Chapter Nine
Say My Name While You Break
Olivia
There’s a moment after fear breaks when your body doesn’t know what to do with itself. Everything feels too loud. Too bright. Too alive.
I spent years shrinking myself down to survive, softening my voice, smoothing my edges, making myself smaller so he wouldn’t notice when I breathed wrong.
Tonight, I feel ... big.
Darren hasn’t moved far from me since the porch, hovering, but not hovering. Present without smothering. An entire thunderstorm wrapped in self-control.
Somewhere along the line my stomach grumbles and we end up eating in the kitchen. Once we’re done, Aunt Dee shoos us down the hallway with the sacred authority of a woman armed with chamomile tea and judgment.
“Go,” she says, swatting his arm. “You both look like live wires. Go sit. Go ... talk.”
Her pause is pointed. Her eyebrow is louder than her mouth.
“Talk,” I say weakly.
“Talk,” Darren echoes, but his voice has gone lower, darker, rougher than any version of “talk” I’ve ever heard.
We end up in his room this time. It smells like him, clean laundry, cedar soap, and faint smoke that never quite leaves firefighters no matter how often they shower. The door shuts with a soft click that sounds nothing like entrapment and everything like privacy.
I stand there, heart doing its own drum solo, hands shaking slightly from adrenaline that hasn’t figured out where to land.
He leans against the dresser like he’s deliberately giving me space, like he’s fighting himself and winning by inches.
“You were incredible,” he says quietly.
I snort, because the alternative is to cry. “I was shaking so badly I could’ve blended margaritas.”
“You still said no,” he replies. “Not in your head. Out loud. To him. And that matters.”
The words sink somewhere deep and aching. I look at him, really look at him.
Twenty-three.
Too young, my brain whispers automatically. Old enough to carry me out of a burning house, another part of me answers. Old enough to stand between me and my nightmares without making it about himself. Old enough to look at every scar, inside and out, and not flinch.
He’s watching me with that steady patience he wears like turnout gear.
“What?” he asks softly.
“You,” I say before I can stop myself.
His lips twitch. “Me?”
“You’re ... dangerous,” I murmur, stepping closer without realizing I’ve moved. “You make me want things I talked myself out of years ago.”
His throat works. “Like what?”
“Like being wanted,” I whisper. “Not tolerated. Not endured. Wanted. All of me. Even the parts that take up space.”
His eyes flare, dark heat flooding them. “Come here.”
I’m already moving and he meets me halfway.
Our mouths crash together and the world narrows to points of contact, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing my jaw like he’s memorizing the shape of me, my fingers bunching in his hoodie, dragging him closer because closer suddenly feels like oxygen.
This kiss is not careful. This kiss is a decision.
Heat flares through me so fast it’s almost dizzying. It’s not the reckless rush of trauma bonding or panic relief. It’s deeper, slower underneath the urgency, two people who have walked through fire separately realizing they’re allowed to burn together without being destroyed.
He breaks away first. Barely. His forehead rests against mine, breaths harsh, self-control hanging by a thread.
“Say stop,” he rasps. “If you want me to stop, say it, and I swear...”
“I won’t,” I breathe.
His eyes slam shut. “Olivia...”
“I’ve had years of stop,” I say, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. “Years of don’t, of later, of only when it’s convenient for someone else. I want this. I want you. Not because I’m afraid. Not because tonight was hard. Because you make me feel like I can be me again.”
He swears under his breath, something low and reverent, like prayer turned dirty.
His hands slide down my sides, over the curve of my hips, like he’s asking questions with his palms. “Tell me if anything feels wrong. Anything. We go at your pace. We stop when you say.”
“I know,” I whisper.
And I do. That’s the terrifying, beautiful part. I know without a doubt if I ever said stop, he would without question.
His mouth claims mine again, slower this time, deeper, his tongue stroking against mine in lazy teasing sweeps that make my knees threaten mutiny. He walks me backward until my legs hit the bed and then pauses, searching my face for even a flicker of hesitation.
I don’t give him any. And to be honest, I don’t think I ever will.
I sit before scooting back and lying down. He follows me down like gravity loves him more than anyone else, bracing his weight on his arms so he’s above me but not pinning me. His body heat seeps into mine through clothes that suddenly feel aggressively in the way.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs against my cheek, kissing a line down to my throat. “Do you know that? Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“Show me,” I say, breathless, shocking myself again with how bold I sound.
He laughs, dark and delighted. “Yes, ma’am.”
His mouth finds the sensitive spot just below my ear and my back arches off the mattress with a sound I don’t recognize as mine. My curves press against him and he groans, deep and hungry, like he’s been starving and didn’t realize it until now.
“Jesus, Olivia,” he mutters. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you. I’ve been trying to be good, trying to be patient while you walk around in those damn leggings...”
