Chapter 8 #2
I look at him. Really look at him through the tears.
The grit written in every line of his face.
The loyalty that runs so deep it's in his bones.
The love he won't name yet but I can see in his eyes, in the way he dragged himself down here despite the pain, in the way he's holding me like I'm something precious instead of something monstrous.
I can't tell him. It would destroy him. Would destroy whatever this is between us. Would turn that love into hatred, that gentleness into disgust.
But I can't be alone with this coldness another second. Can't carry this weight by myself. Can't exist in my own skin with these memories eating me alive.
I lean forward and kiss him. It's not soft. It's not sweet. It's a collision. A desperate, frantic need to replace death with life, cold with heat, guilt with anything else—anything at all.
He freezes for a heartbeat, surprised. Then he groans low in his throat, his hand tightening in my hair almost to the point of pain, and kisses me back.
The kiss deepens, turns savage, all teeth and desperation.
I climb into his lap before I can think about whether it's a good idea, mindful of his legs but needing the contact, needing to be as close as physics allows.
"Val," he murmurs against my mouth, pulling back an inch. "Wait—"
"No." I bite his lower lip hard enough to make him gasp. "Don't make me wait. Don't make me think. Please don't make me think."
"What do you need?" He pulls back another inch, just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, searching mine with an intensity that makes me want to look away but I force myself to hold his gaze. "Tell me what you need."
“You. Just you.” My voice breaks. “Make me forget, Xavier. Please. Make me forget everything—the dream, the fear, all of it. Just for a little while. Please.”
He hesitates, and I watch something complicated move through his eyes—not just the instinct to protect me, but something deeper. The understanding of someone who knows what it’s like when your own mind becomes the enemy, when you need something concrete and real to drag you back from the edge.
His hand shifts on my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with careful deliberateness. “You need this,” he says, and it’s not quite a question, more like he’s confirming what he already knows.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He nods slowly, his other hand releasing the mattress to find my hip, steadying himself even as his leg trembles with the effort of kneeling.
The bandage on his thigh is stark white in the low light.
He shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be asking this.
But the terror from the nightmare is still a live wire under my skin, and the only thing that ever truly grounds me is him. This.
“Then come here,” he says, his voice a low, rough command that vibrates right through my chest.
I don’t need to be told twice. I shift, straddling his good thigh first, careful not to jostle his injury.
My thin nightshirt rides up, the cool air of the room hitting my bare thighs.
His hands come to my waist, large and warm, guiding me as I move to settle over his lap, facing him.
The hard ridge of his erection presses against me through his sweatpants, through my panties, and a sharp, needy sound escapes my throat.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, but it’s not gentle. It’s hungry. His eyes are dark pools, fixed on mine. “I’ve got you.”
His head dips, and his mouth finds the hollow of my throat first. A hot, open-mouthed kiss that makes me arch against him.
His hands slide up my back, under my shirt, pushing the fabric up and over my head.
It’s gone in one swift motion, tossed to the floor.
The cool air pebbles my skin, but his gaze is hotter, sweeping over my bare breasts.
“So beautiful,” he growls, and the raw appreciation in his voice is its own kind of touch.
Then his mouth is on me. Not tentative, not exploring.
Claiming. His lips close around my right nipple, sucking hard, and the sensation is so direct, so shockingly intense that I cry out, my hands flying to his hair.
He doesn’t let up. He sucks, his tongue flicking and rolling the tight peak, sending jolts of pure, electric pleasure straight to my core.
My hips rock against him instinctively, seeking friction, seeking more.
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention.
He rolls the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching just to the edge of pain before soothing it with the wet heat of his mouth.
I’m panting, my head falling back, every thought scorched away by the single-minded focus of his mouth on my skin.
The nightmare, the cold sweat, the phantom images—they’re blurring, dissolving under a wave of acute, physical sensation.
“Xavier,” I gasp.
He releases my breast with a wet pop, looking up at me. His lips are swollen, his breath coming fast. “You wanted to forget,” he says, his voice gravel. “So forget. Just feel.”
He helps me shove his sweatpants and boxers down his hips, just far enough to free him.
I rise up on my knees, guiding him with one hand.
The broad head of his cock nudges against my entrance, and I’m so wet, so ready, it’s embarrassing.
Or it would be, if I could feel anything but this desperate, clawing need.
I sink down onto him.
It’s a slow, burning stretch that steals the air from my lungs.
