38. Kaia
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kaia
Ican't sleep. Not because I'm anxious. Not because I'm afraid. But because I want something. And for the first time in my life, I'm not afraid to do something about it.
I lie in bed for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling. Listening to the ocean through the open window. Feeling the warmth of the blankets around me. But it's not enough. None of it is enough.
Because what I want isn't in this room.
He's down the hall.
Lachlan.
Just thinking his name sends a shiver through me, not with fear, but with something else entirely. Want. Need. Certainty. I sit up slowly, my heart already racing. Not from panic. From anticipation. I know what I'm about to do. I know what it means. And I want it. I want him.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet pressing into the cool floor.
I stand. Breathe. Then I walk to the door and slip outside.
The hallway is dark. Quiet. Everyone else is asleep.
I move carefully, not because I'm sneaking, but because I don't want to wake anyone. This is mine. This moment. This choice.
I stop outside his door, my hand hovering just above the handle. For a second, I hesitate. Not because I don't want this, but because once I do this, everything changes.
Then I realize it already has.
Shit. What if he says no? What if I'm reading this wrong? What if—
I knock. Soft. Barely audible. For a moment, there’s nothing. Then, "Come in." His voice is low. Rough with sleep. I turn the handle slowly. Carefully. The door opens without a sound. His room is darker than the hallway, but I can see him lying in bed, still and waiting.
I step inside and close the door behind me. The soft click feels louder than it should.
He stirs, just slightly. Then his eyes open.
He doesn't sit up. Doesn't move. Just looks at me.
The room is dark except for the moonlight filtering in through the window.
My hands find the hem of my sleep shirt, fingers worrying at the fabric—a nervous habit, a tell.
I watch his eyes track the movement, watch the way his jaw tightens slightly in response.
Then I take a step closer and Lachlan sits up, sheets pooling around his waist. Shirtless. Hair mussed.
I see it, the moment he realizes I'm here. The moment he understands why. He looks at me. Really looks.
"Kaia?" His voice is still gravelly. Careful. Questioning.
I don't answer right away. Just stand in the doorway.
In his space. Choosing. "I couldn't sleep," I say quietly.
He leans forward slightly, and the blanket slips lower, pooling further down his hips.
My eyes follow the movement—the defined lines of his chest catching the moonlight, the curve of his shoulders, the planes of his abdomen.
The silver light traces every edge of him, and I find myself holding my breath.
"Are you okay?" he asks. Always checking. Always making sure.
I nod. "Yeah. I just..." I trail off. Because I don't know how to say it. Don't know how to put this into words. But he doesn't push—just waits. Patient. Steady. Always steady. "I wanted to be here," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
His expression gentles, just slightly. Something warm. Something careful. "You can always be here," he says softly.
I take a step forward. Then another. Until I'm standing beside the bed, looking down at him. He doesn't move. Doesn't reach for me. Just waits, letting me decide.
And I do. I sit on the edge of the bed slowly, my hands folded in my lap. He shifts slightly, making space but not crowding.
"Kaia," he says quietly. "What do you need?"
I look at him. Study the way he's watching me, careful, protective, patient. How his chest rises and falls, steady and grounding. The way he's not pushing, not assuming, not taking. Just waiting for me to choose.
"You," I whisper.
His breath catches, just for a second. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice low and rough.
I nod. "Yeah. I'm sure."
He doesn't move right away. Just studies my face, like he's looking for any sign of hesitation. Any doubt.
He won't find it.
Because I've never been more certain of anything in my life.
He tugs my shirt gently and I climb onto the bed and kneel beside him. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheek. The touch is warm. Grounding. I lean into it without thinking.
"I've never…" I start.
"I know," he says softly.
Of course he knows.
"I'll go slow," he promises. "We'll go at your pace. Always."
I believe him. Because it's Lachlan. Because he's never pushed. Never demanded. Never made me feel like I owed him anything.
He leans in. The kiss is soft. Careful, like he's afraid I'll break. But I don't. I lean into him, my hands coming up to rest against his chest. His skin is warm. Solid. Real. I feel the steady beat of his heart beneath my palms. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at me.
