"Here," he murmured, pressing his thumb against a spot just below my ribs that made me arch into him. "You like that."
"Yes," I breathed. His mouth followed the path his hands had blazed, lips trailing down my neck, across my collarbone, lower. Each kiss was deliberate, purposeful, building a map of pleasure across my skin.
"And here." He found another spot, just above my hip, and I made a sound I'd never made before—needy and desperate and completely beyond my control.
"Micah—" His name came out broken, pleading.
"I've got you," he said, and the steadiness in his voice—even now, even with desire clouding his eyes and his breath coming fast—anchored me. "I've always got you."
His hands slid higher, thumbs brushing the underside of my bra, and I arched into the touch, wanting more, wanting everything. He watched my face as he touched me, reading every micro-expression, adjusting his approach based on what made me gasp, what made me moan, what made me grip his shoulders like I'd fly apart without the anchor.
"Beautiful," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "You're so beautiful."
I tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He obliged, pulling back just long enough to strip it off, and I got my first real look at him, lean and defined, more muscular than his clothes suggested, a scattering of dark hair across his chest.
"Your turn," I demanded, reaching for my own shirt.
He stopped me, his hands covering mine. "Let me." Slowly, reverently, he pulled my shirt over my head. His eyes tracked across newly exposed skin with an intensity that made me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. When his gaze found the simple cotton bra I was wearing, nothing fancy, nothing special—he looked at it like it was the finest silk.
"May I?" His fingers hovered at my back, near the clasp.
"Yes." The bra fell away, and Micah made a sound low in his throat, almost a growl, very un-Micah-like—that sent heat pooling between my thighs.
"Perfect," he breathed. "You're perfect." Then his mouth was on me, and I stopped being able to think at all. He leaned me back against the potting table, careful of the seedlings but notof me, not anymore, and there was no polite hesitation in his mouth as he kissed down my chest. His tongue flicked across my nipple and I jolted as if shocked. The next second I felt him smile against me, heard his heartbeat pick up—a staccato, startled rhythm I'd never expected from him. He was usually so measured. Now he was tasting, mapping, hands sliding up to cradle my ribs with unexpected gentleness.
I managed to hook my ankles behind his hips, hauling him closer until I felt the hard length of him pressed between my thighs. The sensation, even through denim, made my hips move on reflex, grinding against him. He groaned, a sound that vibrated through his whole body and into mine.
"Fuck," I muttered, breathless. Micah's hands gripped my hips as if he'd never let go. His mouth on my breast was at odds with the deliberate patience he always carried, his tongue tracing circles, lips toying with the sensitive tip until I shivered and pushed harder against him. I fisted my hands in his close-cropped hair, that geometric fade perfect beneath my palms, and tugged until he looked up at me. For a second, I could barely breathe. His pupils were blown, cheeks flushed high with color—not embarrassment, not anymore, but hunger. He searched my face as if he was afraid I would vanish, as if he'd spent years preparing for this moment and couldn't quite believe it was happening.
"You sure?" he asked, and his voice was a rasp, every syllable clawed out from someplace deep.I nodded, and he gave a low rumble as he removed my pants, then my underwear. The greenhouse air felt cool against my heated skin. I half-expected him to hesitate, but Micah leaned in, mouth hot on my neck. He licked a line up my pulse, tongue clever and careful, and then he bit—softly, but with promise. He pressed me flat to the work table and knelt, careful of my legs hooked over his shoulders, methodical even as he abandoned every pretense of restraint.
The air at my thighs cooled, dampness gathering in the brief exposure, but then his tongue drew a line up my center and I couldn't tell where the greenhouse humidity ended and the fever of his mouth began. I gasped, bucked hard, but Micah held me fast. His hands, large and slightly rough from tools and old calluses, kept me in place while his mouth made short work of my nerves. He mapped me with his tongue—slow, scientific, committed. Every flick, every change of pressure, every pass over the sharpest nerve centers felt calculated to make me sound out new names for God. I could hear myself, whimpering, and for once didn't care; the greenhouse was sealed, humid, private.
He made a guttural sound of satisfaction as he felt the tremor in my hips, the stutter of breath, and doubled down—one arm pinning my thigh, the other crooked beneath me to pull me hard against his mouth, as if he'd decided pleasure was a contest and he simply refused to lose. My vision receded at the edges. When I finally broke, I did not try to hide my cry, full-throated and ragged with release. My fingers clawed into the table's edge, my knees nearly crushing his head, but Micah didn't let up—even when I thrashed. He rode out my aftershocks, tongue drawing shapes that had long ago left the alphabet. Only when I finally went limp did he ease off, planting a soft, reverent kiss where his mouth had been merciless.
I tried and failed to summon words as he stood, his jaw wet, eyes raw with awe and something that might have been fear. His hands rested on my bare knees, grounding me, and I wondered if he felt the static arc between our skin.
“I—I didn’t expect…” Words flatlined again. He gave a laugh as he leaned down for another kiss and I let myself be consumed by him again.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Daphne
Ifound Oliver in his study late that evening, surrounded by papers and the soft glow of his desk lamp. The rest of the pack had gone to bed hours ago—Levi first, as usual, complaining about needing his "beauty sleep," followed by Garrett who'd squeezed my hand and pressed a kiss to my temple before heading upstairs. Micah had lingered longest, stealing a few quiet moments with me in the kitchen before finally, reluctantly, saying goodnight with a kiss that still made my toes curl thinking about it. But Oliver hadn't come to dinner at all.
"He's been in there since this morning," Garrett had said when I asked, a crease of worry between his brows. "Something about legal documents and property filings. He barely touched the lunch I brought him." So here I was, at nearly midnight, pushing open the study door with a cup of chamomile tea in my hands and a determination to make sure at least one member of this pack took care of himself.
Oliver looked up when I entered, and my heart clenched at what I saw. Dark circles under his eyes. Tension in everyline of his body. That careful composure he always maintained stretched thin, fraying at the edges.
"Daphne." He straightened, immediately trying to smooth out the exhaustion in his expression. "You should be asleep."
"So should you." I crossed the room and set the tea on his desk, then perched on the edge of it, facing him. "When's the last time you ate something?" A pause that told me everything I needed to know. "Oliver."
"I had coffee," he offered weakly.
"Coffee isn't food." I picked up the tea and pressed it into his hands. "Drink this. I'm going to get you a sandwich."
"You don't have to—" He started but I cut him off with a determined look.
