Chapter 12
Brielle Shaw
It’s a miracle Leon didn’t wake up from his nap.
I mean, genuinely—how didn’t he? I’m not the type to scream during sex. I never have been. Never felt the need to. Half the time, it was over before anything even built up, and the other half, I was too busy overthinking to let myself go.
But Desmond?
Desmond Coyle—with his stupid, perfect, ridiculous body, all hard muscle and calloused hands, arms that could carry me like I was nothing and a mouth that should come with a damn warning?
His voice alone should be illegal. The way he talks to me, like I’m the only thing in the world worth touching, worth tasting.
Like everything he’s saying is meant for me.
All that dirty, growling, sweet-twisted filth that makes my brain melt and my body go limp like he’s rewiring me from the inside out.
And then there’s… that.
I swear I blacked out for a second when he dropped his jeans.
I’d never seen anything like it. And then—he used it.
Not like a guy trying to prove something, not like someone who just wanted to get off.
But like he meant it. Every stroke, every word, every look like he was trying to leave fingerprints on my soul.
Whatever the hell we just did?
It wasn’t just sex.
It wasn’t even just good sex.
It was everything I didn’t know I was missing.
He touched me like I wasn’t something to tiptoe around or tolerate. He kissed me like I was worth slowing down for. He held me like he’d already decided to stay.
And I—
God, I screamed.
I cried out, came so hard I shook, clung to him like I was drowning. I think I might’ve actually begged. And I’d never done that. Never even thought I could.
But he made it feel safe. Like I could be loud. Like I could fall apart and not be judged for it. Like he’d be there to catch me the second I slipped.
Now I’m lying here, still a little out of it. My body’s sore in all the best ways—soft, heavy, glowing in places I didn’t know could glow. My hair’s a mess, probably sticking out in wild directions from his hands being all tangled in it, and I’m too warm to care.
Desmond’s right beside me.
Close. Warm. Solid.
His chest is pressed to my back, his breath slow and steady against the nape of my neck.
One of his arms is wrapped low across my stomach, like he’s holding me in place—like he’s scared I’ll slip away if he loosens his grip.
And maybe I would. Not on purpose, just…
out of habit. I’ve spent so long leaving first, disappearing before anyone noticed I was still there.
But he’s not letting me go.
Not even a little.
His fingers brush along my skin—lazy and absent, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—drawing faint shapes against my side.
Every so often, he finds a lock of my hair and plays with it.
Twists it gently around his fingers, rubs the strands between his calloused thumb and forefinger, then lets it go again.
Like he’s memorizing the feel of me.
Like I’m something soft in his world for once.
And from time to time, when I think maybe he’s fallen asleep, he leans in and drops a slow kiss on my shoulder. Then my neck. Then behind my ear. Nothing rushed. Nothing demanding.
Just there.
Steady.
And for a second—maybe longer—it feels like this is just… normal. Like it’s not complicated. Like he’s not my boss, and I’m not the woman who was living in a hatchback two weeks ago, worried about where to shower and how to keep the car from going too cold.
Like I didn’t just fall into something I don’t know how to hold.
Because that’s what this feels like now—something good. Something real. Something I’m afraid to break just by touching it too hard.
I close my eyes and focus on the way his thumb strokes over my belly. The way his mouth lingers against my shoulder, warm and careful. The way his presence anchors me—makes me feel like I don’t have to brace for impact.
And I want it.
I want it more than I want to breathe.
But there’s this little voice in the back of my mind whispering reminders I don’t want to hear.
That I’ve been a guest in his house. That I still don’t know where this ends. That I’ve had people act like this before—tender in the moment, cold the next morning. That he might wake up and realize this was a mistake.
That I was a mistake.
But right now?
He’s still here.
Still holding me like he means it.
Still kissing me like he wants to.
So I let myself have this moment.
This soft, impossible moment where someone like me is being touched like she matters.
And if it all falls apart tomorrow… at least I’ll have this.
At least I’ll know what it felt like to be held like I was worth staying for.
“You okay?” he mumbles against the back of my neck, lips brushing the skin there like punctuation.
I nod, the motion small. “Yeah… just…” I trail off, chewing on my bottom lip, unsure how to explain the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with sex. “I don’t know. Thinking.”
He hums low in his throat. “Thinking about what?”
I almost don’t answer. Almost pretend I’m too tired to talk. But then he speaks again—softer this time, his voice rough in that just-woke-up way, but with something else threaded through it too.