He’s big, and I have to take him inch by inch, my inner muscles fluttering and trying to adjust. A groan tears from his chest, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure.
His hands clamp on my hips, holding me still for a moment, both of us trembling with the intensity of the connection.
“Fuck, Valentina,” he breathes, his forehead dropping to my sternum.
I start to move. A tentative rock of my hips.
The friction is exquisite. I set the pace, a slow, deep grind, because he can’t.
His injured leg is braced, his strength spent on just holding this position, on letting me use him for my own salvation.
The knowledge of that—his surrender, his gift—unravels something else inside me.
I move faster, finding a rhythm, riding him in earnest now.
My hands are on his shoulders for balance, my nails digging into the hard muscle there.
His head is still bent, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across my collarbone, my chest. Every drag of him inside me is a perfect, full sensation that builds a coil of heat low in my belly.
One of his hands leaves my hip, sliding up my ribcage to cup my breast again. He thumbs my nipple, rolling it, pinching it in time with my upward strokes. The dual stimulation is maddening. Pleasure is not just building; it’s a storm gathering, blotting out every other sense.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice thick.
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. It’s fierce, possessive, and so deeply focused on me it’s like a physical touch. His hand leaves my breast and comes up to my throat.
My breath hitches. The touch is firm, but not restrictive. His thumb presses against the pulse hammering in my neck. He holds my gaze, his eyes asking a silent question.
I nod, a tiny, desperate movement. Yes.
His fingers tighten. Just a fraction. The pressure is perfect—a grounding, dominant claim that makes me feel utterly possessed. The coil inside me winds tighter, impossibly tight. My movements become frantic, sloppy. I’m chasing it, chasing the oblivion he promised.
“That’s it,” he rasps, his own control fraying.
His hips jerk up to meet my downward plunge, a sharp, deep thrust that makes me see stars.
His grip on my throat tightens another degree.
The world narrows to this point of perfect pressure, the exquisite fullness, the heat of his skin against mine, the raw, hungry sound of our breathing.
“I’m… Xavier, I’m…”
“Come for me,” he grits out, his voice a dark promise. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
It’s the permission I need. The orgasm crashes over me, a violent, sweeping wave that whites out my vision.
I convulse around him, a ragged scream torn from my throat, muffled by the pressure of his hand.
Pleasure, sharp and sweet and total, annihilates every last ghost in my head.
For one endless, shuddering moment, there is only this—the pulse between my legs, the grip on my neck, the safety of his body.
His own climax follows, triggered by the violent clenching of my body around his.
He shouts, a harsh, guttural sound, and his hips piston up once, twice, burying himself to the hilt as he empties into me.
The hand on my throat gentles, becomes a caress, his thumb stroking the pounding artery as we both shudder through the aftershocks.
Slowly, the world seeps back in. The sound of our ragged breathing. The feel of sweat cooling on my skin. The heavy, satisfied weight of him still inside me.
He moves his hand from my throat to the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair.
Gently, carefully, he pulls me down to his chest. I collapse against him, boneless, my ear pressed over the frantic, steady beat of his heart.
He wraps his arms around me, one hand splayed wide on my back, holding me close.
For a long time, we just breathe.
Then, his lips find my forehead. A soft, lingering kiss. Then my temple. Then, finally, he tilts my chin up and his mouth finds mine.
This kiss is different. It’s deep, yes, and possessive, but it’s slow. Tender. A reclamation of a different kind. It’s a silent conversation—You’re here. I’m here. We’re safe. His tongue strokes mine, not with hunger, but with a profound, aching sweetness that makes my eyes sting.
He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine. “Sleep,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He shifts us, grimacing slightly as he adjusts his leg, but he doesn’t let me go. He pulls the rumpled sheet over us, tucking me firmly against his side. My head is on his shoulder, my leg thrown over his good one, my hand spread over the steady rise and fall of his chest.
The last of the tension drains from me. The dark corners of the room are just shadows now, not hiding places. The silence is peaceful, not ominous. Wrapped in his heat, his scent, the solid reality of him, the fear doesn’t just feel distant.
It feels impossible.
For the first time in what feels like years, I feel safe. Truly, completely safe. My eyelids grow heavy, my breathing slows to match his. The last thing I’m aware of is the press of his lips to my hair, and the deep, even rhythm of his heart under my palm, a lullaby more effective than any other.