Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Flavius
I wake before the sun.
Not to danger. Not to footsteps in the sand or the creak of a door.
I wake because of warmth.
Sophia is curled against me, her cheek over my heart, her breath soft and steady, her fingers tucked loosely in the fabric of my shirt like she fell asleep holding onto something she didn’t want to lose.
And Goddess help me—I let her.
Last night’s confession sits in my chest like a stone and like a flame both. I told her about Marcellus. I put the ugliest, most shameful, weakest part of me in her hands.
And I survived it.
More than that. She held it. She held me.
I lie still, watching the early gray light gather at the edge of the window. My muscles ache with a strange, bone-deep quiet. Not weakness—release. Something I haven’t felt since I was a boy allowed a moment of rest between beatings.
Sophia shifts, her thigh sliding over mine, her breath brushing my collarbone. She makes a small sound—half sigh, half question—as she wakes. Then her eyes flutter open.
Brown. Soft. Clear. And the moment she sees me, something gentle breaks across her face.
“…Good morning,” she whispers, voice still thick with sleep.
“Good morning,” I murmur back.
She studies me for a long breath—my face, my eyes, the place where her hand is still curled in my shirt. “You’re… okay?” she asks softly. “After last night?”
“I am,” I say. And I am startled to discover it’s true. “Because you wanted me to stay.”
She gives a small, relieved exhale.
We lie together in the quiet as the early light turns everything soft—the edges of the room, the space between our breaths, the weight of what we shared last night.
She shifts against me, and I feel the change in her body—awareness settling in. Not nervous. Just… present. Her fingers trace a slow line down my chest, tentative at first, then bolder.
Silence settles over us—warm, charged, alive with something neither of us pretends not to feel.
Her gaze flickers to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Flavius… about the line.”
My body tenses—not with fear. With want.
“The line we agreed on,” she says. “About after the fight. We still have it.” A small breath.
“I still want it to mean something — to be a choice we make when we’re not running from anything.
But last night changed something.” She draws a breath, steadying herself.
“I don’t want what you shared about Marcellus to make you feel like you should guard yourself from me this morning. I want… I want to be close to you.”
Her words hit something still raw, still learning how to trust softness.
“I do not want distance,” I say. “Not from you. Not anymore.”
That earns another breath of relief—real, unguarded.
She rises onto her knees, straddling my hips in one slow, unhurried motion that steals the air from my lungs. Her hands slide up my chest, cautious at first, then firmer, as if confirming that yes, I am real, and yes, I am hers to touch right now.
“Flavius…” Her voice trembles for a different reason now.
“I want to… give you something. I want to make you feel good. Because last night—because of the way my heart feels right now—I need…” She shakes her head, frustrated with the limits of language.
“I need you to feel how much you matter to me.”
Goddess.
My hands rise to her thighs, fingertips tracing slow, reverent lines up toward her hips. Her skin is warm from sleep, soft in a way that unravels every thread of restraint I have left.
“Sophia,” I say quietly, “you do not have to give me anything.”
“I know.” Her voice is soft but certain. “That’s exactly why I want to.”
Those words should not have the power to undo a man. But they do.
She leans down, kisses me—slow, deep, full of a tenderness that is somehow more devastating than hunger. Her fingers slip beneath my shirt—slow, tentative at first—then higher, exploring the lines of my stomach, the curve of my ribs, like she’s tracing meaning into my skin one touch at a time.
I breathe hard, control slipping, wanting her so badly my bones ache.
Her hand trails down, brushing the line of my waistband, then lower… Her palm cups me through my pants.
Heat slams through me. I choke on a guttural sound that isn’t civilized.
She kisses the edge of my jaw. “I want to make you feel good,” she murmurs. “Let me?”
I nod—because words aren’t possible, because my body is already answering for me, because her wanting is a kind of worship I never thought would be mine.
She strokes me slowly, gently, watching my face with this fierce quiet focus that could tear me apart. She is learning me. Taking me in. Seeing every reaction I try and fail to contain.
“Sophia…” My voice cracks. “I am close already.”
“Mmm,” she whispers. “It’s okay.” She presses a soft kiss at the corner of my mouth. “We don’t have to go slow every second.”
Goddess, what she does to me.
I catch her wrist—not stopping her, just needing to touch her. “Another stroke like that,” I manage, “and I won’t last another heartbeat.”
“Then fall apart,” she says simply. “Just… stay with me while you do.”
She pushes my pants down my hips. She sees me and stills—eyes widening, pupils darkening, lips parting in quiet surprise.
“Oh…” she whispers. “You’re… beautiful.”
Her hand wraps around me again—skin to skin this time—and the shock of it rips a groan from deep in my chest. She strokes once, twice, slow enough to be reverent, bold enough to be devastating.
Then she leans down and kisses the tip of me—and gives one soft, curious lick.
My hips jerk. My vision blurs. I nearly come in her mouth like a boy.
