Chapter 20 #2
“Part of it.” I trace idle patterns on his chest, marveling at how natural this feels.
No awkwardness. No second-guessing. Just two people who’ve bared everything to each other and found acceptance on the other side.
“The other part was connection. Intimacy. All those terrifying words I’ve spent my whole life avoiding. ”
“And now?”
“Now they don’t seem so terrifying.” I meet his eyes. “Not with you.”
His smile is soft, without the usual sardonic edge that serves as armor.
“I love you,” he says quietly. “In case that wasn’t clear.”
The words send ripples through everything I thought I knew about myself. About us. About what’s possible between a perfectionist human and a chaos demon bound by an ancient contract.
“I love you too.” The admission comes easier than I expected. “God help me, I love you too.”
The second time is different.
Slower. More deliberate. He takes his time, exploring every inch of my body with hands and mouth and that surprisingly dexterous tail. He finds the spot behind my knee that makes me shiver, the curve of my hip that makes me gasp, and the hollow of my throat that makes me moan.
“You’re studying me,” I accuse breathlessly.
“Learning you,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Studying implies memorization. Learning implies understanding.” His tongue traces a line from my navel to the underside of my breast. “I want to understand what makes you feel good.”
“Everything,” I admit. “Everything you’re doing feels good.”
“That’s a start.” His lips close over one nipple, and I arch into the contact with a whimper. “But I want specifics. Tell me what you like.”
“This. Exactly this.”
“What else?”
I’ve never been good at articulating my desires. Years of suppressing emotions and maintaining control have left me tongue-tied when it comes to asking for what I want. But Mal’s patient attention and obvious care make it easier to find the words.
“Your hands,” I manage. “I like when you touch me like I’m something precious.”
“You are precious.”
“And your mouth. On my—” I break off, blushing despite everything we’ve already done.
“Here?” He kisses my neck. “Or here?” Lower, to my collarbone. “Or perhaps...” He trails his lips down my stomach, pausing just above my pelvis to look up with questioning eyes.
“Yes.” The word comes out strangled. “Please. Yes.”
His smile is wicked as he settles between my thighs.
What follows is both torture and worship.
He uses his tongue with the same precision he brings to dance steps, building me up with measured strokes until I’m writhing and begging and utterly shameless.
When I finally break apart, he holds me through the aftershocks, murmuring praise against my sensitized skin.
“Beautiful. Perfect. Mine.”
That last word sends a fresh thrill through me. “Possessive.”
“Very.” He crawls back up my body, settling his weight over me in a way that feels protective rather than oppressive. “Is that a problem?”
“Ask me again when I can think clearly.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
I pull him down for a kiss that tastes like me and him and something indefinably us. When we finally break apart, his expression has shifted—wonder mixed with something that looks almost like fear.
“What is it?”
“I just...” He shakes his head. “I never expected this. Any of this. The contract was supposed to be a business arrangement. A means to an end. And instead, I found...”
“Found what?”
“You.” The word is simple and impossibly weighted. “I found you.”
We make love again, face to face, eyes open, with whispered confessions and shaky breaths and a rhythm that feels less like choreography and more like conversation. His tail wraps around my waist, his horns gleam in the strengthening morning light, and I’ve never felt more alive.
When we finally collapse together, exhausted and sated and tangled in sweaty sheets, the clock on my nightstand reads 7:42 AM.
“I’m going to be late for class,” I murmur against his chest.
“Cancel it.”
“I never cancel.”
“Start.” His arms tighten around me. “Just this once. Start canceling.”
It’s tempting. God, it’s tempting. The thought of leaving this bed, this moment, this impossible feeling of wholeness seems almost criminal. But I’ve also spent my entire life prioritizing responsibility over desire, and old habits don’t die easily.
“What if I compromise?” I lift my head to look at him. “I’ll be twenty minutes late. Bianca can handle warm-ups.”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Done.” He seals the bargain with a kiss. “Twenty-five more minutes. And then you can go be the responsible, dedicated, slightly terrifying dance instructor the world expects.”
“Slightly terrifying?”
“In the best possible way.”
I settle back against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. My body aches in ways that will make teaching interesting, my mind is fuzzy with exhaustion and endorphins, and for the first time in years—maybe ever—I feel completely at peace.
“This is real,” I say quietly. “Isn’t it?”
“As real as anything I’ve ever known.”
“Even with the contract? The showcase? Everything that’s still uncertain?”
“Especially then.” His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back.
“The uncertainty is what makes it matter. If the outcome were guaranteed, there would be no choice involved. No risk. No courage.” He presses a kiss to my hair.
“You’re choosing me knowing it might not work out.
That means more than any infernal bargain. ”
“I’m choosing you knowing it will work out,” I correct. “I don’t accept failure.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “There’s my perfectionist.”
“Don’t mock.”
“Never. I adore your perfectionism. It’s one of your most attractive qualities.”
“Most people find it exhausting.”
“Most people are fools.” He tips my chin up to meet his eyes.
“Your standards aren’t exhausting—they’re aspirational.
You expect the best from yourself because you know you’re capable of the best. And you hold others to high standards because you believe they’re capable too.
That’s not perfectionism. That’s faith.”
The observation settles over me like a blanket. I’ve spent so long seeing my need for control as a flaw that I never considered it might be a strength when viewed from a different angle.
“How do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“See me so clearly.”
“Practice.” His smile is soft. “Centuries of watching humans lie to themselves and each other. You learn to spot the truth hiding underneath.” A pause. “Also, I’m desperately in love with you. That tends to sharpen the perception.”
“There you go with that word again.”
“Love? Get used to it. I plan to say it frequently.” He steals another kiss. “Love, love, love. Isadora Solis, I love you.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love. Yes.”
I bury my face in his neck to hide my smile, but he feels it anyway. His arms tighten around me, and for a moment, the world outside this bedroom fades to nothing.
There’s only this. Only us. Complete in a way neither of us expected.
Twenty-five minutes later, I’m rushing through the world’s fastest shower while Mal lounges unhelpfully on my bed, still gloriously naked and making no effort to leave.
“You could at least pretend to be supportive,” I call through the bathroom door.
“I am supportive. I’m supporting your decision to attend class by not actively preventing it.”
“How noble.”
“I thought so.”
I emerge wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, and find him watching me with an expression that makes my stomach flip.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that. I’ll never make it to class.”
“That is the objective.”
“Mal.”
“Fine.” He rises with exaggerated reluctance, stretching in a way that draws my attention to muscles I definitely shouldn’t be noticing right now. “I’ll behave. For exactly as long as it takes you to get dressed. After that, all bets are off.”
I throw my wet towel at his head and dive for my closet.
By some miracle, I manage to assemble a passable teaching outfit—leggings, wrap top, hair scraped into a damp bun—while Mal dresses with considerably more grace.
His horns have faded back into invisibility, his eyes returned to their deceptively human dark brown.
Only the satisfied curve of his lips suggests anything unusual about the morning.
“I’ll see you at the studio,” he says, pulling me in for one last kiss. “Try not to miss me too much.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Liar.” He nips my lower lip. “Until later, Miss Solis.”
He slips out the door before I can respond, leaving me flushed and disheveled and running very, very late.
Worth it, I decide as I grab my bag and race toward the studio. Completely and utterly worth it.