Chapter 9 #2
He moved behind me, and I fought the urge to turn. His fingers found the zipper of my dress, toying with the pull. "Been driving myself crazy with what-ifs and maybes. But the reality?" The zipper descended one tooth at a time. "Reality is so much better."
Cool air hit my back as the dress parted. His fingertips skimmed the revealed skin, barely there, just enough to make me arch slightly.
"Steady," he murmured, and I forced myself still. "That's it. Just like that."
He moved around to face me again, eyes tracking over my face, reading every micro-expression. Whatever he saw must have pleased him because his hands came up to my shoulders, fingertips sliding under the straps of my dress.
"Tell me about the tattoo here," he said, tracing the cherry blossoms that curved over my left shoulder. "When did you get this one?"
The question surprised me. "Two years ago," I answered, then caught myself. I wasn't supposed to speak.
But he smiled, that rare full smile. "Good. When I ask a direct question, you answer. Otherwise, quiet. Understand?"
I nodded, relieved to have clear rules.
"Words," he reminded me.
"I understand."
"Perfect." His fingers continued their exploration of the tattoo. "Why cherry blossoms?"
"They're about life being beautiful but short. Precious." My voice came out breathier than normal as his touch sent sparks across my skin. "Reminded me to stop waiting for someday."
"No more somedays," he agreed, and slowly, torturously slowly, slid the straps down my arms.
The dress wanted to fall, but his hands caught it at my chest, holding the fabric in place. "This is hard for you," he observed. "Keeping your hands back. I can see how much you want to touch."
God, he was right. My fingers had gone white from how hard I was clasping them together, fighting every instinct that screamed to reach for him.
"But you're doing so well," he continued, slowly lowering the fabric. "Being so good for me. Do you know what that does to me? Seeing you follow my commands even when it's difficult?"
The dress slipped lower, catching briefly on my hips. His eyes never left mine, watching my face even as he revealed my body. "It makes me want to reward you. Praise you. Take care of you in every way you'll let me."
"Please," the word slipped out before I could stop it.
"Please what?" He paused with the dress barely clinging to my hips. "Tell me what you need."
I warred with the command to stay quiet, uncertain if this counted as a direct question. He noticed, because of course he did.
"You can speak," he clarified. "Tell me."
"I need you to touch me," I admitted. "Really touch me. Not just these teasing little brushes."
"Hmm." He pretended to consider this while his fingers drew patterns on my hips, just above where the dress clung. "But I like teasing you. Like watching you tremble. Like knowing how wet you are without me even properly touching you yet."
Heat flooded my face because he was right. I was embarrassingly, desperately wet just from his commands and feather-light touches.
"Soon," he promised, voice dropping to that register that made my insides liquid. "But first, we do this right. I’m in control."
True to his word, he took his time. The dress slipped lower with agonizing slowness, his knuckles grazing my skin as he guided the fabric over my hips.
Each inch revealed was accompanied by his focused attention, like he was memorizing every detail.
When the dress finally pooled at my feet in a puddle of black fabric and rebellion, I stood before him in nothing but combat boots and vulnerability.
The cool air raised goosebumps across my skin, but it was his gaze that made me shiver.
He looked at me like I was art. Like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.
His eyes tracked over every curve, every tattoo, every imperfection, and somehow made me feel more beautiful than I'd ever felt in my life.
"Fucking gorgeous," he murmured, the curse slipping out like he couldn't help himself. "Know what I thought the first time I saw you?"
I shook my head, still following his no-speaking rule even though my throat ached with words I wanted to say.
"Thought 'there's trouble.'" His hands skimmed my sides, never quite touching where I desperately needed, just close enough to make my skin sing with anticipation. "All that purple hair and attitude. Those deadly eyes that looked right through me like you could see every secret I've ever kept."
He leaned close, breath hot against my ear.
"Knew you'd wreck me. Knew it the second you opened your mouth and gave me shit about being too serious.
Nobody talks to me like that. Nobody challenges me.
But you?" He pulled back to meet my eyes.
"You looked at the tactical officer of the Heavy Kings and decided to poke the bear. "
A laugh bubbled up before I could stop it, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.
