Chapter 13 #3
I felt more than heard his pleased rumble, a sound that vibrated through his chest and into mine. His other hand came up to cup my face with such tenderness it made my throat tight.
My breath caught. I tilted my head up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were bright in the firelight, intense but filled with such tenderness it made my chest ache.
The simple intimacy of it—lying here beside him, feeling the solid warmth of his body, the gentleness of his touch—made something shift deep inside me. Made me feel brave in a way I hadn't felt in so long.
I was attracted to him. More than attracted. And being held by him felt different from anything I'd known. It felt right.
My pulse quickened as I gazed up at Nansar, at the way the firelight played across his features.
What would it be like? The thought whispered through me, tentative but insistent, impossible to ignore.
What would it be like to kiss him? To touch him with intention, with desire?
To be touched by him as more than just someone he was protecting?
The fact that I could even wonder, that I could feel the flutter of want low in my belly instead of the sick twist of fear, made my eyes sting with unexpected emotion.
I'd thought that part of me was broken beyond repair.
That Declan had destroyed not just my body but my ability to ever want again.
To ever feel desire that was mine, that belonged to me.
But here, in the dim firelight, with Nansar's hand stroking my back and his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, I felt it. Desire. Real, genuine, achingly sweet desire. Not the sick, twisted thing Declan had forced on me, but something warm and hopeful and completely, utterly mine.
Maybe there were pieces of me still intact after all. Still capable of feeling something good. Something beautiful.
The thought terrified me. But it also filled me with a fragile, trembling hope that felt like the first green shoot pushing through winter snow.
I lifted my head from his chest, my heart a wild thing beating against my ribs. Nansar's hand stilled on my back, his eyes finding mine—dark, questioning, filled with that ever-present concern that made my chest ache.
"Chloe?" The way he said my name was like a caress, soft and careful, as though I were something precious that might shatter.
I didn't let myself think. Thinking meant remembering, and remembering would steal this fragile, perfect moment from me. Instead, I surrendered to feeling—the solid warmth of his body, the sanctuary of his arms, the tenderness that radiated from his gaze like heat from the fire.
I pushed myself up slightly, bringing my face closer to his. His breath hitched, but he remained perfectly still. Didn't push. Didn't pull. Simply waited, patient as stone, giving me all the control, all the choice, all the power.
My hand trembled as I brought it to his chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart beneath my palm. He wanted this too—I felt it in the tension of his muscles, saw it in the darkening of his eyes. But he would never take it. Never demand it. Never claim what I didn't freely offer.
That knowledge was what gave me courage.
"I want to," I whispered, my voice barely more than breath. "I want to try."
His eyes searched mine with an fervor that stole my breath, looking for any hint of doubt, any shadow of fear lurking in the corners. "Are you sure?"
I nodded, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. "I'm scared. But... I want to be brave. With you."
Something tenacious and protective blazed across his face, transforming his features with emotion almost savage in its devotion. "You're already the bravest person I know," he said, his voice husky. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Least of all to me."
"I'm not trying to prove anything." My voice grew steadier, stronger. "I'm trying to take something back. Something that was stolen from me."
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by such profound respect that it made my chest constrict.
"Then I'm honored," he said simply, reverently. "But the moment you want to stop—"
"I know." I managed a small smile, feeling it tremble on my lips. "You'll stop."
He nodded, his hand coming up to cup my cheek with infinite gentleness, as though I were made of moonlight and wishes. "Always."
I leaned into his touch, drawing strength from the warmth of his palm, the calluses that spoke of a warrior's life. Then, before fear could sink its claws back into me, I closed the distance between us and pressed my lips to his.
The kiss was tentative at first, a question more than an answer, our lips barely brushing.
But then something ignited—a spark that caught and blazed.
His hand slid into my hair, cradling the back of my head with exquisite care, and I pressed closer, my fingers curling into the fabric of his vest like it was the only thing anchoring me to the earth.
Heat bloomed between us, unfurling like a flower, spreading through my veins like honey-warmed wine.
His mouth moved against mine with a passion that was somehow both demanding and achingly gentle, and I matched it, losing myself in the sensation. In the revelation of being wanted without being taken, of being desired without being used, of being cherished without being claimed.
The pressure built and released, built and released.
Soft then demanding, tender then consuming.
His tongue traced the seam of my lips and I opened for him like a flower to sunlight, welcoming him deeper.
The slide of tongue against tongue was velvet and heat, an intimate tangle that blurred the line between where I ended and he began.
Time dissolved. My world narrowed to the points where our bodies connected—his hand cupping my jaw, thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath my ear; my palms pressed flat against his chest, feeling his heart thunder against my fingertips like a caged bird desperate for flight.
He tasted like summer rain and something sweeter, something uniquely him that I knew I'd crave forever.
Every exhale became the other's inhale, our breaths mingling in the shrinking space between us until breathing itself felt secondary to this—to the press and pull, the give and take, the exquisite friction of lips.
His other hand found the small of my back, pulling me closer still, until there was no space left between us.
I arched into him, a soft sound escaping my throat—half gasp, half surrender—and he swallowed it like a man dying of thirst. That sound undid something in him, unraveled his control thread by thread.
The kiss deepened impossibly further, becoming almost desperate.
It was tender and tumultuous all at once, a contradiction that somehow made perfect sense.
Like trying to crawl inside each other's skin, to fuse together at the molecular level.
His teeth caught my bottom lip, tugging gently, and pleasure sparked down my spine like lightning seeking ground.
My nails dug into his shoulders as waves of sensation crashed over me—the scratch of his stubble against my chin, the warmth of his breath, the intoxicating scent of his skin.
Everything was heightened, amplified, as if someone turned up the volume on every sense until it was almost too much to bear.
When Nansar pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his control visibly fraying at the edges. "Chloe." My name was rough on his tongue, scraped raw with restraint. "Are you okay?"
I blinked up at him, dazed, my lips tingling with the ghost of his kiss. "Yes," I said, and the truth of it resonated through my entire being. "Yes, I... I liked it."
His expression was beautifully torn, hunger and restraint warring in his eyes like light and shadow. "Even if it means my death," he said quietly, vehemently, each word a vow, "I won't do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Your safety, your comfort—they matter more than my life."
My throat tightened with emotion. "Nansar—"
"Sleep," he said gently, pressing one more kiss to my forehead. "Just sleep. We'll face tomorrow when it comes."
I wanted to argue, to tell him that his life mattered just as much as my comfort, that he was worth fighting for, worth living for. But exhaustion pulled at me with insistent hands, and his warmth was so inviting, his presence so solid and safe and real.
I let my eyes drift closed, my head settling against his chest once more, his hand resuming its gentle stroking along my spine. Each caress was a promise, pulling me deeper into peace, into safety, into something that felt dangerously close to home.
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt protected rather than trapped. Cherished rather than claimed. Wanted rather than used.
Loved, perhaps, rather than broken.