Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
Iwatch the words land.
Don't step back this time.
Something shifts in his expression. The careful control he's been wearing like armor cracks down the middle, and what's underneath steals the breath I don't need.
Want. Raw and desperate and barely contained. The same want I've been fighting for days, reflected back at me in those storm-gray eyes.
He moves.
Not slow this time. Not careful. He closes the distance between us in one stride, and then his hands are on my face, cupping my jaw, tilting my head back.
His palms are cool against my cheeks, his fingers threading into my hair, and the touch I've been dreaming about is nothing compared to the reality.
"Tell me to stop." His voice is wrecked. Scraped raw. "Tell me and I will."
"I don't want you to stop."
Something breaks behind his eyes.
His mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is nothing like I imagined. I thought it would be tentative. Careful. Two people testing boundaries, negotiating terms.
This is none of those things.
This is hunger. This is days of distance collapsing into a single point of contact. This is every almost and every not yet, and every time he walked away when he wanted to stay, all of it pouring out of him and into me.
His lips are cool and firm, moving against mine with an urgency that makes my knees weak. One hand slides from my face to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, angling my head for better access. The other drops to my waist, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us.
I grab the front of his shirt to anchor myself. The fabric bunches in my fists, and I feel the solid wall of his chest beneath it, the lean muscle I've watched during training sessions, the body I've tried not to think about late at night in my room.
He makes a sound against my mouth. Low and rough and desperate. It vibrates through me, settles somewhere deep in my core, and I want to hear it again. Want to know every sound he's capable of making.
I kiss him harder.
His restraint shatters completely.
He walks me backward until my spine hits the wall, and the impact barely registers because his mouth is on my jaw now, my neck, the sensitive spot below my ear. His lips trace a path of fire across my skin. His hands grip my hips like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
"Celeste." My name in his mouth, reverent and ruined. He breathes it against my throat like a prayer. "I've wanted this. Wanted you. Since that first night in the alley. Since you looked at me like I was just a man."
I pull his mouth back to mine because I can't stand another second without it.
The second kiss is deeper. Slower. He takes his time now, learning the shape of me, the taste. His tongue slides against my lower lip and I open for him, and the sound he makes when I do is something I want to remember forever.
My hands find their way to his hair. It's softer than I expected, thick and dark, and when I drag my fingers through it, he groans into my mouth. His hips press me harder against the wall. I feel every inch of him, solid and cool and wanting.
This is what I was afraid of.
This is what I was waiting for.
His mouth moves to my jaw again, my neck, the curve of my shoulder. Each kiss leaves a trail of sensation that lingers long after his lips have moved on. My head falls back against the wall, and I don't try to stop the sounds escaping me.
"Do you have any idea," he murmurs against my collarbone, "what these past nights have been like? Knowing you were here. Wanting you. Unable to reach for you."
"I know." I tug his head up, force him to meet my eyes. "I know exactly what it was like."
Something flickers in his gaze. Understanding. Recognition. Two people who have been drowning in the same ocean, finally finding each other.
He lifts me.
My back slides up the wall, and I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct, pulling him closer. The position changes everything. Now I'm looking down at him, my hands braced on his shoulders, my hair falling like a curtain around both our faces.
His eyes are fixed on mine. Dark and wanting and absolutely certain.
"Beautiful," he breathes. "You're so beautiful."
I kiss him before he can say anything else. Before the words can make me feel things I'm not ready to examine. His hands grip my thighs, holding me steady, and his mouth moves against mine with a thoroughness that makes me forget everything else.
There is only this. Only him. Only the way our bodies fit together like they were designed for it.
But it's not enough.
The wanting has been building for too long, through too many nights of distance and denial. Now that I've let myself have this, have him, I need more. Need everything.
"Maximus." His name comes out breathless. Pleading.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips are swollen from my mouth. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful.
"What do you need?" His voice is rough. Strained. "Tell me what you need."
"More." The word escapes before I can stop it. "I need more."
Something shifts in his expression. The hunger that's been simmering beneath the surface rises up, hot and undeniable.
