Chapter Eight #2
“I’ve thought about this,” he said, his voice lower than I’d ever heard it. “About you. About us. Every night since you left.”
The words landed between us -- direct, uncompromising.
I reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off, my fingers tracing the hard lines of his chest and the faint scars that mapped a life lived the way his had been lived.
There were more than I remembered -- a thin line across his ribs, a small circle near his collarbone, a longer mark that started at his shoulder and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.
I traced each scar with slow, careful fingers, paying attention to the moments his expression tightened or softened beneath my touch.
He caught my wrist, not hard but with enough pressure that I couldn’t pull away. “My turn,” he said, and then his mouth was on mine again.
He laid me back against the mattress before bracing himself above me, careful not to pin me beneath his weight.
Everything faded away until there was only Nitro’s mouth on mine, his hand steady at my back, and the deliberate attention he gave even the smallest touch.
His mouth moved from my lips to my throat, then lower to the curve of my collarbone, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there in a touch that wasn’t quite a bite but made my breath catch all the same.
He was demanding in the way he had always been demanding -- focused, thorough, unwilling to leave anything unfinished -- but beneath the dominance was something raw and unguarded, a man completely undone by the woman beneath him and making no effort to hide it.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the clasp of my bra, his breathing turning rougher whenever I leaned into his touch.
The attention he paid to every reaction -- the hitch of my breath, the shift of my hips, the smallest sound slipping free -- hit me harder than the touch itself.
I met him fully -- no bracing, no held-back part of myself.
My back arched into his hands, my fingers gripping his shoulders, his hair, the sheets beside my hips.
A soft flutter rolled through my stomach, different from the usual discomfort, making the moment feel even more intimate.
Nitro felt it too -- I saw it in the slight tension that appeared at the corners of his eyes, the way he adjusted his weight to keep from pressing too hard against the curve of my belly.
“I’m okay,” I told him. “They’re okay. You’re not hurting us.”
He slid one hand down to the waistband of my jeans, fingers working the button free with attention. “Tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he said against my mouth. “I’ll stop. Just say the word.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want you to stop.”
His hands were careful but insistent, his mouth warm against my skin, his body above mine that never quite pressed as hard as I could tell he wanted to. The heat between us built with each touch, each adjustment, each small sound I couldn’t hold back.
When he finally entered me, the feeling was so intense I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out -- not from pain but from the sudden, overwhelming rightness of it. I could tell Nitro felt it too. He went perfectly still above me, giving me time to adjust to the feel of him.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice rough with the effort of holding back.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and reached for him -- one hand at the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss that was nowhere near as careful as the ones that had come before.
He responded immediately -- his mouth meeting mine with equal hunger, his body finding a rhythm that made my toes curl.
The room filled with the sounds of what was happening between us -- my breath catching, his low exhale against my neck, the creak of the mattress as we moved together.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
The promise landed between us -- direct, uncompromising. My hands came up to frame his face, thumbs brushing over the stubble along his jaw, and I felt the exact moment something between us shifted -- not breaking, not giving way, but making room for something that hadn’t been there before.
“I know,” I said. “I know you do.”
We moved together with increasing intensity, his body careful above mine. Heat built steadily between us through every touch and breathless adjustment until the rest of the world disappeared beneath the pull of him.
When it finally broke -- when the control we’d both been holding finally released -- the intensity nearly pulled a cry from me, forcing me to bite down on my lip. Nitro held himself perfectly still above me as it washed through him, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts against my neck.
Neither of us moved for a long second, the distance we’d kept between us finally collapsing into something neither of us wanted to undo. Then Nitro shifted so he could look at my face.
The separation we’d clung to had dissolved, leaving the bed feeling warmer, more intimate, more real.
Not smaller, exactly, but fuller -- occupied in a way it hadn’t been before, even when we’d lain side by side in the dark with his hand open between us.
Now his body was a solid line of heat against mine, his breath coming in the same even rhythm as my own, his hand warm through the thin cotton of the sheet where it covered my stomach.
Nitro reached for me like he’d already settled the matter in his own head and was finally allowing himself to act on it.
His arm settled across my waist, pulling me against his side with quiet possessiveness that left no doubt he intended to keep me there -- his body warm and solid against mine, his heartbeat steady under my palm where it rested against his chest.
I tucked my face against his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin -- clean and faintly mechanical, with the underlying note of something that belonged to him alone.
His palm felt warm against my back through the thin cotton of the sheet, and stayed there -- not moving, not demanding, simply existing beside me with calm, steady assurance.
Nitro’s free hand found the curve of my belly and rested there, and I felt the twins shift beneath his touch.
“They’re moving.”
I nodded, my cheek brushing against the stubble along his jaw. “They know it’s you,” I said. “They recognize your voice.”
He moved his hand beneath the sheet to rest directly against my skin, palm warm and careful against my belly.
The television was still audible from the living room, a faint murmur through the wall -- car engines and gunshots and dialogue that meant nothing at this moment. Neither of us moved to turn it off.
I curled my fingers against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my palm. We lay there in the half-dark room, his hand warm against my belly while I settled more fully against his side.
The television played on, meaningless background noise compared to the quiet tension filling the bedroom.
I focused on the solid heat of him against me, his hand resting at the small of my back.
My breathing slowly steadied against his skin as I relaxed fully into him, and his arm tightened around my waist.
We stayed like that in the stillness -- his hand on my belly, my palm over his heart -- neither of us naming whatever had changed between us -- and the unmistakable sense that something had taken root in the space the tension used to occupy moved through the room like something I had no defense against.