Chapter Five
Rhea
The air between us tightens. He waits. I recognize the restraint for what it is. Respect. Control. An invitation that I have to accept first.
It's now or never, Rhea. Make a choice. Do I take a leap of faith with this man I barely know, but who I'm already falling for? He's handsome, honest, and disciplined, and we have so much more in common than I'd have ever guessed.
"You saved me," I whisper. "You've cleared my name, and—"
He shakes his head. "You saved yourself. I'd like to think I'd have come to the right conclusion about Warren in the end. But I was able to do it a whole lot faster with you on my team. My beautiful badass warrior."
That does it. I reach for him, fisting his shirt in my hands, and pulling him nearer.
He cups my jaw and lowers his lips to mine.
He kisses me slowly, deliberately, like he's already decided there's no rush, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it.
The contact sends a steady pull through me, grounding and sharp all at once.
He tastes faintly of marinara sauce and something warmer underneath, something that makes me want to lean in and stay.
I do lean in. He deepens the kiss, his hand sliding to my waist, fingers firm against my side, and I feel the intention in that grip. Like he's been thinking about exactly where to put his hands.
"Are you sure?" he murmurs against my mouth.
"Yes."
"Say it again."
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. They're darker than usual. Focused entirely on me.
"I'm sure, Gideon."
He kisses me again, and this time there is more heat. More intent. His other hand finds my hip, pulling me closer until there is no space left between us, and I feel the solid length of him against me, already wanting, already decided, and a low sound escapes my throat before I can stop it.
"Rhea." My name sounds different in his voice. Rougher. Like he's been holding it back.
"Bedroom," I manage.
He lifts me without warning, and my legs wrap around him instinctively, my hands finding his shoulders.
I have never been carried like this. Like I weigh nothing.
Like he could hold me here indefinitely and never tire.
I feel every point of contact, his arms solid beneath me, his chest warm against mine, my heartbeat embarrassingly loud.
He carries me down the hall and into the bedroom, laying me back against the mattress with care. He looks at me for a moment before he does anything else, like he's committing the sight of me to memory.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says.
"Don't stop," I reply. "Please, God, don't stop."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He undresses me with unhurried attention, hands learning as they go.
My shirt first, then the clasp of my bra, his fingers deft and careful.
When the fabric falls away, he pauses. His fingers trace the line of my collarbone slowly, then lower, following the curve of my breast, the dip of my ribs, like he's reading me.
Like I'm evidence he's taking his time with.
"Beautiful," he murmurs.
I reach for his shirt, tugging it over his head. He is all strength and restraint, muscle held in check by deliberate control, the body of a man who disciplines himself in every arena of his life. I press my palms flat against his chest and feel his heartbeat, faster than his composure lets on.
He's not as calm as he looks. That knowledge steadies me.
The world narrows to this. Us. The warmth of his skin under my hands. The way he watches me like I am the only thing in the world worth his focus.
I’m desperate to finish undressing him, but he leans onto me to kiss me again, swirling his tongue over mine and making my breath catch. Even through the remaining layers of clothes, his hard cock grinds against me, driving me wild.
God, I want that… now.
"Tell me what you want," he says, voice low.
"You. This."
"Be more specific."
Heat floods through me, pooling low. "I want you inside me."
His eyes darken. "Soon."
He slides my underwear down my legs, moving with deliberate slowness to heighten every sensation. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Hs hands slowly trace the inside of my thighs until I'm trembling with the need of his touch. And finally, he’s cupping my pussy with his palm, watching my face as I write beneath him.
“Please, Gideon… oh, please…”
He lazily presses my clit with his thumb, letting his other fingers roam and explore, learning what makes my breath hitch and my hips lift to seek more pressure, more friction, more of him. When he finally slides two fingers deep inside, the sound I make is not dignified.
He doesn't seem to mind. If anything, it spurs him on.
He is patient and thorough, and when I finally break apart under his hand, I feel him watching me through it, steady, focused, like he wants to remember exactly what undoes me.
“You’re so wet, baby,” he says with a groat. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
What I’m doing to him?!
"Gideon," I manage when I can speak again. "Please."
"I've got you."
He removes the rest of his clothing and when he finally presses into me, it is slow and deep, giving me time to adjust, to feel every inch of the connection.
There's a breathless, suspended moment where neither of us moves.
Just the weight of his body on top of me.
The fullness of it. The startling intimacy of being this close to someone I've known for days but somehow already trust completely.
I barely know him, some distant part of me observes.
I know, I think back. It doesn't matter.
My hands slide into his hair and I meet him stroke for stroke, refusing to be passive.
He lets me, welcomes it even, his grip shifting to accommodate my movement rather than override it.
We find a rhythm together, natural and intentional, and it builds with the same methodical inevitability as everything he does.
He shifts, finding the angle that makes my breath fracture, and I press into him, chasing it.
"Look at me," he says, voice low. His eyes are steady on mine, dark and intent. “Stay with me.”
I gaze into his eyes until the pleasure crests and crashes through me, forcing me to close mine, his name on my lips as I tip over the edge.
His follows immediately after, his grip tightening as he finishes with a low sound pressed against my shoulder, his whole body pulling me close as he shudders his release.
He stays with me, weight braced carefully so he doesn't crush me. His breath slows. Mine does too.
When he finally rolls to his side, he pulls me with him, my back to his chest, his arm heavy across my waist, and the weight of it feels like a promise. Like he’s telling me with his body that I’m his and he’ll treat me right.
We lie in silence for a while.
"That was," I start, then stop.
"Yeah," he agrees.
I turn in his arms to face him. His hair is mussed. His expression is softer than I've seen it, the careful composure he carries like armor set aside. Just for me. Just for now.
"I don't do this," I say. "Sleep with people I barely know."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you," he says simply.
That shouldn't make sense, but it does.
"I don't regret it," I say.
"Good." He traces a slow line down my spine, and I feel it everywhere. "Because I plan to do it again."
Heat flickers low in my belly. "Now?"
His mouth curves. "Soon. First, I want to know something."
"What?"
"When did you decide?"
"Decide what?"
"That this was going to happen."
I think about it. "When you held my hand at dinner. But I dreamed about it that very first night after I met you."
He pulls me closer. "I dreamed about you, too."
I kiss him. Slow. Thorough.
When I pull back, he's grinning. "Ready for Round 2, beautiful?"