19. Eve
EVE
Iwake up floating somewhere between dream and reality, my body humming with sensations I can't quite name.
There are fragments clinging to the edges of my consciousness—fire dancing against darkness, the bite of cold air on heated skin, strong hands mapping territory they'd claimed before.
The dream slips away like smoke, leaving only impressions: the scent of woodsmoke, the taste of winter on someone's lips, the overwhelming feeling of rightness, of completion.
Of Nash.
Even as the images fade, my body remembers what my mind can't quite grasp. There's an ache low in my belly, a restless energy that makes me want to move, to seek something I can't identify. I shift against the mattress, trying to chase the feeling, and that's when I realize I'm not alone.
There's warmth pressed against my back, solid and reassuring. An arm draped over my waist, fingers splayed possessively across my stomach. The steady rhythm of breathing that isn't my own, each exhale a whisper of heat against the nape of my neck.
Nash.
The memory of last night comes rushing back—the nightmare, the way he held me until the fear receded, the safety I found in his arms. I should probably move away, put some distance between us now that the crisis has passed.
But I don't want to. This feels too good, too right.
Like this is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Without thinking, I press back into him, my body seeking more of that delicious warmth.
The movement sends a jolt of awareness through me as I feel the hard length of him against my lower back, separated only by thin layers of fabric.
The realization should shock me, should make me scramble away in embarrassment.
Instead, it sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs.
I do it again, a slow roll of my hips that has me biting back a whimper at the friction. God, what is wrong with me? I barely know this man, and here I am grinding against him like some kind of?—
His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me more firmly against him, and all rational thought evaporates.
His body is a furnace behind me, all hard muscle and controlled strength.
I can feel the tension in him, the way his breathing has changed from the deep rhythms of sleep to something more deliberate.
"Eve." My name falls from his lips like a prayer, rough with sleep and something darker. The sound goes straight through me, settling low in my belly with a heat that makes me gasp.
I should stop this. Should turn around and apologize and pretend this never happened.
But I can't seem to make my body obey my brain.
Instead, I arch my back slightly, pressing the curve of my ass more firmly against the hard ridge of him.
The contact draws a low groan from his throat that vibrates through his chest and into mine.
His lips find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, just the barest brush of contact that has me shivering despite the warmth cocooning us. Then his mouth moves higher, trailing soft kisses along the column of my throat until his breath tickles my ear.
"You're not being a very good girl."
The words are a dark whisper that sends electricity shooting down my spine.
There's something in his tone—possessive, knowing, like he's seeing right through whatever facade I usually wear to the wanton thing underneath.
It should scandalize me. Should make me pull away and demand to know what he thinks he's doing.
Instead, it makes me moan.
The sound escapes before I can stop it, low and breathy and completely shameless. I feel Nash go still behind me, his entire body tensing like a predator that's just caught the scent of prey. For a moment, neither of us moves, the air between us charged with possibility.
"I don't want to be," I whisper, the words falling from my lips without conscious thought.
As soon as I say them, I know they're true.
Whatever good girl facade I've been wearing my whole life feels suddenly suffocating.
I want to shed it like an unwanted skin, want to explore this side of myself that Nash seems to see so clearly.
The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and honest and dangerous. I can feel the exact moment something shifts in him, some last thread of restraint snapping. His grip on my waist tightens, fingers digging into my skin through the thin cotton of my pajama top.
"Fuck, Eve." The curse is breathed against my ear, full of heat and desperation and something that sounds almost like pain. "You can't say things like that to me."
"Why not?" The question tumbles out before I can stop it, raw and needy.
I can hear the desperation in my own voice, but I'm past caring about dignity.
My body is on fire, every nerve ending singing with want, and the only thing that matters is the man pressed against me who seems determined to torture us both.
Nash's breath catches, and I feel him struggle with something internal. His hand is still splayed across my stomach, fingers twitching like he wants to move them but can't quite bring himself to cross whatever line he's drawn in his mind.
"Because," he says finally, his voice strained, "we barely know each other. Not really. Not anymore."
The words sting more than they should. There's something in his tone—a careful distance that feels wrong when his body is telling a completely different story. Like he's holding himself back not because he doesn't want this, but because he thinks he shouldn't want it.
"Then help me remember," I whisper, turning my head just enough that my lips brush his jaw. The contact sends sparks through my entire system. "Help me remember what we were."
His whole body goes rigid behind me. "Eve, don't?—"
"I need this," I interrupt, pressing back against him harder. The friction makes us both groan, and I can feel his resolve wavering. "I need you. I don't understand why, but I do. My body knows you, even if my mind doesn't."
It's true. Every instinct I have is screaming that this is right, that Nash is mine in some fundamental way that has nothing to do with memory and everything to do with something deeper.
The way he holds me, the way his body responds to mine—it's like we're two pieces of the same puzzle, designed to fit together perfectly.
"You don't know what you're asking," Nash says, but his voice is rougher now, more broken. His lips find the shell of my ear, and the brush of contact makes me shiver. "You don't know what I am."
