Chapter 17 #2
He cups my jaw with both of them, large, warm…
careful in a way that steals the breath right out of me.
His thumbs settle just beneath my cheekbones, not possessive this time, not rough, just steady, as if he needs to hold my face in place to make sure I’m real.
To make sure I’m still here. The contrast of that gentleness against everything jagged in him nearly undoes me on its own.
He bends toward me like he’s trying not to.
That is what makes it unbearable. Not hesitation.
Not uncertainty. Effort. The visible strain of a man holding himself back by inches, as if each one costs him more than he wants me to know.
His mouth hovers close enough that I can feel his breath across my lips, warm and uneven.
For one suspended second the whole room feels balanced on that distance.
Before he can close it, I do.
Not with a kiss. With my forehead against his.
The touch is soft, almost unsteady, but it hits with the force of confession. He stills instantly. His hands stay at my face, warm against my jaw, thumbs resting beneath my ears. My own palms flatten over his chest, over scar tissue, bruises, and the frantic, punishing beat of his heart.
“They never kissed the things they broke,” I whisper.
The words leave me quietly. They land like a wound opening.
His breath catches. I feel it against my mouth.
For one impossible second, neither of us moves.
The silence around us deepens until it feels underwater, until all I can hear is the rough drag of his breathing and the frantic thud under my hands.
When he lifts his head enough to look at me, there is nothing guarded left in his face.
Whatever sharpness he usually hides behind is gone. What’s left is stripped raw.
Then he kisses me.
It is not gentle. It is not careful. It feels like he has been trying not to do this for so long that the restraint rots the second he gives in.
His mouth hits mine with a force that knocks the breath out of me, deep and hungry from the very first second.
When I kiss him back, when I open for him without any pretense of resistance, something wrecked breaks loose in his throat.
His hands leave my face and go to my waist, my feet dragging before I’m off the ground.
The motion is quick, almost rough in its urgency, but his hold is sure.
He drags me up his body until my legs go around his waist on instinct.
He catches me there like he knows exactly how to hold me, one arm hooked hard beneath my thighs, the other spread wide across my back.
The kiss deepens immediately, turns rougher, fuller, almost angry with need.
My body presses flush to his, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, and then I feel it, the hard length of him through his sweats, jammed hot between my thighs because of me.
The realization shoots through me so hard I make a sound into his mouth.
He groans in answer, low and broken, hauling me tighter against him, grinding me down just enough that the friction makes my whole body light up.
Even through the layers, even through cotton, heat and the mess of our breathing, I can feel how hard he is.
How ready. How badly he wants this. The knowledge turns the kiss feral.
There is nothing polished about it. It is messy in the way real hunger is, teeth catching, lips parting too fast, breath getting stolen and chased, mouths finding each other again like they can’t bear even the smallest separation.
He kisses like he is furious with himself for wanting me this much and even more furious that it changes nothing.
I kiss him back like I’ve already lost the argument with myself and know it.
My hands slide into his hair.
That undoes something in him. I feel it happen. His whole body tightens, another sound dragging out of him, lower now, almost pained.
I taste whiskey on him, water, and the darker, warmer taste of wanting held back too long.
His grip on me is possessive without being careless, firm enough that I know exactly how much strength he is using not to shake.
My legs tighten around his waist. His mouth turns even deeper at that…
devouring. When he shifts his hips to keep me from slipping, the thick press of him between my thighs makes my breath shatter.
He breaks the kiss for one ragged inhale, forehead knocking briefly against mine, lips still brushing mine as if he cannot stand the loss of contact long enough to breathe properly. His eyes flash open, blown dark. Whatever he sees in my face destroys the last of his control.
The bedroom door slams open under the impact of his shoulder.
He carries me through it still kissing me, still holding me like he means to fuse me to him. Then his back crashes hard into the bathroom door down the hall, the thud echoing through the space, jolting through both of us.
He does not flinch.
He does not let go.
His mouth leaves mine by a breath.
Not enough to feel like distance. Just enough that I can pull in air that still tastes like him, enough that I can see what the kiss did to him.
His lips are swollen. His breathing is ragged.
His hair is wrecked beneath my hands, and his arms are still locked around me, one under my thighs, the other spread hard across my back, like letting go is not an option he trusts himself with.
I am still wrapped around his waist. Still pressed against the hard line of him through his sweats.
Every pulse of his breath shifts me against him.
Every shift reminds me what almost happened downstairs, what is still happening now, just in a different form.
The bathroom door is solid against his back, holding him in place.
Somehow that makes this feel even more dangerous, as though the whole world has narrowed down to his body, my body, and the impossible weight of everything between them.
His forehead falls to mine again.
His eyes close for a second. I feel the tremor that passes through him before he gets it under control. His hand at my back spreads wider, fingers flexing once, almost like he needs to check that I’m really here.
Then he opens his eyes and looks at me.
There is no shield left in that look. No sarcasm, no distance, no sharp edges polished up to hide the hurt beneath them. Just him. Raw in the worst, truest way. Wanting...terrified…wrecked open by both.
“If you’re broken,” he whispers, voice rough enough to scrape, “then I’ll spend an eternity trying to put the pieces back together.”
The words don’t just land. They settle into my bones.
I stop breathing for a beat.
My fingers loosen in his hair only to slide down, one hand settling at the back of his neck, the other lifting to his face.
My thumb brushes the line of his cheekbone, then the corner of his mouth, where the heat of the kiss still lives.
He doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans into it by the slightest amount.
That tiny surrender somehow wrecks me more than all the hunger did.
He still hasn’t put me down.
The bruises on his chest rise and fall against me with every uneven breath. I can feel how hard he is for me. I can feel the care in the way he holds me. Those two truths side by side, make my chest ache in a place far deeper than want.
My throat tightens. When I speak, my voice barely makes it out.
“You can’t promise me that.”
A flicker moves through his expression, something pained and stubborn all at once. His hand slides up my spine, slower this time, until it cups the back of my neck. His fingers disappear into my hair. He keeps my forehead pressed to his like he’s not ready to lose even that tiny point of contact.
“I know,” he says.
And that is somehow worse. Because he means it anyway.
The room is so quiet I can hear the rough drag of his inhale, the tiny shift of fabric when I move against him, the muted hum of the house around us. Everything else feels far away. The only real thing is him braced against the door, holding me as if I am fragile and necessary at the same time.
My hand slips from his cheek to his jaw. The stubble there scratches lightly at my palm. He watches me with an intensity that feels almost unbearable, not because it is hard, but because it isn’t. Because there is nothing hidden in it now.
I think about all the ways people have touched me in my life.
What they took. What they broke. How they made me feel absent from my own body.
Then I think about this, about Silas holding me like I am something to be kept safe, even while he is shaking with hunger, even while he is fighting himself so hard I can feel it.
I swallow against the ache in my throat.
His nose brushes mine when he exhales. “Octavia,” he says, my name sounding wrecked in his mouth, like prayer and pain got tangled together.
I close my eyes for one second, just long enough to feel it.
When I open them again, he is still there. Still looking at me like I am the one thing he doesn’t know how to survive while being the one thing he wants anyway.
So I let my hand rest against his face. I let my legs stay locked around his waist. I let the silence fill with everything neither of us knows how to say next.
And he keeps holding me, like he already meant every word.