Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Sammie
The silence of the hotel room is loud.
It’s the kind of silence that presses in from all sides, the kind that makes you aware of your pulse, of your breath, of the way your dress clings too tightly because your chest won’t stop rising and falling. He shuts the door behind us, and the soft click is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.
I set my clutch on the desk, too carefully, like if I place it just so, I won’t shake. My heels pinch; I kick them off. One topples onto its side, forgotten. I turn back toward him — and he’s watching me.
Not polite. Not restrained. Watching me like he’s starving.
My body warms under his gaze, even though the air-conditioning hums steady. I smooth my palms down the sides of my dress, needing to touch something, anything. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it.” His voice is low, rough, like gravel dragged under velvet.
“That’s not very subtle, Captain.”
“I told you,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m done with being subtle.”
My throat tightens. He’s only a foot away now, big body filling the space between me and the rest of the world. My hands tremble, but not from fear. From the ache of wanting. From the thrill of finally being here, without shadows, without whispers, without the need to pretend.
“Say it again,” I whisper, the words trembling out of me before I can stop them.
He tilts his head. “Say what?”
“That you love me.”
His hand lifts, fingertips brushing my jaw like a question. “I love you, Sammie. I love you in ways that scare me. I love you until it feels like breathing hurts.”
My breath shatters. Tears prick, hot and unwanted, because this is everything I’ve wanted and everything I was afraid of. I lean into his touch, closing my eyes. “Then show me.”
A growl catches in his chest — restrained, desperate — and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is not like the one at the gala. That one was fire, defiance, a public claim. This one is slower. Deeper. His lips move against mine like he’s memorizing me, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t, I’ll vanish.
My hands clutch at his jacket, fumbling with the lapels until he helps, shrugging it off his shoulders. It falls heavy onto the carpet. He presses me back, gently, until my spine touches the cool wall. His body hovers just shy of mine — close enough for heat, far enough for choice.
“You can stop me,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Any second. Just say it.”
My nails dig into his shirt. “Don’t you dare stop.”
His laugh is breathless, relieved. “Bossy.”
“Equal,” I shoot back, lips brushing his.
He kisses me harder for that.
The zipper of my dress is slow under his fingers, deliberate, reverent.
He drags it down inch by inch, mouth never leaving mine.
The velvet slackens, slipping over my shoulders, baring my skin to the chill.
His hands follow, warm, steady, mapping every line like he’s reading a language only he understands.
“You knew what you were doing,” he whispers, lips brushing my collarbone. “Walking in red.”
“You think I wore it for you?”
“I know you did,” he says easily, and the way my stomach flips tells me he’s right.
I laugh against his mouth, shaky. “Cocky.”
“Confident,” he corrects, eyes burning. “There’s a difference.”
The dress puddles at my feet. I stand there in lace and nerves, but his gaze is so reverent, so hungry, I don’t think of shame. I think of power.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, like it’s the only word left in him.
My hands move to his tie, tugging it loose, sliding it free. He smirks. “Impatient?”
“Equal,” I remind him, tossing the tie onto the chair.
His chuckle vibrates through me. “God, I love you.”
I work the buttons of his shirt, one by one, slower than I mean to. My fingers lingers over scars, tracing the stories etched into his skin.
The shirt slides away, revealing muscle, strength, history. My hands explore, learning him in a way I never let myself before. His breath hitches, his eyes darkening, but he lets me. He lets me take my time.
The bed brushes the back of my legs. He pauses, eyes searching mine. “Still okay?”
My chest aches with the weight of the choice, but the answer is easy. “Better than okay.”
He exhales, like I’ve just pulled him back from a cliff. “Say it again.”
“I want this, Triston. I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
He lowers me onto the mattress with care that borders on reverence. His mouth follows mine—slow, deliberate—kisses trailing from lips to jaw to throat, each one pulling a sound from me I didn’t know I could make. His hands explore with patience, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world.
And maybe he does.
The night stretches. We tease between breaths—me daring him to stop being so careful, him laughing against my skin, reminding me he’s not rushing something he’s dreamed of too long. I challenge him not to hold back. He dares me to tell him what I want. I do. I tell him everything.
When it finally happens, it isn’t frantic. It’s slow. It’s devastating. He looks into my eyes the entire time, like he’s memorizing not just my body but my soul.
I whisper his name like a prayer and a curse at once.
Neither of us hides anymore.
Every look says it’s time. There’s no fear left, just the ache of knowing what’s about to happen. Our breathing finds the same rhythm; his kiss warms the skin at my throat; his whisper ignites it.
“No rules tonight.” A kiss. “Only truth.”
I’ve imagined this a hundred times, but nothing about it feels rehearsed. He’s gentler than I expected, rougher than I remembered. Each touch feels like he’s asking permission without words, and my answering breath gives him everything he needs.
“Tell me what you need,” he growls—command disguised as question.
Language deserts me. There’s only him. I pull him closer, my hands sliding up his shoulders, drawing him against me until his warmth fills every space I kept hidden.
