Chapter 19
BLISS
The kiss is desperate and messy and tastes faintly like salted caramel ice cream, and I don't care.
I'm standing in my doorway in an ancient sweatshirt with no bra and three-day-old mascara smudged under my eyes.
My neighbors can probably hear me making a sound that is half sob, half laugh against Olog's mouth.
Nothing else matters except the fact that he came back.
He came back, and he apologized, and he said he loves me.
Olog makes a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest and lifts me clean off the ground, one massive hand sliding under my thighs, the other braced firmly against my back.
I wrap my legs around his waist, which is logistically absurd given the size difference, but I manage it anyway, clinging to him like he might disappear if I let go.
He kicks my apartment door shut behind us without breaking the kiss.
"Bliss," he murmurs against my mouth, his voice rough and strained. "I am so sorry. I should never have—"
"I know." I pull back just enough to look at him, framing his sharp, scarred face with both hands. "I know, and I forgive you, and if you try to leave me again for my own good, I will stab you with that ceremonial knife you gave me."
His mouth twitches. "Understood."
"Good."
I kiss him again, harder this time, pouring every ounce of frustration and relief and love into it.
Olog groans, his grip tightening on me, and then he is moving, carrying me through my tiny apartment like I weigh nothing.
He sits down heavily on my couch, settling me on his lap, his hands sliding under the oversized sweatshirt to grip my bare waist.
His palms are warm and rough and enormous against my skin, and the contact makes me shiver.
"I missed you," I whisper against his mouth.
"I was miserable without you." His voice is low and raw, stripped of all the careful professionalism he used to hide behind. "I sat in my apartment for three days and realized that every single part of my life felt wrong without you in it."
I pull back to look at him, my chest uncomfortable with emotion.
His silver eyes are locked on mine, open and vulnerable in a way I have never seen before.
"I don't want to be your client," I say quietly. "I don't want you to protect me like I'm fragile. I want to be your partner. Your equal. I want you to trust me enough to let me stand beside you, not behind you."
Olog's hands slide up my back, pressing me closer.
"You are my equal," he says firmly. "You have always been my equal. I was too afraid to admit that I needed you as much as you needed me."
My throat tightens.
"I need you so much it scares me," I admit.
"Good." His mouth curves into the faintest smile. "Then we are evenly matched."
I laugh, the sound wet and shaky, and kiss him again.
This time, the kiss is slower, deeper, deliberate.
Olog's hands map the curve of my spine, sliding under the sweatshirt, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts.
I arch into the touch, heat pooling low in my belly.
"I want you," I whisper against his mouth.
"You have me." His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through my body. "You have had me since the moment I walked into that hotel lobby and saw you standing there, pretending to be brave."
"I wasn't pretending." I tug at the lapels of his suit jacket, trying to shove it off his shoulders. "I was terrified."
"You were magnificent."
He shifts beneath me, helping me wrestle the jacket off, and then his hands are on my hips, guiding me to grind down against the hard, unmistakable evidence of his arousal.
I gasp, my head falling back.
"Olog—"
"Say my name again." His mouth is on my throat now, his tusks grazing my skin in a way that makes my body tighten with need. "Say it like you did that night in the hotel."
"Olog," I breathe, rolling my hips again, chasing the friction.
He growls, the sound vibrating through his chest, and then he is standing, lifting me with him, his hands locked under my thighs.
I wrap my arms around his neck, clinging to him as he carries me down the narrow hallway to my bedroom.
He kicks the door open, steps inside, and lays me down on the bed with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
I reach for him immediately, tugging at his tie, his shirt, anything I can get my hands on.
Olog catches my wrists, pinning them gently above my head with one hand.
"Slow," he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine. "I am not on a schedule anymore. I want to take my time."
I whimper, squirming beneath him.
"I don't want slow. I want you."
His mouth curves into a dark, possessive smile.
"You will have me, Bliss. All of me. But first, I am going to remind you exactly what it feels like to be worshipped."
Before I can respond, he releases my wrists and slides down my body, his hands pushing the oversized sweatshirt up and over my head.
I am bare beneath it, and the way his eyes darken as he takes me in makes my skin flush hot.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands sliding up my ribs, his thumbs brushing over my nipples.
I arch into the touch, gasping.
"Olog—"
"Patience."
His mouth follows the path of his hands, kissing and tasting every inch of exposed skin, and I lose all coherent thought.
He takes his time, mapping my body with a deliberate, possessive focus that makes me feel cherished and claimed in equal measure.
By the time his hands hook into the waistband of my underwear and drag them down my legs, I am trembling, desperate, completely undone.
