Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Reid
With this kiss, there’s no hesitation, no surprise. We already learned gentle in that bathroom days ago. This isn’t about discovery. This is four weeks of restraint shattering all at once.
He meets me with the same intensity, hands sliding to my waist and pulling me flush against him. I can feel every inch of him—solid, warm, real. My hands fist in his thermal shirt, and I’m backing him toward the sleeping platform without breaking contact.
His mouth is hot against mine, demanding. One of his hands slides up my spine, the other grips my hip. I bite his lower lip and he groans, the sound vibrating through both of us.
We break for air. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
“I’ve wanted this for weeks,” I breathe.
“So have I.” His voice is rough, raw.
“We’re finally alone.”
“Just us.”
I pull back slightly, holding his gaze. “Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“Everything.”
Something flares in his expression—hunger and reverence mixed together. He reaches for the hem of my thermal, pauses. “Can I?”
“Yes.”
He pulls it over my head slowly, carefully. His eyes track over my skin—the scar on my ribs from shrapnel, the one on my collarbone from a training accident. His fingers trace each one with something like awe.
“You’re hurt,” he says quietly.
“Old injuries. They don’t hurt anymore.”
My turn. I reach for his shirt, pull it up and off. His torso is dotted with scars too. I run my fingers over his left shoulder where I know an old injury sits. His back I’ve already seen. I let my hands stay at his waist.
“These are proof you survived,” I whisper.
He catches my hand, brings it to his lips. “So are yours. And they’re beautiful.”
“They’re not—”
“They are. You’re beautiful.”
I don’t believe it, but God, I want to. The way he’s looking at me right now, like I’m something precious, makes me want to believe it.
More clothes come off. Piece by piece. No rush. We’re learning each other in firelight, mapping scars and skin and the places that make each other gasp.
He lowers me onto the bed, blankets soft beneath my back. Leans over me, his weight supported on his forearms. Dips his head and whispers something in Latin against my collarbone.
“Mea lux.”
“What does that mean?”
He lifts his head, meets my eyes. “My light. You’re my light in darkness.”
Then his mouth is on mine again, and I’m lost.
His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. I arch into the touch, wanting more. He takes his time, kissing down my neck, my collarbone, the valley between my breasts.
“Sulla—”
“Tell me what you want,” he says against my skin.
“More. Don’t stop.”
His mouth closes over my nipple and I gasp. His tongue circles, teeth grazing, and pleasure spikes through me sharp and hot. His hand cups my other breast, thumb and forefinger plucking the peak.
“Here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Like this?” He applies more pressure.
“Harder.”
He obeys, and I’m making sounds I didn’t know I could make. My hands are in his hair, holding him to me, and he’s taking his time—worshiping me with his mouth, alternating between gentle and demanding.
“You like my touch,” he murmurs, switching to the other breast.
“Perfect.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes blazing. “Good.”
His mouth returns to my breast, tongue swirling, and I’m arching into him. One of his hands slides down my stomach, resting at the waistband of my remaining clothes.
“I want to know what you sound like,” he says. “When you stop holding back.”
“Then keep listening.”
His thumb circles through fabric and I gasp. The pleasure is building, tightening, and all he’s doing is touching me through clothes. I can’t imagine what it’ll feel like when—
“Sulla, I’m—”
“I know. Let go. I’ve got you.”
But he doesn’t push me over. Instead he eases back, kissing down my stomach. His hands hook into my waistband.
“Can I taste you?”
I can’t speak. Just nod.
He removes the last barrier between us. The cool air hits my skin and then his breath, warm and close. His hands slide up my thighs, spreading them gently.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers.
Then his mouth is on me and I stop thinking entirely.
He’s patient, focused, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me moan. His tongue explores, his lips close around me, and pleasure builds in waves.
“Tell me,” he says against me.
“There. Right there.”
“Like this?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
He hums approval and the vibration nearly undoes me. His hands hold my hips steady as I start to move, chasing the pleasure he’s building. He doesn’t rush. Takes his time. Pays attention to every sound I make.
“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs against my aching flesh, and I moan.
The pressure builds and builds, tightening like a spring, and when it breaks I cry out his name. Pleasure crashes through me in waves, overwhelming, perfect. He doesn’t stop immediately—gentles his touch, bringing me down slowly.
I’m still trembling when he kisses back up my body, settling beside me. His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.
“You’re so beautiful after you’ve taken your pleasure,” he says softly.
I’m trying to catch my breath. “I’ve never… it’s never been like that.”
Something satisfied crosses his expression. He leans down, kisses me slow and deep. I can taste myself on his lips.
When we break apart, I push him onto his back.
“My turn.”
“Reid—”
“Let me. I want to see you lose control.”
I kiss down his chest, following the path of old scars. His stomach muscles jump under my lips. My hand slides lower, over the hard length of him through the remaining fabric. He groans.
“Can I?” I ask.
“Please.”
I remove the last barrier. He’s hard and beautiful and different than I expected—uncut, which registers for exactly a second before my brain stops cataloguing and starts wanting. My hand wraps around him and he gasps, the sound startled out of him like he forgot he was allowed to feel this.