I laugh, half-wild, half-turned-on. “Leggings are a menace.”
“For my sanity? Yes.”
His hands glide under my shirt, stopping at the hem, giving me one more clear chance to change my mind. I nod and lift my arms.
The shirt goes first, followed quickly by my bra. His eyes drag over me like a worshipper cataloguing miracles. He doesn’t pick me apart the way I learned to do to myself. He doesn’t wince at softness or catalogue flaws. He looks ... wrecked.
“Fuck,” he says quietly, awe threaded through filth. “Every inch of you. Every curve. Mine to look at, touch, learn—if you let me.”
That last part unravels something in my chest. Consent, offered again and again, like a gift instead of a formality.
“Yes,” I say, voice shaking but certain. “I’m letting you. I’ll always let you.”
He bends and kisses the swell of my breast reverently, then again, slower, tongue flicking in a way that turns my bones to liquid. Heat pools low in my belly, pulsing with every soft scrape of his teeth, every murmur against my skin.
I’m not thinking about how I look. I’m not thinking about comparisons, about age, about worth. I’m thinking, this is my body and I am in it.
His hands are everywhere, warm and steady, mapping me. Not grabbing to claim. Learning. Memorizing. Treating me like I’m new and fascinating instead of a project to fix.
He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes again. “Are you still okay?”
“Better than okay,” I manage. “Please don’t stop.”
He grins, wicked. “Yes, little librarian.”
The nickname shouldn’t be hot. But it is.
Clothes disappear in increments that feel like choices rather than inevitabilities. My confidence wavers for a flicker as more of me is revealed than I’ve willingly shown anyone in years, but he’s there instantly, catching it, kissing the doubt right off my mouth.
“Look at me,” he whispers when I try to turn my face away. “Don’t hide from me. I like seeing you.” The way he says it leaves no room for argument.
I take my time and look at him. He’s gorgeous in the unfair way of men in their twenties, hard muscle, smooth skin, and ink along his shoulder I make a note to explore later. But there’s vulnerability in the way he watches me watch him, like my gaze is the only opinion that matters.
“You’re beautiful,” I say before I can overthink it.
His smile goes crooked. “I like hearing that from you.”
His lips leave burning trails of kisses along my skin, driving me crazy.
His large, calloused hands fondle my breasts while he mutters about perfection.
His shoulders push my thighs apart before his lips descend on my most intimate place.
His tongue teases and circles driving me closer and closer to my orgasm.
My hand goes to the back of his head and a growl vibrates against my sex.
“Darren!”
He spears me with two fingers, sending me over the edge and into bliss.
“Goddamn, that was beautiful,” he mutters, his fingers still working out of my wetness. “Such a pretty orgasm.”
My eyes open and I find him staring at me. His cock is massive and straining toward me, but he doesn’t move. My thighs tremble as I let them fall open even further.
“Please,” I beg and something inside him shifts.
“You never have to beg me,” he says lowly, rubbing the head of his shaft between my lips after removing his fingers. “But I can’t say I don’t like the sound.”
“Please, Darren,” I repeat, knowing he enjoys it. “Fuck me.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat and slowly fills me with his thick inches. “Fuck.” I can see the strain on his face as he enters me. “So hot. So wet...”
“More...” He thrusts the last few inches in harshly and my back bows. “Yes...” I hiss in pleasure.
“You’ll be the death of me,” he says, rising up over me.
His big hands press my thighs down on the bed and he watches as his cock disappears into me again and again. I have never seen a man so enraptured by anything, much less me.
His thumb finds my clit and rubs small, tight circles. “I need you to come for me, Olivia.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” I chant on repeat as my second orgasm barrels down on me, my walls fluttering around his length.
“Now, Olivia,” he demands and my breath stalls as pleasure overwhelms me.
His thrusts lose their tempo and a moment later I feel his length kick inside me.
“Oh, my God,” I mewl, another small orgasm ripping through me. Why is the thought of his cum inside me so hot?
He kisses and touches everywhere, whispering words of praise that sink into my skin and my soul. Slowly, he rolls away from me but keeps me locked in his arms and his semi hard erection inside my sex.
We don’t scramble away or apologize or build distance like a wall. We just stay, wrapped up in each other. His body is heavy under mine, his hands firm against my spine, pulling me against his chest like I’m something he plans on keeping.
My brain, the fucking traitor, waits for disgust. For the flinch. For the “we should work on that.” But none comes.
He kisses my forehead instead. “Are you okay?”
I nod, my throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with safety.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m ... here.”
His arms tighten, like that’s the exact answer he wanted.
“Good,” he murmurs, already half-asleep, content and smug and mine. “Stay.”
I do. For the first time in years, I fall asleep next to someone without curling myself small to take up less space. I sprawl. I breathe.
And I dream of nothing burning.