Chapter 12-The Sister #2
"I meant it when I said it," I said. "That's the problem. I was terrified, and I lashed out and I?—"
His hands came up. Cupped my face.
"I heard you," he said quietly.
"But I don't—" I stopped. Started again. "I don't want it to be a mistake."
"Neither do I."
His thumb brushed across my cheekbone. Slow. Intentional.
I could feel his heartbeat under my hands. Fast. Hard.
He wanted this. Wanted me.
Even after yesterday. Even after I'd pushed him away.
"Show me," he said quietly. "Show me it's not a mistake."
So I did. I kissed him. Not desperate this time. Not running from anything.
Just choosing him. Again.
His hands slid into my hair. My hands fisted in his shirt.
And when he backed me against the counter, when his mouth moved to my neck, when his teeth scraped against the pulse point there?—
I gasped.
He pulled back. Just far enough to meet my eyes.
"Bedroom," I breathed.
"You're sure?"
Terrified and certain weren't the same thing.
"I'm sure," I said. "I want this. I want you."
Something in his eyes darkened. "Good," he said quietly. "Because I've been trying not to touch you all day. Trying to give you space. And I'm done pretending I don't want this."
He kissed me again. Harder this time.
"I've wanted you since the moment you walked into that deposition," he said against my mouth. "I'm done fighting it.
His hands moved up my sides. Unhurried. Like he was memorizing the shape of me.
I pulled at his shirt. Needed it off.
Needed to feel his skin against mine.
He caught my hands. Held them still.
"Not here," he said against my mouth. "Bedroom."
We made it to the bedroom. His shirt was already half-unbuttoned. My dress unzipped.
He laid me down on the bed. Careful. Not desperate like before. Not frantic.
Just—intentional. Like he wanted to remember this. Like he wanted me to remember this.
"Look at me," he said quietly. I did.
His eyes were dark. Intense. Focused entirely on me.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
I froze.
"Blaire."
"I want—" I stopped.
He waited. Patient. Unrelenting.
"Tell me," he said quietly. "Don't hide from me."
My throat tightened. "I want you," I said finally. "I want this. All of it."
"Be specific."
Heat flooded my face.
"Richard—"
"I need to hear you say it," he said.
"I want you to touch me," I whispered. "I want to feel your hands on me. Your mouth. I want?—"
"What else?"
My breath caught. "I want you inside me," I said quietly. "I want to feel you. All of you."
Something in his eyes darkened. He kissed me then. Slow. Deep.
His hands moved over me.
My dress was already unzipped. He slid it down my body. I lifted my hips to help.
He pulled it off completely. Tossed it to the floor. Looked up and down my body. Lingered.
"This too," he said quietly.
Fingers at the clasp of my bra. I nodded.
He unhooked it. Slid the straps down my arms. Added it to the pile on the floor.
And then there was just my underwear. Black lace. The only thing between us.
His fingers hooked in the waistband.
"Yes," I breathed.
He slid them down my legs. Slow. Measured.
And then I was completely bare in front of him.
He pulled back. Just far enough to look at me. His gaze moved over my body again. Unhurried. Intent.
"God, Blaire," he said quietly.
Heat flooded my face. My chest. I wanted to cover myself. To hide.
But I didn't.
I reached for him instead. Pulled him down to me. His weight settled over me. Solid. Real.
He kissed down my neck. My collarbone. Lower. And when his mouth found my breast, when his tongue circled my nipple, when I rolled my hips against him, he groaned against my skin.
His hand slid up my thigh. Between my legs. I was already wet. Already ready for him.
"Please," I breathed.
He pulled back. Just far enough to meet my eyes.
"Not yet," he said.
"Richard—"
"I want to take my time with you," he said quietly. "I want to watch you come apart. For me."
His fingers moved. Slow. And when he found exactly the right spot, when he circled it with just the right pressure?—
I gasped.
My hands fisted in the sheets.
He watched me. Eyes dark. Intent.
"That's it," he murmured. "Don't hold back."
I couldn't. Not like that. Not with his hands on me and his eyes watching every reaction.
The pressure built. Higher. Tighter.
"Richard—"
"I've got you," he said quietly. "Let go."
So I did. I came apart in his hands. Shaking, gasping his name. And through it all, he held me. Watched me. Like I was something he wanted more than anything.
After, when I could breathe again, I reached for him.
Unbuckled his belt. Pushed his pants down.
He was hard. Had been hard the whole time.
I wrapped my hand around him. He groaned. Head falling back.
"Blaire—"
"My turn," I said quietly.
I stroked him. Slow.
Then I leaned down. Took him in my mouth.
He gasped. His hand fisted in my hair.
"Fuck—"
I worked him with my tongue and lips, taking in the taste of him, the way he felt.
Slow at first. Careful. Paying attention.
To the way his breath caught—sharp, controlled, like he was trying to hold it in. To the tension in him, the restraint he didn't quite lose.
And how watching it—watching him come undone just a little—lit something in me I couldn't ignore.
"Blaire—"
His voice was strained.
"I need—" He stopped. Tried again. "I need to be inside you."
I pulled back. Met his eyes.
"Then take me."
He pushed me back against the bed. Settled between my legs.
He took himself in hand, circled my slickness with his tip, and filled me completely.
We both gasped. He stilled. Just for a moment.
"Okay?" he breathed.
"Yes."
He moved then. Slow. Deep. Not rushing. Not chasing his release.
Just—here. With me.
His hand found mine. Pulled my wrists together and pinned them above my head.
And when the pressure built again, when I felt myself getting close, he leaned down. Mouth against my ear.
"I've got you," he breathed. "I'm right here."
I came with his name on my lips.
He followed seconds later. Shuddering against me.
And through it all, his hand stayed locked around my wrists.
After, we lay tangled in the sheets. His arm around me. My head on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear.
"I shouldn't have called it a mistake," I said in the dark.
Richard's chest rose and fell. "You were scared."
"I'm always scared."
"I know." His hand found mine. Threaded our fingers together. "But you're here anyway," he said quietly.
I was. Despite everything. Despite the fear, the control, and the years of running. I was here. In his arms. In that moment. In whatever this was becoming.
"Richard?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't go back to the guest room."
His hand tightened on mine. "I won't," he said. "Not unless you ask me to."
We lay there for a long time. Quiet.
Breathing together like neither of us wanted to disturb whatever this was.
His heartbeat was steady beneath my ear. Warm. Real. And somewhere in the middle of it, I realized I'd stopped waiting for the moment I thought I needed to pull away.
I stopped treating closeness like something dangerous. The realization caught in my chest hard enough to hurt.
But I didn't let myself dwell on it too long.
I just closed my eyes and stayed curled against him a little longer, and let it mean whatever it meant.