Chapter 16
Brielle Shaw?
I don’t think I’ve ever felt safety quite like this. Not with a man. Not in a kitchen. Not sitting at a table with my heart still beating too fast from panic.
Desmond literally did what he said he would do.
We talked.
He explained his thoughts about the money—calmly, plainly, the way someone explains how to tighten a screw or fix a loose hinge.
No raised voice. No sighing. No clipped, angry edge hiding underneath.
Just… his thoughts. And he listened to mine.
Really listened. Didn’t argue, didn’t twist them, didn’t make me feel stupid for having them.
That was it.
And now he’s sitting across from me, eating dinner like nothing seismic just cracked open inside my chest. Like I didn’t spiral into a full-blown meltdown ten minutes ago. Like he didn’t watch me unravel and then help piece me back together without making it weird or heavy or humiliating.
He’s cutting his chicken, chewing slow, nodding at something on the plate like he’s mentally complimenting himself for heating it up right. Totally normal. Totally steady.
And I’m sitting here staring at him, wondering how a man can be built like a brick wall, fuck like he wants to ruin me in the best way, and still handle me so gently I don’t know where to put the feelings it stirs up.
He glances at me, catches me looking, and just gives me this small, easy grin—nothing teasing, nothing pointed. Just warm.
“Good?” he asks, nodding toward my plate.
I nod because words feel too complicated. “Yeah. Really good.”
He goes right back to eating like that settles it.
And maybe it does. Maybe that’s the strange miracle of it—how simple he makes things that have always been so hard for me. How he doesn’t treat my fear like an inconvenience. How he doesn’t fill the silence with judgment. How he just… stays. Present. Unbothered. Real.
Safety shouldn’t feel foreign.
But with him, it does.
New. Fragile. Wonderful in a way that scares me almost as much as it comforts me.
Because if this is what safety is supposed to feel like, then I’ve never had it before.
And now that I do… God, I don’t want to lose it.
That night, after Leon’s last bottle and tucking him into the crib, we climbed into bed the way we’ve started to every night—his body behind mine, warm and solid, arm slung low across my waist, his breath soft on the back of my neck like it belongs there.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t press. Just pulls me close like I’m something precious he gets to hold for a little while longer.
And even though I can feel the proof of his want against me—thick, unmistakable, tucked between us like a secret—we don’t speak on it.
He doesn’t shift, doesn’t roll me beneath him, doesn’t let his hand drift lower the way I know he sometimes wants to.
He just breathes deep and says it like it’s a promise he’s made to himself:
“Night, angel.”
His voice is rough and low, the kind of tired that only comes from bone-deep work and long days. But it’s tender too. Like he means it more than any goodnight I’ve ever heard. Like he’s telling me he’s here. Still here.
I murmur back, “Night, Des,” soft and warm in the dark.
And just because I can—because it feels safe enough to flirt now—I give the tiniest wiggle of my hips, brushing back against him where he’s hard.
His arm tightens around my middle, the faintest growl caught in his throat—felt more than heard. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t shift into hunger.
Which almost makes me ache a little. Because I know what this is.
Restraint.
Respect.
The kind that says, I want you, but I won’t use you to quiet my own fire. Not tonight. Not when you might still be burning from something else.
And maybe that’s what makes my chest feel so fragile all of a sudden.
Not the fact that he doesn’t touch me—but the fact that he could, and chooses not to.
That he’s hard against me, breathing through it, letting the ache simmer in silence instead of pulling me under it.
The way he gives me room, even when his body’s clearly begging not to.
So I turn, slow on the sheets, our legs brushing under the blanket.
He lets me.
Lets me press my chest to his side, lets my fingers draw soft lines across his ribs, lets my mouth find the edge of his jaw and kiss there, once, twice, before trailing lower. The stubble grazes my lips, his skin hot under the brush of my mouth. And I just keep going.
Kisses to his throat, the hollow beneath his ear. The curve where his neck meets his shoulder. I feel his pulse thrum under my lips, feel his body tense—not from discomfort, but from restraint. From need. The need he keeps tight-leashed, even now.
His chest rises beneath me, slow but shallow. His breath gets heavier when I nuzzle against the gold-dusted hair across his sternum, kissing lower, mouthing at the slope of one pec until he makes a sound in his throat. Something low. Feral. Strangled by the way he’s trying to keep it soft for me.
“Brielle…” he rasps, his voice thick and wrecked.