"I know you're the only person who makes me feel safe," I say honestly. "I know you're the only one who's been here for me. And I know my body wants yours more than I want my next breath."
The confession hangs between us, honest and devastating.
I can feel Nash warring with himself, can practically hear the battle raging in his head.
But his body betrays him—the way his hips press forward involuntarily, the way his breathing has gone ragged, the way his fingers flex against my stomach like he's fighting not to touch me the way we both want.
"Please," I breathe, and I don't care that I'm begging. "I'm going out of my mind. I need... I need relief. I need you to touch me."
"Eve—"
"I'll be good," I interrupt desperately, the words spilling out of me like a dam has burst. "I'll be so good for you. Whatever you want, however you want it. Just please?—"
My hand covers his, guiding it down across my stomach, past the waistband of my pajama pants. His fingers are warm and calloused and perfect, and when they brush against the silk of my underwear, I nearly sob with relief.
"Please," I whisper again, my lips finding the sensitive spot just below his ear. "I'll be such a good girl for you if you'll just give me this."
The words seem to break something fundamental in him. Nash makes a sound that's half growl, half surrender, and suddenly his careful control shatters. His arm around my waist tightens like a vice, pulling me back against him so hard I can feel every inch of his arousal pressed against me.
"Fuck," he breathes against my neck, and then his fingers are moving, sliding beneath the thin fabric of my underwear to find the slick heat waiting for him.
The first touch of his fingers against my most sensitive flesh has me arching like I've been electrocuted. A broken moan tears from my throat as he explores me with maddening thoroughness, mapping every fold and curve like he's memorizing the geography of my desire.
"So wet," he murmurs against my throat, his voice dark with approval. "So ready for me already."
His fingers circle my clit with just the right amount of pressure, and I nearly come undone right there.
But he doesn't let me, pulling away just as the sensation builds to something unbearable.
Instead, he trails his fingers lower, teasing at my entrance with touches so light they're almost torture.
"Nash, please?—"
"Shh," he soothes, his lips moving against the sensitive skin of my neck. "I'll take care of you. I'll give you exactly what you need."
One finger slides inside me, slow and deliberate, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from crying out. He's so careful, so gentle, like he's afraid I might break. But I don't want gentle—I want him to claim me, to mark me, to make me his in every way that matters.
"More," I gasp, grinding back against him. The movement makes him hiss, his hips rolling forward involuntarily. "Please, I need more."
He adds a second finger, stretching me in the most delicious way, and I can't hold back the whimper that escapes.
His fingers move inside me with devastating precision, finding spots that make me see stars.
Every thrust is perfectly calculated to drive me higher, to push me closer to the edge without quite letting me fall.
Behind me, Nash is losing his own battle with control. His hips move against me in a rhythm that matches the movement of his fingers, grinding the hard length of him against my ass in a way that has us both gasping. The friction is maddening, not nearly enough but still so good I could cry.
"You feel so perfect," he breathes against my ear, his voice rough with need. "So tight and wet and made for me."
His words send liquid fire through my veins. There's something possessive in his tone, something that speaks to a part of me I didn't know existed. Like he has every right to claim me this way, like my body belongs to him and him alone.
His thumb finds my clit as his fingers continue their relentless rhythm inside me, and suddenly I'm flying apart.
The orgasm hits me like a freight train, violent and overwhelming and absolutely devastating.
I arch against him as waves of pleasure crash over me, my body clenching around his fingers as I ride out the most intense climax of my life.
Through it all, Nash holds me steady, his arm around my waist keeping me anchored as I fall apart in his arms. His lips never leave my neck, pressing soft kisses and whispered endearments against my skin as I come undone.
"That's it," he murmurs, his fingers gentling their movements as the aftershocks roll through me. "That's my good girl. So beautiful when you come for me."
The words send another smaller wave of pleasure through me, and I sag against him, boneless and satisfied in a way I've never experienced before. For a moment, we just breathe together, his chest rising and falling against my back as we both try to process what just happened.
But then, just as suddenly as it began, Nash pulls away.
His fingers slip out of me, leaving me feeling empty and bereft. The arm that was holding me so tightly loosens, and I can feel him putting distance between us even though we're still lying in the same bed.
"Nash?" I turn to face him, confusion clouding the post-orgasmic haze. His face is a mask of conflicted emotions—desire warring with something that looks almost like guilt.
He sits up abruptly, running a hand through his tousled hair. "I should... I need to go check on something."
The dismissal hits me like a physical blow. One moment he's making me fall apart with his touch, whispering about how perfect I am, and the next he's pulling away like I'm something he needs to escape from.
"Did I do something wrong?" The question comes out smaller than I intended, and I hate how vulnerable I sound.
Nash looks back at me, and for just a moment, his carefully constructed mask slips. I see raw hunger there, and something that might be pain. But then he's back on his feet, already reaching for his clothes.
"No," he says firmly. "You were perfect. This is... this is on me."
But he's gone and my mind is spinning and nothing about this feels right anymore.
Even if it does feel familiar.