Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
He pulls back just enough to breathe, breath fanning over my lips. “I need you,” he murmurs.
“I need you too,” I whisper back.
He trails one hand up my spine, under my shirt, fingertips tracing each notch, making me shiver. The other stays firmly on my hip, holding me steady.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he says quietly, “and I’m going to forget we were talking about dishes and futures and just ruin you right here on this rug.”
A bolt of heat shoots through me.
“Promises,” I breathe.
His thumb rubs slow circles over my hipbone. “Careful,” he warns, voice gone rough. “I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you. You start talking future, I’m going to start thinking rings and leases and arguments about which side of the bed is mine.”
My heart stutters. “You’ve thought about that?” I ask, barely audible.
He looks up at me like I’m the only thing in his world. “Lark, I’ve been thinking about that since before we ever touched,” he says simply. “I kept trying to file it under ‘fantasy to be ignored,’ but my brain’s bad at deleting you.”
Tears prick again, stupid and persistent.
“Do not cry while you’re sitting in my lap and I’m talking about ruining you,” he mutters. “You’re destroying my mystique.”
“Your mystique was doomed the minute you told me you once cried at a Pixar short,” I sniff.
“That lamp had feelings,” he says defensively.
I laugh, the sound breaking the last of the tension.
He smiles, thumb brushing away the tear that escaped anyway. “So, when we get back… we’re doing this,” he says, tone sobering. “Full version. No beta. No trial period. We tell Gage. We deal with whatever that looks like. We work for Dean or we don’t, but we do it together. You’re my person, Lark. That doesn’t stop when the fire goes out.”
It’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.
Not because it’s flowery.
Because it’s… solid.
Like something I can stand on.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
“You’re my person,” he repeats, eyes steady on mine. “I’m in. However long we get, however messy it is, however many mobs get mad at us on the way. I’m in.”
I kiss him before I can cry all over him again.
The kiss turns hungry faster than I mean it to. My hands slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. His fingers tighten on my thighs, drawing me closer until there’s no space left between us.
Heat flares everywhere we touch.
He trails kisses down my jaw, to the spot just under my ear, nipping lightly. My head tips back of its own accord, a soft, helpless sound slipping out.
“Knight,” I breathe.
“Yeah?” His mouth moves lower, lips skating along my throat, sucking gently.
“Love you,” I say, because it’s there, right behind my teeth, and I can’t not.
He goes very still for a beat. Then he presses his mouth to the hollow of my throat, lingering there like he’s tasting the words. “Love you too,” he murmurs against my skin. “So much it actually hurts.”
I suck in a deep breath.
His hands slip under the hem of my shirt again, sliding up, dragging the fabric with them. I lift my arms without thinking, letting him peel it off. The blanket falls somewhere behind me, forgotten.
His gaze roams over me with a reverence that makes me feel more naked than my lack of clothing.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, no hesitation, no teasing. Just stark, open truth.
I feel it everywhere.
He leans in and kisses the curve of my shoulder, slow and lingering, like he has all the time in the world and every inch of me is worth exploring.
My fingers find the hem of his shirt in return, pushing it up. He helps, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. I drag my hands over his chest, tracing the lines of muscle, the small scars I’ve never noticed in the dim light of our living room.
“I like you like this,” I say softly.
“Half-dressed on a rug?” he asks.
“Real,” I say. “All the versions. Hacker. Vigilante. Idiot who leaves dishes in the sink. Man who loves me. I want all of him.”
His expression crumples a little at the edges, like he doesn’t know what to do with that much trust.
“Good thing you’re greedy,” he says, voice rough. “Because I’m not planning on giving you less.”
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney.
Outside, the forest hums.
Inside, the world shrinks to this patch of floor, this flicker of light, this boy who’s been orbiting my life for years and just crashed dead center.
We kiss again, and the rest of the night blurs into heat and laughter and whispered plans.
We talk about stupid things between touches—what kind of dog we’d get (he votes big and slow, I vote weird and yappy), who’d cook (me; he’s awful in the kitchen), what we’d tell Gage (“nothing” vs “everything” vs “do we stage an intervention or let him figure it out?”).