22. Shadows in Daylight #5
I turn slowly, drinking it all in. He’s built bookshelves into that weird corner that never made sense before, and filled them with our books all mixed together, mine and his becoming ours.
The fireplace works again, with one of those gas things that won’t burn the house down but still makes real flames dance.
Every inch of this room screams Silas, that perfect balance of old-world craftsmanship and “I don’t want you to freeze to death in winter” practicality.
“It’s perfect,” I say, turning back to thank him properly.
The rest of my words die in my throat. His expression has changed, no longer the measured guardian but something hungrier. His eyes follow me with predatory focus, his stance deceptively casual while every muscle seems coiled, ready to spring.
“I wanted you to have a space that truly feels like home,” he says, his voice lower than usual, rougher at the edges.
“Something that honours the estate’s history but adapts to our present needs.
” He takes a deliberate step toward me, then another.
“Something that isn’t just preservation, but evolution. ”
Each word brings him closer, his usual measured distance collapsing with purposeful intent. I find myself retreating without conscious decision, drawn backward by the magnetic pull of his approach until my legs meet the edge of the newly restored four-poster bed.
His hands seize my waist, pulling me against him with a strength I’ve never felt before.
Gone is the man who treated me like glass, replaced by something primal.
His mouth claims mine, tongue exploring with hungry purpose while his fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat to his descending lips.
I match his intensity, restraint forgotten. I moan as his teeth find my neck, his growl reverberating against my skin. My fingers attack his shirt buttons, revealing skin I’ve memorized but still crave. His heart pounds beneath my palms as his muscles tense and flex under my touch.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to remove the garment completely, revealing the lean muscle and scattered scars I’ve come to know as intimately as my own skin.
The sight of him, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with desire, lips swollen from our kissing, sends a fresh wave of heat pooling low in my belly.
I can feel myself growing wet, my body responding to his intensity with an ache that demands satisfaction.
His hands are everywhere, in my hair, tracing my spine, gripping my hips with bruising intensity, as he guides me backward until we both tumble onto the bed he restored with his own hands.
The mattress gives beneath us, enveloping us in softness even as his body presses mine into its depths with delicious weight.
I can feel every inch of him against me, the hard length of his arousal pressing insistently against my thigh through the denim that separates us, making me gasp with want.
“I rebuilt this frame myself,” he murmurs against my throat, his voice vibrating against my pulse point. “Tested every joint, every connection.”
His teeth graze my collarbone, then bite down with enough pressure to make me cry out, the sharp pleasure-pain sending electricity straight to my core. “It won’t break, no matter how thoroughly we test it.”
The promise in his words ignites something molten inside me.
This version of Silas, confident, commanding, fully present in his desire, is intoxicating.
My hands explore familiar territory with renewed urgency, tracing the ridged scar tissue on his chest where Garrow’s knife nearly took him from me, then moving lower to the button of his jeans.
I can feel the heat of him through the fabric, hard and ready, and my mouth waters with the memory of how he tastes, how he feels heavy on my tongue.
He captures my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head against the antique headboard with a grip that’s firm but not painful.
The wood is smooth against my skin, polished by his careful hands to eliminate any roughness that might cause discomfort.
Even in this new assertiveness, his care for my well-being remains fundamental.
The restraint sends a thrill through me, being held, controlled, at his mercy, and I arch beneath him, pressing my breasts against his chest, desperate for more contact.
“Let me,” he says, his free hand making quick work of my clothing.
He releases my wrists only long enough to strip away my shirt, his calloused fingers grazing my ribs and making me shiver.
My bra follows, and the cool air against my heated skin makes my nipples tighten into hard peaks.
His eyes darken as he watches, and then his mouth descends to capture one sensitive bud between his lips.
I cry out as he sucks hard, his tongue circling and flicking while his hand palms my other breast, thumb brushing over the nipple in maddening strokes.
“Silas,” I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to me as pleasure radiates from where his mouth works. He releases me with a wet sound, only to lavish the same attention on my neglected breast, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh and making me writhe beneath him.
His hand trails lower, unbuttoning my jeans with practised efficiency and sliding them down my legs along with my underwear.
When I lie bare beneath him, his eyes sweep over me with unconcealed hunger, taking in every curve, every flush of arousal colouring my skin.
He settles between my spread thighs, and I can feel his heated gaze on my most intimate places, can feel how wet I am, how ready.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, one finger trailing up my inner thigh, so close to where I need him but not quite touching.
“So wet for me already.” The words send another pulse of arousal through me, and I feel myself grow even slicker.
When his finger finally slides through my folds, gathering my wetness, I moan shamelessly, my hips lifting to seek more pressure.
He brings his finger to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he tastes me, his eyes closing briefly in appreciation. “Delicious,” he growls, and the sight of him savouring my taste makes my core clench with need.
He finally removes his jeans, and the sight of him fully naked and aroused makes my breath catch.
He’s magnificent, hard and thick, the head flushed dark with blood, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.
I want to taste him, to feel the weight of him in my mouth, but he’s already positioning himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
He stares down at me for a moment, eyes nearly black with want, and then, without warning, he thrusts forward with a single, powerful motion that drives him deep inside me, burying himself to the hilt in a single unhesitating stroke.
The shock of it tears a cry from my throat, the force of his entry making my vision go white at the edges.
I was expecting the slow, gentle accommodation of the past; instead, he overwhelms me utterly, filling me so suddenly and so completely that every other thought vanishes from my mind, replaced by the sharp, animal knowledge of his body invading mine.
He makes a noise low in his throat, a growl that vibrates through my whole body, and the sound of it, raw, almost feral, sends another jolt straight to my core.
He moves, not with the careful slowness he’s shown before but with a claiming rhythm, each thrust deep and unhesitating, as though he’s been waiting years for this moment and is determined to make it last. Every motion grinds his pelvis against my clit, the friction building with relentless precision, and I match his movements instinctively, arching up to meet him, urging him on with broken sounds and helpless moans.
The mattress cradles us, muffling the slap of skin against skin but amplifying the sensation of being pinned, utterly possessed.
The old bed creaks beneath us but held fast, the headboard shuddering with each of his thrusts, a testament to his craftsmanship and, perversely, a turn-on to imagine him building this very frame knowing one day he’d fuck me senseless on it.