Chapter 15 Imani
IMANI
Ican’t sleep.
I’ve been lying in this bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling, replaying the evening in my head. The cooking. The banter. The way he looked at me when I talked about his clan.
The way his shoulder felt under my hand when I touched him.
I turn onto my side, punching the pillow into a more comfortable shape. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. My body is restless, my mind won’t shut up, and underneath it all there’s that pull again.
That damn pull.
It’s stronger now than it’s ever been. Like something magnetic drawing me toward the door. Toward him.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think about something else. The green chair. My apartment. The savings in my shoebox that I was supposed to be adding to this weekend.
But every thought circles back to him. His laugh when I teased him about the brown sugar. The vulnerability in his eyes when he talked about his brother. The way he said “woman” like it meant something more than just a word.
This is crazy. He’s the man who crushed my phone. Ripped off my car door. Trapped me in this cabin against my will.
But he’s also the man who made me breakfast. Who listened to my story about Darnell without interrupting or making excuses for him. Who looked at me like I was something precious when I talked about wanting a home.
I throw off the covers and sit up.
I need water. That’s all. Just a glass of water, and then I’ll come back to bed and force myself to sleep.
I’m wearing the nightgown I packed—simple cotton, pale blue, hitting just above my knees. I should put on something more substantial. A robe, at least. But I’m just getting water. He’s probably asleep by now anyway.
I open the door quietly and head down the hallway.
The living room fireplace throws the only light. I slip toward the kitchen, trying to stay quiet.
But he’s there.
In the chair he told me never to touch, watching the flames. He’s changed: sleep pants, old t-shirt tight across his shoulders. The light plays over his face, and the scar doesn’t look so brutal anymore. Just part of him.
He looks up when he hears me.
I freeze in the hallway entrance, suddenly very aware of how little I’m wearing. The nightgown is modest enough, but the way his eyes travel down my body makes me feel naked.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, his voice rough.
“No.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I was just getting water.”
He nods toward the other room, but he doesn’t look away from me.
I should go. Get my water and retreat to my room like a sensible person.
But my feet carry me toward him instead.
I don’t sit in his chair. I’m not that bold. But I lower myself onto the floor near the fireplace, close enough to feel the heat of the flames, close enough to feel the heat of him.
“What about you?” I ask. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“No.”
“What are you thinking about?”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“You,” he says finally.
The word settles into me, heavy and warm. I should deflect. Make a joke. Break the tension building with every breath.
“That’s dangerous,” I say instead.
“I know.”
“I’m not... I’m not looking for anything, Tolin. I told you that.”
“I know.”
“So why do I keep ending up here?” I gesture vaguely at us, at this. “Why can’t I stay away from you?”
He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, bringing his face closer to mine. His eyes have that shimmer again, the one that tells me his bear is close to the surface.
“You feel it too,” he says. “The pull.”
“Yes.” There’s no point in denying it anymore. “What is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those dark eyes, his whole body tense, his hands gripping his knees like he’s holding himself back.
“Tolin. What is it?”
“I can’t explain it.” His voice is strained. “Not yet. I just need you to feel it. Can you do that? Can you just... feel it with me?”
I should say no. Should demand answers. Should protect myself the way I’ve learned to do after years of being hurt.
But the pull is so strong now. So impossible to ignore. It’s like my whole body is leaning toward him without my permission, like every cell in me knows something my brain hasn’t figured out yet.
“I don’t understand what’s happening to me,” I whisper.
“Neither do I.” He reaches out, slowly, and brushes a curl away from my face. His fingers are warm, rough with calluses. “But I don’t want it to stop.”
I should pull away. Should go back to my room and lock the door and pretend this never happened.
Instead, I lean into his touch.
His hand cups my cheek, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. Like he’d burn down mountains just to keep me warm.
No one’s ever looked at me like that before.
“Imani.” My name is a ragged sound on his lips. “Tell me to stop.”
I should. I know I should.
But I’m so tired of being sensible. So tired of protecting myself from things that might hurt. So tired of watching life happen to other people while I stand on the sidelines, too scared to reach for what I want.
I want him.
God help me, I want him.
“No,” I breathe.
Something in his expression breaks. The restraint he’s been holding onto, the control he’s been fighting to maintain—gone.
He doesn’t kiss me. Not yet. He slides out of the chair and onto the floor beside me, one hand still cupping my face, the other settling on my hip. Even through the thin cotton of my nightgown, his touch burns.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I saw you,” he murmurs, his lips hovering inches from mine. “Since you stepped out of that car and started yelling at me for being late.”
“I didn’t yell,” I argue. “I apologized.”
“You should have yelled. I deserved it.”
“You did.”
“I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
Before I can ask what that means, his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is soft at first. Tentative. Like he’s giving me one last chance to pull away, to come to my senses, to run.
I don’t run.
I grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer.
He groans against my mouth—a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through my entire body—and the kiss changes. Deeper. Hungrier. His tongue slides against mine and I open for him, letting him in, letting him take whatever he wants.
His fingers dig into my hip, dragging me closer until I’m practically in his lap. The other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper. I feel overwhelmed. Overtaken. Like he’s trying to crawl inside me and never leave.
I’ve never been kissed like this. Never felt wanted like this. Every man I’ve ever been with made me feel like I was giving more than I was getting, like I had to work for their attention, their affection, their scraps of love.
