Chapter 18 Claiming the Silence
Claiming the Silence
Sabrina
The air between us is still heavy, full of the warmth we left behind. My heartbeat is finally slowing, but everything else feels new—my body, my skin, the way the world seems quieter when he’s holding me.
Langston doesn’t say anything at first. He just stays there, tracing slow, lazy patterns on my arm while I try to remember how to breathe.
I never meant to stay a virgin. It was something that wasn’t important to me.
But, I am so glad I waited for him. Even if this thing only lasts a year, I know that I was treated like something precious.
That was something I will always take with me when we are done.
I try to move, but Langston tightens his arm. “Where are you going?”
“I just need a shower,” I say softly. “I feel…gross.”
His eyes open, slow and dark, scanning my face. “Are you hurting?”
I shake my head, hesitating. “Not really. Just…a little sore, maybe. Uncomfortable, but not bad.”
He frowns, brushing his thumb across my stomach. “A little uncomfortable?”
“Mm-hmm.” I bite my lip, trying not to blush. “Not as bad as I thought it would be. I guess my body was used to it. You are just bigger.” I laugh at the awkwardness of this whole conversation.
That gets his attention. His entire body goes still. “Used to it?” His voice sharpens. “Who?”
“What?”
His eyes flash. “I want a name,” he says quietly, dangerous in that soft way. “Every man who ever touched what’s mine.”
I stare at him for a second, then laugh—loud and startled. “Langston, you’re insane. I mean I’ve owned vibrators.”
He blinks. “You—what?”
The color drains from his face as if it takes him a second to process, then he curses under his breath and gets out of bed, muttering something about him being able to use my toys on me better than I could.
“Langston?”
He doesn’t answer, just walks out of the room.
For a moment, I sit there, the sheet wrapped around me, unsure if he’s angry or embarrassed or maybe both.
By the time I finally gather the courage to move toward the bathroom, he’s back—quiet, composed, holding a glass of water and a couple of pills.
“Take these,” he says gently. “It’ll help.”
The soft note in his voice throws me. I take them without arguing.
Then he takes my hand. “Come on,” he says simply.
“Langston, I can shower—”
“I know you can.” His thumb strokes my knuckles. “Let me.”
The bathroom is filled with steam, the soft hiss of water echoing off the marble. He steps in first, then reaches for me.
I hesitate. Something about the way he’s looking at me—focused, tender, stripped of all the arrogance—makes my chest tighten.
When I finally step under the spray, the water cascades over both of us. He says nothing. He reaches for the soap, working up a light lather, and his fingers move over me in small, deliberate motions. Every movement is slow, reverent—like he didn't memorize every inch of me while we were in bed.
“Step forward.”
I follow his direction, closing my eyes as his fingers thread through my hair.
He works in gentle circles, massaging my scalp, his thumbs tracing slow, soothing patterns at the base of my neck.
The world narrows to the rhythm of his hands and the soft drag of his voice when he murmurs, “Lean back a little. That’s it. ” His voice is soft and sure.
I close my eyes, letting the water rinse through. He keeps going, combing through the tangles, being careful not to pull.
No one’s ever touched me like this. Like I’m fragile. Like I’m something worth protecting.
When he’s done, he turns off the water, steps out, and grabs a thick towel from the warmer. The air rushes around us, cool against my skin, and before I can shiver, he’s wrapping me up in it, tucking the edges close.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You did good, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “Better than good.”
Something about his praise and the tender way he is caring for me sparks something deep inside. No one has ever cared for me like this. It’s just a shower but my heart feels like it is the beginning of something bigger.
He leaves for a moment and comes back with one of his shirts—soft, black, smelling faintly of cedar and him. He holds it out like it’s something delicate.
“Here,” he says. “Wear this.”
I slip it over my head, and the fabric falls almost to my knees. The warmth of it—and him—wraps around me, and something inside me stirs that I don’t know how to name.
When I glance up, he’s watching me. Not with hunger. Not with pride. Something gentler.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, trying for lightness.
“Because I can,” he answers simply.
The honesty in his tone catches me off guard. I cross my arms, pretending to study the bathroom tile. “Is this…normal?”
He tilts his head. “What is?”
“This.” I wave a hand vaguely between us. “The whole showering and caring for me thing. I was expecting us to just go to sleep.” I look down again. Feeling silly I even questioned it. But, my brain needs to know if he takes cares of every woman in his bed like he just did me.
Langston steps closer until I can feel the heat of him even through the shirt. He tips my chin up with a finger and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“No, never,” he says quietly. Like he knew what was in my head. “But it’s going to be our normal.”
His eyes hold mine for a long moment before he adds, softer still, “Because when we make love, I’m not just touching you, sweetheart. I’m taking care of you.”
And just like that, the wall I’ve been holding up around my heart starts to crack.
“Finish getting ready for bed. There is a brand new toothbrush in the drawer and a comb for your hair. We will get the rest of your things tomorrow.” He leaves without allowing me to have the chance to argue with him about me going back to my apartment tomorrow.
I can’t stay here with him. He is already making me feel things and that is a dangerous game when this has an expiration date.
He strips the bed, replaces the linen with clean ones. I don’t know how to feel about that. I feel embarrassed that he had to do it at all. I look up at him when he comes back into the room with our cell phones.
I fidget with the hem. “Can you show me which room I’ll be staying in?”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Then his jaw flexes. “Excuse me?”
I blink. “You know, the guest room or—”
He takes two steps forward, the air shifting instantly. “You think you’re sleeping anywhere but here?”
My pulse jumps. “Langston, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong.” His tone is calm, but there’s a growl beneath it, low and possessive. “You’re my wife, Sabrina. The only place you’ll be sleeping is with me.”
I open my mouth, then close it again when I see the look in his eyes—firm, final, but somehow not angry.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and his voice softens. “I’m not asking you to do anything, sweetheart. I just want you here. With me.”
The last part slips out quieter than the rest, almost vulnerable, and it hits somewhere deep inside me.
I nod, unable to say anything else.
Langston reaches for me, his hand finding the small of my back as he guides me toward the bed. “Come on,” he murmurs. “You’ve had enough for one night.”
When we climb under the fresh sheets, he pulls me against him again—strong arms, steady heartbeat, the kind of warmth that seeps straight into my bones.
I tell myself it’s just because I’m tired that I melt against him so easily. That it’s not because being in his arms feels like something dangerously close to home.
But when he presses a soft kiss to my temple and whispers, “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” I stop pretending.
Because for the first time in a very long time… I believe someone does.