"Please," I whisper.
Olog looks up at me, his eyes burning with intensity.
"Tell me what you need."
"You. I need you."
He stands, stripping out of his remaining clothes with efficient, deliberate movements, and the sight of him, bare and scarred and covered in those intricate black tattoos, steals the breath from my lungs.
He is beautiful in a way that is raw and primal and utterly overwhelming.
He climbs onto the bed, settling between my thighs, his massive frame dwarfing mine.
I reach for him, my hands sliding over the hard planes of his chest, tracing the lines of ink that cover his skin.
"What do these mean?" I ask breathlessly.
"My family tree," he says, catching one of my hands and pressing a kiss to my palm. "My grandmother's soup recipes. A map of the stars over my home village."
I laugh, the sound shaky.
"You are covered in recipes and star charts?"
"And one very detailed record of my accomplishments in hand-to-hand combat." He leans down, his mouth brushing mine. "I will translate them for you later. Right now, I have more important priorities."
Before I can respond, he shifts his hips, the thick head of him pressing against my entrance, and my body tenses with anticipation.
"Breathe," he murmurs, his hand sliding between us, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes me gasp. "Relax for me, Bliss."
I try, forcing myself to take a slow, shaky breath, and then he is pushing inside, slow and deliberate and overwhelming.
The stretch is intense, bordering on too much, but Olog is patient, murmuring low, soothing words in a language I don't understand as he works his way deeper.
By the time he is fully seated inside me, I am shaking, my hands fisted in the sheets, my body struggling to adjust to the sheer size of him.
"Okay?" he asks, his voice strained.
"Yes." I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. "Move. Please."
He groans, his hips pulling back before driving forward again, and the friction is so perfect, so overwhelming, that I cry out.
He sets a slow, devastating rhythm, each thrust deliberate and deep, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave bruises.
I lose myself in the sensation, in the way he fills me completely, in the low, possessive growl he makes every time I moan his name.
"Mine," he rumbles, his mouth against my throat. "You are mine, Bliss. No more contracts. No more pretending. Just us."
"Yours," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Always yours."
He shifts the angle, hitting something inside me that makes my body go tight, and I shatter, crying out his name as the orgasm tears through me.
Olog follows seconds later, his hips snapping forward one last time as he groans my name, his entire body shuddering with release.
He collapses beside me, pulling me against his chest, his hand sliding possessively over my hip.
We lie there in silence, our breathing slowly returning to normal, and I have never felt safer or more complete in my life.
"I love you," I whisper against his chest.
"I love you," he rumbles back, his arms tightening around me. "And I am never letting you go again."
I smile, pressing a kiss to his scarred skin.
"Good."
Weeks later, I am standing in Olog's apartment, surrounded by boxes, trying to figure out where to put my collection of vintage wine glasses in a kitchen designed for someone who drinks out of tankards.
The apartment is massive, with high ceilings and reinforced furniture and a bed that could comfortably fit four people, which is exactly what Olog needs and I absolutely do not, but I love it anyway.
I love the way it smells like him, like bergamot and leather and safety.
I love the way the oversized couch swallows me whole when I curl up on it.
I love the way he has already cleared an entire section of his closet for my clothes, even though my wardrobe takes up a fraction of the space his custom suits require.
I am unpacking a box of books when I notice a strange binder sitting on his desk.
It is large and black and organized with the kind of obsessive precision that screams Olog.
Curiosity gets the better of me.
I walk over, flip it open, and freeze.
The first page is a detailed, color-coded spreadsheet titled: Bliss Vance: Comprehensive Behavioral Analysis and Optimal Care Protocol.
I blink.
I flip to the next page.
There are tabs.
So many tabs.
Preferred Coffee Order (with temperature specifications).
Stress Indicators and Appropriate Interventions.
Family Members Requiring Tactical Monitoring.
Flower Preferences (Ranked by Emotional Impact).
I observe the binder, my mouth hanging open, torn between laughing and crying.
"Olog!" I call.
He appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel, his expression cautious.
"Yes?"
I hold up the binder.
"What is this?"
He goes very still.
"That is... classified."
"Classified."
"Yes."
"Olog." I flip to a random page and read aloud. "Subject displays increased anxiety when extended family references her career. Recommend immediate physical contact and verbal reassurance. Probability of successful de-escalation: ninety-four percent."
His jaw tightens.
"I was optimizing my approach."
"You made a manual for dating me?"
"It is a living document," he says defensively. "I update it regularly based on new data."
We look at each other, locking eyes.
And then I start laughing so hard I have to sit down.