Chapter Thirty-Seven
Marius
I know the exact moment it crosses the line.
Not the kiss. That has already happened, hard and immediate, stripping away the last of the distance between us.
Not the way she pulls me closer or the way my control starts thinning the second she doesn’t pull away.
This is different. This is where the last of my restraint stops leading and becomes something I have to hold onto by force.
I make myself stop, but only just. My forehead presses briefly against hers, one hand still firm at her jaw, the other braced at her back like if I let go now, the whole thing will slip too far to recover cleanly.
“Leona.”
My voice comes out rough enough to sound like it belongs to someone else.
She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t soften. Her breathing is uneven, her chest rising too fast, her hands gripping my shirt like she hasn’t decided yet whether she’s grounding herself or holding me there.
That is what makes this dangerous.
“If this goes further, it won’t be careful.”
Her breath catches.
“I don’t do slow,” I continue, quieter now, more controlled by force than ease. “I don’t hold back the way I should. It will be rough. It will be too much if you’re not ready for it.”
She doesn’t look away.
“If you panic,” I say, my voice tightening at the edges, “you tell me. Immediately. I stop. No hesitation.”
A beat passes.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
That answer does more damage than anything else she could have said.
I hold her gaze for one more second, making absolutely certain she is still here, still choosing, still fully inside this moment with me and not somewhere else entirely.
Then I move.
The kiss comes back harder this time, immediate and consuming, everything I had been holding back collapsing into it.
My hand tightens at her jaw, holding her there, my other arm pulling her fully into me, erasing what little space remained between us.
Leona matches me. Her hands shift, grip, pull me closer instead of pushing away.
Her breath breaks into the contact as the tension between us finally gives way to something fully physical.
There is nothing careful about it now. Nothing restrained.
I feel the exact moment restraint stops leading and becomes something I have to maintain by force, something that takes effort instead of instinct.
I am losing it, and I know it. Still, I do not stop.
My hand slides from her jaw down along her neck, firm and deliberate, not slow, only certain.
Her breath catches sharply, her body reacts, but she does not retreat.
Her grip tightens instead, her body pressing harder into mine.
I break the kiss just enough to breathe, my forehead brushing hers for the briefest second.
“Still with me?”
My voice is rough.
“Yes.”
That is all I need.
My hand drops to her waist, pulling her closer, grounding her fully against me as I return to the kiss—deeper now, harder, less controlled. The room disappears. The argument disappears. Everything narrows to contact, heat, pressure.
Then I shift, finding her hand with mine. I do not ask. I guide, slow enough that she could stop me if she wanted to.
She doesn’t.
I bring her hand between us, pressing it firmly against the fabric of my jeans so she can feel exactly what she does to me.
Her breath breaks. Her fingers tense instinctively before settling, her body reacting before her thoughts fully catch up.
“Do you feel that?”
“Yes.”
Her voice is unsteady, but present.
I hold her there for one second longer, making sure she stays with me, doesn’t drift, doesn’t disappear into the moment the wrong way.
Then I release her wrist, my hands moving upward instead, tracing the lines of her body in a way that is no less deliberate for being restrained.
The motion lingers just long enough to make her breathing hitch again before I return my hand to her waist and take her mouth in another hard, demanding kiss.
Her hand stays where I placed it against my cock, hard with anticipation that had been building for days, weeks.
She flexes, enough to caress its length, teasing me through the fabric.
My control is absolutely slipping in this moment.
I don’t give her time to reset. I grab her hand and move it away from my jeans, and then I move her.
Back.
One step.
Then another.
My hand firm at her waist, the other at her back, I guide her, not rough enough to hurt, but not gentle.
Her legs hit the edge of the bed with a small thump, but I don’t pause.
Pressing firmly, I guide her down, dropping her into a seated position at the edge of the mattress.
Her breath breaks as the motion shifts her balance.
I stand between her knees and look at her, up and down.
“Look at me.”
She does. Immediately.
