chapter 2
770 Words
He held her gaze for a long moment, the quiet between them stretching, thick enough to feel. Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition—but it didn’t vanish this time. It settled, like he was weighing something he hadn’t expected to find.
She shifted closer on the mattress, her knee brushing his thigh. His eyes dropped to the contact, then lifted again, slower now, as if he was letting himself look at her instead of just watching.
“What did you think I said?” she asked, her voice low, still rough from sleep.
He exhaled once, a quiet sound. “Didn’t think. Just… heard you.”
She studied him. The scar through his eyebrow. The tension in his jaw that hadn’t fully eased since the alley. The way his hands rested on his thighs like he was keeping them still on purpose.
“You don’t talk in your sleep?” she asked.
“Not usually.”
“Maybe you did tonight.”
His mouth twitched. “Maybe.”
She leaned back on her hands, letting the sheet slip a little lower on her hips. His eyes followed the movement, not hungrily this time—just openly. Like he’d stopped pretending he wasn’t affected.
“Marcus,” she said softly.
He looked up immediately.
She didn’t know what she meant to say. She only knew the room felt different now—less like a place she’d stumbled into and more like a place she’d been invited to. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of him and the faint trace of her perfume on his skin.
“You don’t have to pretend you don’t care,” she said.
His jaw tightened. “I’m not pretending.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer right away. He reached out, slow enough that she could stop him if she wanted, and brushed his thumb along the bruise he’d left on her neck. The touch was gentle, almost reverent.
“I’m trying not to scare you,” he said.
Her breath caught. “You’re not.”
“You should be.”
She shook her head. “I’m not.”
His hand lingered at her throat, warm and steady. “You don’t know me.”
“Then let me.”
His eyes darkened—not with lust, but with something deeper, something she couldn’t name yet. He looked at her like she’d just stepped somewhere dangerous without realizing it.
“You stay,” he said quietly, “you’re in my life. Not just my bed.”
She swallowed. “Is that a warning?”
“It’s a fact.”
She held his gaze. “I’m still here.”
He breathed out, slow, like her answer hit him somewhere he wasn’t prepared for. His hand slid from her throat to her jaw, tilting her face up, but he didn’t kiss her. He just looked at her, searching for something.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
She smiled. “So are you.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and warm. Then he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, his breath brushing her lips.
“Come here,” he murmured.
She moved without thinking, climbing into his lap, her knees bracketing his hips. His hands settled on her waist, firm but careful, like he was relearning how to touch her now that the urgency had burned off.
Her fingers traced the scar across his ribs, the one she’d seen when he slept. He shivered under her touch.
“How’d you get this?” she whispered.
His hands tightened on her waist. “That’s work.”
She nodded once. “Okay.”
He looked at her again—really looked—and something in his expression shifted, subtle but unmistakable. Acceptance. Or surrender. Or maybe just the realization that she wasn’t going to run.
His thumb brushed her hip. “You’re shaking again.”
“Not from fear.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth. “I know.”
She kissed him—slow this time, deep, her fingers sliding into his hair. He responded immediately, pulling her closer, his mouth opening under hers, the kiss turning warm and consuming without the frantic edge from earlier.
When he broke the kiss, his voice was rough. “You sure you want more?”
She nodded, breathless. “Yes.”
He lifted her, turning her gently, laying her back against the pillows. His hands moved over her body with a steadiness that felt almost like devotion.
“Then I’ll give you more,” he said.
And he did.
- Writer