But Tolin kisses me like he’s the one who’s starving. Like I’m the feast and he’s been waiting his whole life to taste me.
I moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound, his hips shifting beneath me. I feel him—hard and thick against my thigh—and my whole body responds, clenching with want.
“Tolin.” I gasp his name as his mouth moves to my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point, his tongue soothing the sting. “Oh God.”
“You taste so good.” He’s mumbling against my skin, his hands roaming over my body, learning the shape of me through the thin nightgown. “Smell so good. Fucking perfect.”
His hand slides up my thigh, pushing the nightgown higher. I should stop him. Should slow this down. But I can’t think when he’s touching me like this, can’t breathe when his fingers are tracing the edge of my underwear.
“Please.” I don’t even know what I’m begging for. More. Everything. Him.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is a growl in my ear. “Tell me and I’ll give it to you. Anything. Everything.”
“I want—“ I arch into him as his fingers brush against me through the thin fabric. “I want you.”
He groans, capturing my mouth again, kissing me so deep I forget my own name. His fingers press harder, rubbing circles through the damp cotton, and I’m already so wet, so ready, so desperate for him that it’s embarrassing.
“So wet for me,” he murmurs against my lips. “Can smell how much you want me. It’s driving my bear insane.”
I don’t understand what that means, his bear, but I don’t care. All I care about is the pressure building between my thighs, the way his fingers are moving faster now, the way every muscle in my body is pulling toward release.
“More,” I beg. “Please, Tolin. More.”
He pushes my underwear aside and his fingers find me, bare and slick and aching. I cry out as he slides one thick finger inside me, then another, stretching me open.
That’s it. He’s watching my face, his expression raw with need. That’s it, beautiful. Let me feel you.
His thumb finds my clit while his fingers work my pussy, stretching me, filling me so good I can’t think straight. My hips rock against his hand, chasing the release that’s building so fast it scares me.
“I’ve got you.” He kisses my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. “I’ve got you, Imani. Let go.”
I come.
Hard. The orgasm tears through me, making me cry out his name, making my whole body shake. He works me through it, his fingers never stopping, wringing every last wave of pleasure from my trembling body.
When I finally come down, I’m slumped against his chest, breathing hard, my nightgown bunched around my hips, my underwear soaked through.
And he’s still hard beneath me. Still wanting. Still waiting.
I reach for him, my hand finding his dick through his sleep pants, hard and straining against the fabric. He hisses through his teeth as I stroke him.
“Let me,” I whisper. “Please. I want to feel you.”
“Imani—“
I palm him harder, feeling the thick length of him, the heat radiating through the thin material. He’s big. Bigger than anyone I’ve been with. The thought sends another spike of arousal through me even though I just came.
“I want you inside me,” I tell him, surprised by my own boldness. “Tonight. Now.”
He groans, his hips bucking into my touch. For a moment I think he’s going to snap, going to take me right here on the floor.
But then his hand closes around my wrist, stopping me.
“Not yet.”
I blink up at him, confused. Hurt, even. “What?”
Not like this. He’s breathing hard, his eyes dark with that flash that tells me his bear is right there, tension radiating from every inch of him. Not when you don’t understand what this means.
“Then tell me what it means.”
“I can’t.” He presses his forehead to mine, his breath ragged against my lips. “Not yet. I need you to trust me first. Really trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
“No.” He pulls back slightly, cupping my face in both hands, making me look at him. “You’re starting to. But it’s not enough. When I take you—“ He swallows hard, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. “When I make you mine, I need you to understand what that means. For both of us.”
I don’t understand. There’s so much he’s not telling me, so much hidden behind those eyes.
But I can see how much this is costing him. The restraint. The control. He wants me just as badly as I want him—maybe more—and he’s stopping anyway.
Because he wants it to mean something.
No man has ever stopped for me before. No man has ever wanted it to mean something.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
He exhales shakily and pulls me tight against him, wrapping his arms around me. I can still feel him, hard and aching against my hip, but he doesn’t push. Just holds me.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair.
“Don’t be.”
“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. You need to know that.”
“I know.” And I do. I feel it in the tension of his body, the ragged rhythm of his breathing, the way he holds me fiercer like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
We sit there for a long time, tangled together on the floor. Eventually, my breathing steadies.
“I should go to bed,” I say, though I don’t move.
“Probably.”
“This is insane. You know that, right? Just yesterday, you were the villain in my story.”
“And now?”
I pull back to look at him. His scar, his beard, his eyes still dark with want.
The man who just gave me the most intense orgasm of my life and then stopped because he wanted it to mean something.
“Now I don’t know what you are,” I admit. “But I don’t think I can stop this. Whatever this is.”
“Do you want to stop it?”
I should. Every logical part of me screams that I should.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t.”
He kisses me again, softer this time. A promise instead of a demand.
“Goodnight, Imani.”
“Goodnight, Tolin.”
I stand on shaky legs and pull my nightgown back into place. He watches me go, still sitting on the floor, his back against his chair, his eyes never leaving me until I disappear down the hallway.
I close my door behind me and lean against it, my heart still pounding, my body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.
I’m losing myself to this unbearable shifter. Falling into something I don’t understand and can’t control.
And I don’t know if I can stop it.
I don’t know if I want to.