Her breathing is uneven, her chest rising and falling too fast, but her eyes stay locked on mine. The line between us is still there, alive and dangerous, and neither of us is pretending otherwise now.
“Do you want this?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
My hand slides down, catching her wrist again and guiding it between us.
“Undo them.”
The command drops heavily into the room.
Her breath catches, but her fingers move anyway, deliberate and steady as she follows through.
I don’t look down. I watch her face instead, tracking every reaction, every flicker, every change in her breathing as the moment tightens around us.
That tells me more than anything else could.
Slowly—too slowly—she undoes the button of my jeans and pushes them down just enough. The shift in fabric reveals enough to draw a sharp inhale from her, enough that her body reacts before she can control it.
“Keep going.”
I direct her again, no softness, no hesitation.
Her hands obey, fingers finding the edge of the fabric and pausing only a fraction of a second before moving again, slower this time, more aware.
Then, in one swift motion, she shoves my jeans and boxers down to my ankles with a certainty I wasn’t expecting.
The ease of it catches me off guard, and for a second all I can do is look at her.
I watch her face, the way her expression shifts, the way her breath catches when she realizes what she is doing. I return my hand to her jaw, guiding her gaze back up.
“Eyes on me.”
She obeys, which only fuels my hunger further.
“Now you.”
Her hands pause for a fraction of a second.
“Don’t think,” I say, lower. “Just do it.”
Leona keeps her gaze locked on mine as her hands move again. She pulls her shirt over her head in one quick motion and discards it behind me. Next, she removes her bra, her hands less steady than before, and it’s gone just as quickly, tossed aside without ever breaking eye contact.
I track every second of it. Every shift, every reaction. My control thins further, my breathing grows heavier.
“Everything.”
I motion toward her jeans. The word is final.
Her breath hitches as she follows through, the last of her hesitation burning away as she chooses to lean into the moment instead of bracing against it. The fabric slips away, piece by piece, until there is nothing left between us and the moment.
For a second, she stills.
I see the moment the awareness hits her all at once. Not just of her exposure, but of herself. Of the faint bruises that still linger on her skin, softened but not gone. They pull at her focus for a fraction too long, a flicker of vulnerability spreading across her face.
Then I watch as she lifts her head.
She forces her gaze back to mine and holds it.
I feel the shift, the moment she stops holding back. I catch her hand again, returning it between us and instructing her without words.
Her fingers wrap around my cock, tentative for only a second before they settle, finding rhythm slowly, the movement grounding her even as it unravels me. Her hand feels just as I imagined. I exhale sharply, dipping my head as my control fractures even further.
“You don’t stop until I tell you to.”
My voice is rough, restraint nearly gone.
Leona doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t even hesitate. Her fingers only tighten where they hold me, her body staying aligned with mine.
I let it continue for a moment, but only until I can’t take any more. My hand tightens at her waist, pulling her forward off the edge of the bed just enough that I can feel my cock pressing at her entrance. My other hand finds the back of her neck and forces her gaze to mine once more.
“Look at me.”
I say it again, quieter now but no less heavy.
She does.
Her breathing is uneven, her lips parted, her focus locked entirely on my face, and I can see she hasn’t drifted. She is with me completely. If it weren’t for what had happened, I would have lost control by now.
I drag my thumb along her lower lip, not gentle, not testing—watching the way her breath catches again, the way her body reacts to me.
“You feel that,” I say, more statement than question.
“Yes,” she says, softer now, but no less certain.
I exhale through my teeth, something in me tightening hard before slipping again.
My hand slides from her jaw, down along her throat, then lower, anchoring once more at her waist and pulling her closer even though there is nowhere left to go.
Her hands move in response, gripping me more firmly now, no longer unsure or tentative, only reacting, matching the intensity instead of resisting it.
The last of my restraint thins.
I lean in again, slower this time, my mouth brushing hers first, not fully kissing her yet, drawing the contact out just long enough to feel the way she responds to it, the way her breath catches, the way her body leans forward instead of pulling back.
Then I close the distance.