I snort. “Since when does Troka of House Smash volunteer for domestic duty?”
He shrugs, gaze softening. “Since I met someone worth sticking around for.”
The words gut me.
Not because they’re romantic, but because they’rereal.
Because I believe in him.
And belief is the most dangerous thing of all.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper.
He leans in. “Doing what?”
“Letting you stay. Letting you...touchanything.”
His hand ghosts over my knee. “Then tell me to stop.”
I can’t.
Instead, I lean in and kiss him like he’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning for over a hyear.
We don’t tear at each other this time.
Weunravel.
His mouth traces down my neck like he’s mapping me.
My shirt comes off slow, each button undone like a promise kept.
His hands slide over my ribs, reverent. “You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Don’t ruin it with flattery.”
“I mean it.”
His tongue dips low, tracing the line beneath my breast.
I arch against him.
Heat pools low in my belly. My skin prickles, not with nerves, but with hunger.
He sucks a nipple into his mouth and my hips buck. I grip his shoulders like he’s the only thing anchoring me to the planet.
He murmurs against my skin, “Let me love you.”
It doesn’t feel like a line.
It feels like surrender.
Our clothes fall away, slow and quiet.
When he enters me, it’s not wild.
It’shome.
I gasp, fingers threading into his hair.