"Still okay?"
I smile. "More than okay."
He kisses me again, deeper this time. His hand slides into my hair.
His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer.
I shift, moving until I'm in his lap, straddling him.
His hands settle on my hips, steady, grounding.
I can feel the heat of his fingers through the thin fabric of my sleep shorts.
"Kaia," he breathes against my mouth.
I pull back just enough to look at him. "I want this," I say again. "I want you."
His expression changes into something I've never seen before. Something raw. Something certain.
"Then you have me."
His hands slide up my sides slowly, carefully, always giving me time to pull away. I don't. I feel the drag of his palms against my skin, the warmth spreading wherever he touches. My breath catches.
I pull my shirt over my head. Then it's his turn to have trouble breathing.
His hands are still on my waist. "Fuck, Kaia.
" I feel exposed. Vulnerable. But not afraid.
Because it's him. His hands move again, sliding up my bare back.
Warm. Steady. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.
Then my collarbone. Then the hollow of my throat.
I tilt my head back, my hands sliding into his hair. Each touch of his lips sends warmth spreading through me. My skin feels hypersensitive, like every nerve is awake for the first time.
"Lachlan," I breathe.
He pulls back slightly, looking up at me. "Still okay?"
I nod. "Yeah. Don't stop."
He smiles, just slightly. Then he moves, carefully lowering me onto the bed. His body covers mine, not crushing, not overwhelming. Just there. His weight is grounding. His warmth surrounds me. His scent, driftwood and ocean and something uniquely him, fills my lungs. I feel safe. Wanted. Chosen.
His hands move slowly, learning me. Mapping every curve.
Every response. He traces the line of my ribs.
The curve of my waist. The dip of my hip.
And everywhere he touches, electricity sparks through me—sharp and bright and alive.
Heat pools low in my belly, my skin burning wherever his fingers linger.
My hands explore too, feeling the strength in his shoulders. The warmth of his skin. The way his muscles shift beneath my fingers. He groans softly, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
"You're going to kill me," he mutters.
I smile. "Good."
He pauses then, pulling back just enough to look at me. His expression is serious. Careful.
"Before we go any further," he says quietly, "we need to talk about protection."
My breath catches. Not from fear. From the fact that he's asking. That he's stopping to make sure. That he cares enough to check.
"I'm not on birth control," I say. The words come easier than I expected. "I know how it works. I understand the risks. I just...I've never had the chance to arrange it for myself."
His jaw tightens slightly. Not with judgment. With understanding. "What do you want?" he asks.
"I don't want to get pregnant," I say immediately. "Not now. Not yet."
He nods. "Then we use condoms tonight," he says simply. "And tomorrow, we can arrange a doctor's appointment. Discreet. Private. You can choose whatever method you're most comfortable with."
My chest tightens. "You'd do that?"
"Of course," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "This is your body. Your choice. Always."
I swallow hard. "I think...I think I'd want an implant. Something long-term but not permanent."
"Then that's what we'll arrange," he says. His thumb brushes across my cheek. "But for tonight, we use condoms. And if you change your mind at any point, we stop. Okay?"
I nod. "Okay."
He reaches over to the nightstand, pulling out a small box. He tears open a packet with practiced ease, and I watch as he rolls the condom on. The action is matter-of-fact. Ordinary, like this is just part of taking care of me.
And maybe it is.
He settles back over me, his weight grounding again. "Still with me?" he asks softly.
"Yeah," I breathe. "I'm with you."
He kisses me again, slow and deep, and the conversation fades into the background. Not forgotten. Just settled. Handled. One more way he's shown me that I matter.
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, between my thighs. His touch is careful. Exploratory. Learning what makes me gasp. What makes me tremble. What makes me arch into him.
He lifts his head, looking at me. His expression is soft. Warm. "I need you to tell me if anything doesn't feel right," he says. "Promise me."
"I promise."
He nods, then kisses me again, slower this time, deeper.
His hands move lower. Careful. Intentional.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my shorts and pauses, looking at me.
I nod. He slides them down slowly, taking his time.
Giving me every chance to change my mind.
But I don't, because I want this—I want him.