower this time. Long enough to notice the warmth of his mouth, the faint taste of coffee, the way he holds himself under control as if desire is another threat requiring containment.
My right hand rests against his chest. The stitches pull when my fingers spread.
Nolan feels the change. He breaks the kiss.
“Your hand.”
“It’s fine.”
“Elise.”
I look at him. The kitchen lights are low.
Rain has stopped against the windows, leaving the glass black and reflective.
In it, I can see the shape of us together: Nolan still half a step away despite my hand in his shirt, me barefoot and tired and wearing a wedding ring I have removed twice in one day.
“It hurts a little,” I admit.
“Then we stop.”
“No.”
His eyes darken.
“That is not an argument.”
“It is a decision.”
“You are exhausted. You were attacked today. You learned—”
“I know what happened to me.”
The sentence comes out sharper than intended.
Nolan’s expression closes. I do not want that.
Not tonight. Not after spending years surrounded by people who either overrule me or withdraw the moment I resist being overruled.
I release his shirt. For one second, I think I have ended this badly.
Then I place my right hand flat against his chest again, careful with the stitches.
“I know what happened,” I say more quietly. “I also know what I want now.”
“What do you want?”
The question should be simple. It is not.
I want him to touch me. I want to stop thinking.
I want to prove that my body can make a choice not organized by fear.
I want the man who kept me inside a secret to look at me without deciding what I can survive.
The answers crowd together until none feels honest enough alone.
“You,” I say.
Nolan’s gaze does not leave my face.
“For comfort?”
“Partly.”
“For distraction?”
“Probably.”
His jaw shifts.
“And because I want you.”
Something in him gives way. Not control. Distance. He lifts one hand and places it lightly at my waist.
“Where?”
The question warms my face.
“Where what?”
“Where can I touch you?”
I could laugh. I almost do, but humor would become another place to hide.
“Everywhere,” I say, then correct myself. “Except my right hand. And be careful with my knee.”
His fingers flex once against my waist.
“All right.”
“That sounded suspiciously calm.”
“It was not.”
I look down. His wedding band rests against my sweater.
The sight affects me more than it did in the municipal office.
Then it belonged to strategy and cameras.
Now it belongs to his hand on my body and the fact that neither of us knows what happens after this.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt. The first comes free easily.
The second does not. My left hand slips.
Nolan covers it with his own.
“Let me.”
“I can do it.”
“I know.”
The words stop me. He is not correcting me. Not predicting failure. Simply offering. I move my hand away.
Nolan opens the remaining buttons slowly, eyes on my face rather than his own hands.
When the shirt parts, the first thing I notice is not the breadth of his chest or the dark hair across it.
It is a pale scar beneath his ribs. Then another near his shoulder.
Evidence without explanation. I touch the lower one.
“What happened?”
“Later.”
“You are withholding information again.”
“It involved a piece of metal and poor judgment. Neither is connected to Theo.”
The answer is unexpectedly ordinary. I trace the edge once.
His abdomen tightens. The reaction produces a quiet, almost disbelieving satisfaction.
Nolan Keir can be affected. Not persuaded, not forced, not thrown off balance by threat.
Affected by me. I lift the hem of my sweater.
He stops me before the fabric reaches my injured hand.
“I’ll do it.”
This time, I agree without argument. He removes the sweater carefully, guiding the sleeve over the bandage and then lowering his hands to my waist again.
His gaze moves across me, but not quickly.
Not like inventory. He looks as though each detail requires a decision about whether he is allowed to want it.
The attention is more intimate than touch.
I am wearing a plain black bra because this morning did not seem like a day that required planning for seduction. My skin still bears a faint red mark near the waist where the attacker caught my coat. Nolan sees it. His thumb approaches the mark. Stops.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
He touches the edge, barely applying pressure. My body reacts anyway. The breath I take is too fast. His hand lifts.
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Fear?”
I do not answer immediately.
“Some.”
He steps back. The loss of warmth makes me angry.