"I was right," he continued, voice dropping to that gravelly register that did things to my insides. "You wrecked me completely. Made me want things I'd sworn off. Made me risk everything just to taste your mouth."
"Tyson," I breathed, forgetting the rules entirely.
"Shh." He pressed a finger to my lips. "My turn to talk. Your turn to listen."
I nodded, biting back more words.
"On the bed," he commanded, stepping back to give me room. "On your back."
I kicked off my boots first, probably looking ridiculous hopping on one foot, but his eyes never left me.
The intensity of his attention made even that simple act feel charged.
When I crawled onto the bed, hyperaware of his gaze tracking every movement, I felt powerful and vulnerable simultaneously.
I settled against my pillows, trying to arrange myself in some way that looked sexy rather than awkward. Arms at my sides? Above my head? I started to cross them over my chest, sudden self-consciousness hitting, but his voice stopped me.
"Don't you dare hide from me." The words came out rough, almost angry, but I knew it wasn't directed at me. "You're beautiful. Perfect. Mine to look at."
Mine. There was that word again, possessive and certain. I forced my arms back to my sides, fighting the urge to cover myself. He watched me struggle with it, patient but unwavering.
"Good girl," he praised when I finally stilled. "So brave."
As a reward, or maybe just because he'd reached his own limit, he reached for the buttons of his shirt. My mouth went dry as he revealed himself inch by inch. I'd felt those muscles, had run my hands over them through fabric, but seeing was different.
He was a map of survival. Scars crossed his torso—some surgical, some clearly from combat.
A puckered mark near his ribs that looked like a bullet wound.
A long slash across his left pec that must have hurt like hell.
But between the damage was strength. Muscle carved by discipline and purpose, skin bronzed by Colorado sun, tattoos that told stories I wanted to spend hours reading.
My gaze fell lower as he discarded the shirt, and my breath caught.
He was already hard for me, his cock thick and long, pointing straight at me with intent.
I'd felt him before through his jeans, had guessed at his size, but seeing was believing.
He was big—big enough that I wondered how he'd fit, big enough that my mouth watered even as nerves fluttered in my belly.
"See something you like?" he teased, catching my stare.
"Everything," I admitted honestly. "I like everything. You're like a warrior statue. All dangerous beauty and controlled power."
Red crept up his neck at the description. "Lena—"
"What? You get to tell me I'm perfect. I get to return the favor." I grinned at his discomfort. "Deal with it, Soldier Boy."
"Brat," he muttered, but he was fighting a smile.
"Sweet talker." But he was pleased, I could tell by the way his eyes softened.
He moved to the bed with that lethal grace, all controlled power and careful intent. When he joined me, he didn't immediately touch. Instead, he hovered over me, weight on his forearms, caging me in without contact. The heat from his body washed over me, and I arched slightly, seeking connection.
"Patience," he murmured, still not touching. "Need to tell you something first."
I forced myself still, watching his face. This close, I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the way his pupils had blown wide with want.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said, voice steady despite the tension thrumming through him. "I'm going to touch you everywhere. Learn what makes you gasp, what makes you beg. Going to map every sensitive spot, every place that makes you shake."
My breath came faster just from his words, anticipation building to an almost painful level.
"And you're going to let me," he continued. "You're going to be good and take what I give you. No rushing, no demands. Just trust me to take care of you. Can you do that?"
"Yes," I breathed immediately. "Please, yes."
"There's my good girl," he praised, and finally, blessedly, lowered himself enough that our skin touched.
The first contact was electric. His chest pressed against mine, and I couldn't contain the sound that escaped—part relief, part need. He was so warm, all that solid muscle and scarred skin creating the perfect contrast to my softness. I felt his cock brush against my thigh and I gasped with need.
"Been thinking about this," he admitted against my throat, lips barely grazing. "How you'd feel. How you'd taste. Drove myself crazy imagining it."
"Reality better or worse?" I managed to ask.
"Better," he said immediately. "So much better. You're so soft, Lena. So perfect. And the sounds you make . . ." He nipped lightly at my pulse point, drawing another gasp. "Going to learn them all. Every single one."