"Are you sure?"
I answer by rolling my hips against him.
He groans, low and deep, and his forehead drops to my shoulder. I feel him shudder against me, feel the effort it takes for him to hold still.
"Celeste." My name is a warning. A plea. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to be able to stop."
"I don't want you to stop."
His head comes up. His eyes search mine, looking for doubt, for hesitation.
He finds none.
"Hold on to me," he says.
I tighten my arms around his neck, and he shifts his grip. One hand stays under my thigh, holding me against the wall with effortless strength. The other slides up, trailing fire across my hip, my waist, the curve of my ribs.
He pauses at the hem of my sweater.
"Yes?" he asks.
"Yes."
His hand slips beneath the fabric. Cool fingers against my skin. I gasp at the contact, at the sensation of him touching me. His palm flattens against my stomach, and I feel myself tremble beneath it.
"So perfect," he murmurs against my throat.
His hand moves higher. His fingertips trace the ladder of my ribs one by one, counting them, mapping them, learning the architecture of my body. Each brush of his touch sends shivers radiating outward, building anticipation for where he might go next.
He reaches the underside of my breast and pauses.
My breath catches. My whole body goes taut with waiting.
"Don't stop," I breathe.
He doesn't.
His palm curves over me, cupping me through the thin fabric of my bra, and the contact drags a moan from somewhere deep in my chest. His thumb traces a slow circle, finding the peak through the lace, and the sensation shoots through me like lightning.
I arch into his touch, pressing myself more firmly into his hand, wanting more pressure, more friction, more of him.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my ear. "Every little sound you make. Every way your body moves. I want to learn all of it."
His thumb continues its lazy circles, and I can feel myself growing desperate beneath his touch.
The lace of my bra creates friction against the sensitive peak, amplifying every movement of his fingers.
He rolls the hardened nub between his thumb and forefinger, a gentle pressure that makes my hips jerk against him involuntarily.
"That's it," he breathes. "Show me what you like."
I'm beyond words. Can only clutch at his shoulders as his hand works me through the fabric, as the heat builds low in my belly, spreading outward with every stroke of his fingers.
But it's still not enough.
"Please." I don't recognize my own voice. Desperate. Needy. "Please, Maximus."
"Please, what?" His lips brush my ear, his breath cool against my skin. "Tell me exactly what you want. I need to hear you say it."
"Touch me." The words come out ragged, torn from somewhere I didn't know existed. "Lower. I need you to touch me lower."
He goes still. For one agonizing moment, I think he's going to pull back, going to be noble and restrained, going to make me wait.
Then his hand begins its descent.
Slowly. So slowly it makes me want to scream. His fingers trail down over my ribs, my stomach, tracing the waistband of my leggings like he's memorizing the boundary. His touch is feather-light, teasing, and I squirm against him, trying to guide his hand where I need it.
"Patience," he murmurs, and there's a dark amusement in his voice that makes me shiver. "I've waited days for this. I intend to savor it."
"I can't wait." The confession escapes before I can stop it. "I've been thinking about this. About you. Every night alone in my room, I've been thinking about your hands."
His fingers pause at my waistband. I feel the tremor that runs through him at my words.
"Tell me." His voice has dropped to something rough and urgent. "Tell me what you thought about."
"Your fingers." I'm past the point of embarrassment, past caring how desperate I sound. "I thought about your fingers inside me. Thought about what it would feel like to have you touch me. To make me come."
He makes a sound that's almost a growl, and his hand slips beneath the fabric of my leggings.
The first brush of his fingers over my underwear makes me gasp. Even through the thin barrier, I can feel the cool pressure of him, the deliberate way he traces the shape of me. He explores slowly, mapping the territory, learning what makes me twitch and shudder.
"You're soaked," he breathes against my neck, and the rawness in his voice makes me clench. "I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me."
I can only nod, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he continues his exploration. His fingers press more firmly, finding the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs through the fabric, and my whole body jerks.
"There," I gasp. "Right there."