“Do not make that choice for me.”
“I’m not.”
“You moved.”
“So you could decide without my hand on you.”
I stare at him. That is what I asked for in the contract. Choice before pressure. It feels different when the pressure is something I want.
“I still want this,” I say.
Nolan remains where he is.
“Come here.”
He does. This time, when his hand returns to my waist, I cover it with mine and move it higher. The change in his breathing is small. I hear it.
I hear everything tonight: the fabric of his shirt as it slides from his shoulders, the soft scrape of my wedding ring against his skin, the refrigerator cycling on behind us, the almost silent sound he makes when I kiss the scar below his jaw. His mouth moves to my neck.
There is nothing cautious about the desire in him now, but care remains inside every movement.
He avoids the red mark at my waist. Keeps his body from pressing against my knee.
Holds my right wrist loosely enough that I can remove it but firmly enough that I do not forget the stitches.
When his mouth finds the place below my ear, my hand closes against his shoulder.
“Nolan.”
He stops immediately. The abruptness leaves me breathless.
“I was not asking you to stop.”
“What were you asking?”
“I don’t know.”
The admission sounds ridiculous. He looks at me for a long moment.
“All right.”
“You keep accepting that.”
“What?”
“That I don’t know.”
His thumb moves once along the inside of my left wrist.
“You don’t need to know everything before you speak.”
“That is a dangerous philosophy.”
“For you, perhaps.”
I almost answer. Then he kisses me again, and the reply disappears. We reach the stairs without deciding to go upstairs. Nolan pauses at the first step.
“Your room or mine?”
The practical part of me considers my bedroom, the one space in the house assigned entirely to me. The rest of me remembers him sitting outside the door after the attack.
“Yours.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Why?”
“Do you interrogate everyone you take to bed?”
“No.”
“How many people have you taken to this bed?”
The question escapes before I can decide whether I want the answer.
“None.”
I blink.
“You have never—”
“Not here.”
A strange relief enters too quickly. I dislike it on principle. Nolan’s eyes remain on me. “Do you want another room?”
“No.”
He climbs beside me rather than ahead, adjusting his pace for my knee. The care should feel excessive. Instead, it gives me enough confidence to notice the anticipation tightening low in my body.
His bedroom is larger than mine and less finished.
Dark wood, gray walls, a bed without decorative pillows, one chair near the windows.
A watch and an unopened book sit on the nightstand.
No photographs. The absence feels deliberate.
Nolan closes the door but does not lock it. I notice. He notices that I notice.
“Do you want it open?”
“No.”
He closes it fully. For several seconds, we stand apart.
The distance makes everything suddenly awkward.
I am in a stranger’s bedroom. My husband’s bedroom.
The room of a man who has known the outline of my life for seven years and still does not know where I keep extra hair ties.
I sit on the edge of the bed because my knee has begun to ache. Nolan kneels in front of me.
My body tenses. He looks up.
“Your shoes.”
“Oh.”
The word is humiliatingly small. He removes one shoe, then the other. His hands circle my ankle only where necessary. When he reaches the leg with the bruised knee, he pauses.
“Can I see it?”
“Yes.”
I raise the fabric slowly. The bruise has spread into dark purple across the kneecap, red at the edges. Nolan’s face changes.
“It is not worse than it was.”
“It is larger.”
“That is how bruises work.”
“I’m aware.”
“You don’t sound aware.”
He looks at me.
“I sound angry.”
“At me?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate. His hand rests below the bruise without touching it.
“At yourself?”
“Partly.”
“For not preventing the attack.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot prevent everything.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His gaze drops. There it is. The same fracture beneath all his control. I lift my left hand and touch his face.
“I am here.”
“That is not evidence that the system worked.”
“No.” My thumb passes over the edge of his jaw. “It is evidence that I did.”
His attention returns to mine. The room becomes quieter.
“You did,” he says.
The acknowledgment moves through me more deeply than praise would. Nolan stands. When he kisses me again, there is no hesitation left in either of us.