I grip her wrist because I will not lose myself faster than I can worship her back.
“Sophia,” I rasp, “I need… I need you.”
I kiss her and flip her gently—not fast, not dominant, just enough to breathe again. She draws in a sharp breath, then smiles against my mouth.
My hand trails down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her sleep shorts. Her heat hits me like sunlight after winter.
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Flavius—”
“I want to taste you,” I murmur. “Let me?”
Her hips lift in answer, a small, instinctive offering.
Then her fingers slip into my hair—gentle at first, then firmer—drawing me down between her thighs before I can think.
I feel the slight tremor in her legs, the way she’s breathing in careful, measured counts—present but also regulating herself, staying with me instead of disappearing into her head.
I start slow—soft kisses to her thighs, the crease of her hip, the tender hollow just beside where she needs me most. Her muscles tremble under my mouth.
Then I taste her.
Warm. Slick. Sweet. The kind of taste that makes a man believe in gods again.
She sucks in a sharp breath, helpless, and her hands tighten in my hair.
I lick her lightly first, tracing the shape of her, learning every place she shivers. Then deeper—slow, deliberate strokes that make her hips lift off the mattress.
“Flavius—oh—” Her voice breaks.
I circle her with my tongue—teasing, patient—until she moans in frustration and tightens her thighs around my head.
There. That sound. That need.
I close my mouth over her and suck—not hard, but deep enough that her entire body jolts.
“Yes. Yes. Don’t stop—” Her voice is breathless, wild.
I add two fingers—slow, steady—curling them just right until her back arches and she cries out my name like a prayer torn from her chest.
Her orgasm hits in a wave—thighs shaking around me, breath shattered, hands clutching at anything she can reach.
I don’t stop until she pulls weakly at my hair—too sensitive.
I ease the pressure, kissing her gently as the aftershocks ripple through her.
When I rise above her, she grabs my face with shaking hands and pulls me into a kiss that steals what remains of my restraint.
“Come here,” she whispers against my lips.
I settle between her thighs—not entering her, not crossing that line—but pressed close enough that the heat of her curls around me like a fist.
She wraps her legs around my hips, pulling me closer. Closer. Until the length of me grinds against her slick warmth.
We both groan. Loud. Uncontrolled.
Her hands cup my jaw, forcing my gaze to hers.
“I want to see you,” she breathes. “Like this. While you feel me.”
Her gaze locks to mine—brown tinged with golden desire and wonder and something that feels like devotion.
I pulse forward once—slow, controlled—dragging along the external heat of her, and the sound she makes is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.
I brace one hand beside her head, the other gripping her hip, guiding the rhythm. “Look at me,” I murmur.
“I am,” she whispers, voice breaking. “I can’t look away.”
Her hips lift to meet mine—small pulses at first, then harder, more certain.
Slow. Grinding. Relentless enough that pleasure builds in unbearable waves.
Her breath breaks with every movement. Mine turns ragged. The world shrinks to the place where our bodies press against each other and the place where our gazes refuse to break contact.
“Flavius…” she breathes. “Please—please don’t stop—”
“Non desino,” I whisper, my voice frayed as I assure her I won’t stop. She shivers at the sound of the Latin even though she can’t translate it.
Her fingers trace my cheek as if she’s seeing me for the first time. “Tell me,” she breathes. “Tell me what you feel.”
I lower my forehead to hers. Everything in me—everything—is exposed.
“Te volo,” I murmur. “Totus tuus sum. Animam meam tangis.”
Her lips part, caught on the rawness even before meaning arrives.
“What does it mean?” she whispers.
“It means…” I slide again—hard against her, slow enough that we both cry out— “It means you touch my soul.”
Her eyes fill with something fierce and tender all at once.
“Flavius… I’m… I’m going to—”
“I know,” I rasp. “I’m with you.”
Her orgasm hits first—swift, a loud whining moan is ripped from her mouth as her body clenches under mine. Her gaze locks onto mine like she’s falling and holding on at the same time.
Her pleasure drags mine with it. A raw, shuddering groan tears from my throat as pleasure slams into me so hard I bury my face against her neck, shaking with it.
We collapse together—breathing hard, bodies tangled, hearts racing in the same uneven rhythm.
She strokes my hair once, then again—slow, careful, loving.
I kiss her collarbone. Her shoulder. The quiet space beneath her jaw.
She whispers my name like the word itself gives her pleasure.
I hold her, lowering us onto our sides, pulling the blanket over her, keeping her pressed to my chest as the last tremors fade.
I bring myself to leave her side for a moment to clean myself. When I lie back next to her, she nestles closer, her thigh hooking over mine, her hand pressed to my heart.
I breathe her in—her warmth, her softness, the steady, grounding weight of her trust.
This wasn’t about the heat I’ve wanted for weeks. It was about letting her hold the part of me I never let anyone touch.
And letting it matter.