“You’re beautiful like this,” I tell him.
“Reid—”
“Undone. Vulnerable. Mine.”
He groans, hips flexing into my touch. I stroke slowly, learning what makes his breathing hitch. His control is fracturing, and I love watching it happen.
“Tell me what you want,” I say.
“Your hands. Your mouth. Anything.”
I lean down, taking him in my mouth, and the sound he makes is broken and raw. My hand works in rhythm with my mouth, and he’s falling apart beneath me. One of his hands finds my hair, not pulling, just touching.
“Look at me,” I say.
He does. His eyes are nearly black, glazed with pleasure.
“I want to watch you,” I tell him.
“Goddess, Reid—”
I take him deeper and his control shatters. He comes with my name on his lips, body arcing off the bed. I watch him—completely vulnerable, no walls, just him.
After, we’re both breathing hard. But he doesn’t just lie there. He moves immediately, pulling me against him, and he can’t stop kissing me. My forehead, temples, eyelids, nose, cheeks, mouth, jaw, neck.
“You’re incredible,” he says between kisses. “Amazing.” Another kiss. “Perfect.”
He pulls back, looks at me with something like wonder. Then he gets up.
“Stay there.”
I watch him move through the bothy. Firelight catching the lines of him, the shift of muscle in his haunches as he crouches to stoke the fire. I could watch him for hours.
Then he stands and I see his back fully in the light.
The scars are everywhere. Systematic. Deliberate. Not battle scars—these were administered. Row after row, the topography of someone else’s cruelty laid into his skin.
I don’t say anything. He doesn’t turn around. But I think he knows I’m seeing it.
He grabs the blanket and comes back to me.
“You’re cold,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“Let me take care of you.”
He retrieves the rations, opens them, and brings me food. Sits beside me, and he can’t stop touching me. His fingers slide into my hair, playing with the still-damp strands. He traces my collarbone, my shoulder, my arm. Just touching because he can.
I’m seeing a version of him I’ve never seen before. The controlled, stoic man who faced down Blake without touching him—that man is gone. This man is lovestruck. Tender. Openly adoring. He has absolutely no shame in being vulnerable with me.
I take a bite of the ration bar, studying him. “This is different.”
“What is?”
“You. You’re different.”
“How?”
“Softer. Open. I’ve never seen you like this.”
He’s quiet for a moment, fingers still playing in my hair. “I’ve never been like this. Not with anyone.”
“Why with me?”
“Because you make me want to be. Because you’re safe. Because—” He leans in, kisses me softly. “—I’m in love with you and I don’t know how to hide it anymore.”
My breath catches. “Say that again.”
“Which part?”
I gently punch his upper arm. Is he teasing me? “The love part.”
“I’m in love with you, Reid. Completely. Terrifyingly in love with you.”
The words land like a fist and a gift at the same time. Four weeks of watching him. Four weeks of telling myself it was proximity, adrenaline, the situation. Four weeks of lying.
“I’m in love with you too.” The words come out before I can stop them, and I don’t want to stop them. That’s the most terrifying thing that’s happened to me in four weeks including the bridge. “I kept telling myself it was the situation. Proximity. Adrenaline.”
“Was it?”
“No.” I look at him. “No. It was you. Just you.”
His face opens—not surprise, more like relief. Like he’d been braced for me to take it back.
“Since when?” he asks.
“The rope bridge. When you wouldn’t let me fall. I knew then.”
He pulls me closer, nuzzles my neck. “I knew on the bridge too,” he says quietly. “When I was running across and the only thing in my head was your name. Not survival. Not strategy. Just… you.”
He whispers more Latin against my skin. “Mea vita. Mea carissima.”
“Tell me what they mean.”
“My life. My dearest. You’re everything.”
Tears prick my eyes—good tears this time. “No one’s ever called me their everything.”
“You are.” He kisses my temple. “You’re my light, my life, my everything. And I’ll spend every day proving it.”
I believe him. God help me, I believe him.
We sit in comfortable silence, eating, his hand never leaving my hair. The fire crackles.
“What happens when we go back?” I finally ask. “To cameras?”
“To everything,” he adds quietly.
“No one can know. Not yet.”
“Why?” His tone is slightly sharp. I’ve struck a nerve.
“Because this is ours. Just ours. I don’t want to share it.”
“I don’t either.” He kisses my shoulder. “This night—just us.”
“Just us,” I agree. “After the show ends?”
“Then we figure it out. Together.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
We lie down together, and he pulls me against him. He still can’t stop touching me—fingers trailing down my spine, lips against my shoulder, my neck. Like he’s memorizing me through touch.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs.
“I’m here.”
“With me.”
“With you.”
Inside we’re warm and wrapped around each other. His hand still in my hair, lips finding whatever part of me he can reach. Like he can’t stop.
I drift toward sleep thinking, This man who says he hurt people in Rome touched me like I was precious. Worshiped me. Tended to me. Looked at me like I hung the stars. I don’t know what he did before. But this—this man loving me—this is real.
Just before sleep takes me, I feel him whisper against my hair, “Mea carissima.”
My dearest.
Yes. I am.