“Was I too rough with you?” he asks, barely above a whisper. “Too much?”
There’s something in the way he says it—tentative. Like he’s bracing for me to say yes. Like he’s already imagining pulling away.
And that alone makes something tighten in my chest.
This is Desmond. Confident, gruff, built like a wall. The kind of man who knows what to do with his hands. Who takes care of things without asking for praise. But right now, with me? He sounds like a man afraid he got it wrong.
I shift, turning in his arms until we’re face to face, tangled up in sheets that still smell like him and heat and us.
His eyes flick to mine, searching.
“No,” I say quietly, brushing my fingers across his jaw. “I liked it.”
His brow furrows just a little, like he’s not sure if I mean it.
So I go on.
“I loved it, actually,” I say, breath catching a little, like the words feel too bold coming out of my mouth. My cheeks are hot—burning—but I make myself look at him when I say it. He deserves that much. “You were very… attentive.”
He raises his eyebrows a little, not cocky—just curious. Open. Waiting.
I swallow. “I don’t think I ever came more than once before…”
The admission slips out before I can grab it back. And then the silence sits between us, soft and heavy. I feel the heat climb all the way to my ears.
“It’s true,” I rush to add, like he might think I’m exaggerating. “My exes— they were all, y’know… smooth. Charming. Said all the right things. But in the sheets?” I shrug, small and awkward. “It was kind of… not about me.”
His jaw tightens a little, just barely. Not angry at me—just listening.
“I think they figured if I did finish, great. And if I didn’t, well…” I twist the sheet between my fingers, the fabric giving me something to anchor onto. “That was my fault. Like everything else.”
Desmond’s hand on my stomach goes still.
I should stop. I know I should. This isn’t the time, not after what we just did—this warm little bubble we’re lying in. But the words keep coming, like they’ve been waiting for a crack to slip through.
“And if I said anything at all— even gentle stuff— they’d get… upset.” The word feels too soft for the memories behind it. “They’d yell, or say I was ungrateful. Or they’d… throw things. Slam stuff. Or call me names.”
My voice fades to a whisper near the end, like the last part is somehow more shameful to admit than the rest.
Desmond draws in a quiet breath—slow and controlled, like he’s holding something back. His hand moves again, but differently now. Not just resting—holding. Gentle but firm, sliding from my stomach to my waist, tucking me closer to his chest without forcing it.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “Look at me a second.”
I do. Hesitant. Unsure.
His eyes aren’t pitying.
They’re fierce. Warm. Protective in a way that makes something inside me loosen painfully.
“What they did to you?” he says softly. “That wasn’t anger, Brielle. That was cruelty.”
My throat tightens.
“And what they gave you wasn’t sex. It was selfishness.” His thumb brushes my hip, slow circles that calm instead of ignite. “Nothing you said or didn’t say ever made you deserve that.”
I blink fast, not ready for the sting behind my eyes.
He leans in, presses a kiss to my forehead—so gentle it almost hurts.
“You being honest with me doesn’t scare me,” he says. “It helps me know how to take care of you right.”
My breath hitches.
“And for the record?” His voice dips, warm and quiet. “You finish with me because you matter. Because your pleasure matters. Because I actually…” He exhales, brushing his lips over my temple. “…give a damn about how you feel.”
Those words settle deep—somewhere I’ve always kept locked up tight.
I let out a shaky breath, curling closer to him, letting his warmth, his steadiness, hold me in place.
“You can tell me if something’s too much,” he adds. “Or not enough. Or if you want something different. That’s not gonna make me angry. That’s just gonna make me better for you.”
I nod, pressing my face against his chest.
Because for the first time in a long time—
I believe him.
I believe him in a way that feels new. Unfamiliar. Like maybe trust isn’t something that has to be earned through pain, or fear, or walking on eggshells. Maybe it’s allowed to be given, gently. Bit by bit.
He holds me close, his thick arms wrapping around me like they were made to do exactly that. His chest is warm against my back, solid and safe, and the way he presses his face into my hair makes something in me ache. Like he needs to be near me just as much as I need to be near him.
After a while, he speaks—quiet, uncertain, like the words cost something.
“My ex-wife told me I was… too rough.”
I don’t say anything right away.
He doesn’t stop there.
“If it’s too much,” he goes on, voice lower now, almost gruff, “just tell me. I’ll hold back. Or do it better. Or slower. Or differently. I don’t—” He pauses, his breath catching slightly. “I just— I don’t want to hurt—”