“Mmm?” I hum against his chest, my tongue slipping out to trace the edge of his nipple before I go lower. His abdomen is all tension and carved heat, abs twitching under my mouth as I kiss each line of muscle down his stomach.
“Baby…” His hand flexes on the sheets. “You don’t want that, you better stop. ’Cause it’s driving me insane.”
I smile where my lips meet the soft skin just above his waistband, nuzzling there, letting my hair drag along his hipbone.
“I’m not stopping, Des,” I murmur, my voice so quiet it’s nearly a purr.
And that—that—makes him groan. A full-bodied sound this time, like I knocked something loose in his chest. His hand finally lands on my back, sliding down, not pushing, not guiding—just there, big and warm, like he needs the contact to keep from losing control too fast.
Because I know what he likes. I’ve seen it glint in his eyes when he bites down on my shoulder. Felt it in the firm grip of his hand in my hair when he pulls just enough to make me gasp. He’s careful with it—always checking, always watching—but it’s there, thrumming under the surface.
And now I want it. Not just the sweetness. Not just the safety.
I want the edge.
But I want his edge.
The kind wrapped in reverence. The kind that still holds me when it breaks me down.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxers, tugging just an inch, enough to hear his breath stutter. “Des,” I whisper, brushing my lips just above his cock, “I feel safe with you.”
His hand freezes on my back.
That’s what does it.
That’s what undoes him.
He sits up in a slow, controlled movement, muscles rolling under his skin like caged power. His hands find my face, thumbs at my cheeks, eyes burning down into mine with something that’s not just lust—it’s hunger and care tangled into one.
“Yeah?” he says, rough as sandpaper. “You sure, angel?”
I nod once. “I want all of you.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for hours.
Then he kisses me. Not soft. Not savage. Something between—deep and claiming, like he’s memorizing the taste of permission on my tongue. Like he’s been starving for it.
When he pushes me down on the bed, it’s with the same gentleness he always has—but it’s heavier now. Intentional. The weight of his body settling between my thighs, his mouth never leaving mine, his hands dragging slowly up my arms like he wants to pin me there, ask me again, make sure.
And I whisper it against his lips.
“I want it rough tonight, Des. Want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”
His eyes go darker than I’ve ever seen them, his jaw tight with restraint he’s seconds away from losing.
“You tell me if it’s too much,” he growls, nipping my bottom lip. “You say red and I stop. No questions.”
I nod, heart racing in my chest. “I trust you.”
That earns me a sound—a low, reverent curse—and the last of his patience burns away like paper.
He grabs my wrists. Pins them above my head with one hand, so easily. The other drags my shirt up, slow, rough, knuckles brushing my stomach until I’m squirming.
“You keep teasing me like that,” he mutters, mouth hot at my throat, “you better be ready to take it when I give it.”
“Been ready,” I whisper, hips arching up, “just needed to know I was safe first.”
And now I do.
Which means he can finally show me what he’s been holding back.
His mouth crashes back into mine like it’s been starved—like I’ve given him permission to let go and now there’s no point pretending he doesn’t want to devour me.
My wrists are pinned easily, his grip firm but never cruel, his body sinking into mine with a weight I crave more than I want to admit.
Not because I can’t move—but because I don’t want to.
I want to feel it.
The strength of him.
The need.
The way his restraint finally breaks open—not in fury, not in punishment—but in hunger, in reverence. Like he’s been carving this out of himself, one jagged inch at a time, waiting for the day I’d say yes to all of him.
“Fuck, you’re so soft,” he mutters against my neck, his stubble scraping my skin as his lips bruise a line down to my collarbone. “So good under me.”
I whimper when his teeth close gently over that spot just above my pulse, and he growls—growls—when he feels me arch into it, like he’s proud I want it hard enough to chase the pain a little.
“You’re killing me, baby,” he rasps. “Do you even know what you do to me?”
His free hand moves fast—rucking my sleep shirt up around my ribs, cupping one heavy breast like he’s been dreaming about it all day. His thumb drags rough across my nipple, and I cry out under him, thighs clenching instinctively.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, “sound so pretty like this.”
I gasp when he thrusts his hips down, still fully clothed but so hard it knocks the breath out of me. He grinds slow—deliberate—just enough to tease, to drag the friction of his cock right against the spot that’s already aching for him.
“Des—please,” I whisper.
His mouth finds my jaw, then my ear, hot and wet as he mutters, “You want me to ruin you, angel?”
I nod helplessly.