The sound he makes when I move against him sends a shockwave through me. He pauses, meeting my eyes. “You sure?”
I nod, but say it aloud because this moment deserves a voice. “Yes.”
It isn’t surrender. It’s choice—the release of every held breath.
The restraints we’ve both clung to dissolve as I reach for him, nerves falling away with every heartbeat.
Forgetting about my hesitation and nerves. I explore his cock. Feeling the strength, the girth, the terrifying size.
The swallow in my throat is visible. But the need aches even hotter.
The tip of my thumb spreads the precum that has begun to bead its salty taste. I work slow, but methodical strokes. Filling my hand with his cock and watching a man lose his own control.
His composure fractures; mine disappears. He catches my wrist, pins it gently to the sheets, and claims my mouth again—hungry, reverent, the taste of everything we’ve been denying.
His hips rock.
The world shrinks to the sound of our breathing, the slide of skin, the rhythm we build and break. Every movement becomes both question and answer, every second of waiting collapsing into now.
It’s electric. The feel of him inside me, exploring what he has already claimed with his mouth.
Each breath against my neck sparks another wave of heat. The soft creak of the bed, the silk sliding beneath my back—all of it folds into a single, heady sound that feels like us.
“Look at me.”
I do. My lips parted, my chest rising to meet him. “I love you, Triston.”
It lights through him like wildfire. Our bodies sliding from our damp skin. Hands gripping the muscles in his back.
The low growl in his throat vibrates against my skin, possession and devotion colliding. He moves slower now—sure, deliberate—each motion a vow.
When it ends, the silence that follows isn’t empty. It hums with completion.
We didn’t fall apart—we came undone just enough to fit back together.
He stays there, hand at the back of my neck, thumb tracing slow circles until my breathing steadies.
“You okay?”
“Better,” I whisper.
The ache isn’t just in my body; it’s in every place we’ve been holding back.
He collapses beside me. I lay against his chest, skin damp, heart still racing. His arms wrap around me, strong and steady, anchoring me against the storm.
For a long time, neither of us speaks. We just breathe.
Finally, he tilts my chin, making me look at him. His voice is raw, unguarded. “Mine.”
My throat tightens. My lips tremble. But I smile, fierce and sure. “Yours.”
The word hangs in the room, not shameful, not hidden. True.
And I realize — storms don’t scare me anymore. Not when I’ve chosen to stand in the center with him.
Hour later
The curtains don’t block all the lights; a thin blade of gold cuts across the bed, stretching over the tangle of sheets, across his arm draped heavily around my waist, over my bare shoulder. The room smells like us — sweat, skin, something sweeter than I knew existed.
I don’t move at first. I don’t dare. Because for once, I don’t want to break the spell.
His chest rises and falls against my back, steady, protective even in sleep. One of his hands is still tangled with mine, our fingers interlaced so tightly I can’t tell where I end and he begins. My body aches, tender and sated, but it’s the good kind of ache — the kind that whispers you lived.
I close my eyes and let the memory wash through me — his mouth on my throat, his laugh when I teased him, the way he whispered mine with such reverence it undid me. No shadows. No pretending. Just us.
For the first time in months, maybe years, I feel… free.
Then my father’s voice echoes in my head: You’ll destroy her.
My stomach knots. The spell cracks.
I slip my hand free, careful not to wake him. My feet find the floor, cool carpet shocking me back into reality. I gather my dress, crumpled on the chair, clutch it to my chest like it’s armor.
“Where are you going?” His voice is rough with sleep but clear.
I freeze. He’s awake, propped on an elbow, eyes heavy-lidded but sharp. His hair is a mess, his chest bare, and God help me, he’s never looked more like temptation.
“I was just—” I clutch the dress tighter. “Getting water.”
“You were sneaking,” he says softly. No accusation. Just truth.
I swallow. “Habit.”
He sits up fully, sheets falling low on his hips, and runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t sneak from me, Sammie. Not after last night. Not after you said yes.”
My throat tightens. “It’s not you I’m sneaking from.”
His eyes soften. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands, and crosses to me in three strides. My back hits the wall gently as he cages me in, his palms flat against it on either side of my shoulders.
“Then don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t sneak from him either. Let him see. Let the whole damn world see.”
My heart slams. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
He leans down, his forehead brushing mine. “I’m asking you to be as brave in the daylight as you were in the dark.”
Tears sting my eyes because he makes it sound so simple, like choosing him isn’t the most dangerous thing I’ll ever do.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“Me too,” he admits. His thumb brushes a tear before it falls. “But fear doesn’t mean stop. Fear means it matters.”
I sag against him, the fight bleeding out of me. His arms wrap around me again, strong and certain, and for the first time, I believe him.
“Stay with me,” he whispers into my hair. “We’ll face him together. All of them. No more hiding.”
I close my eyes, breathing him in, and nod.
Because last night we made love. And this morning, we chose not to undo it.