Playing With Fire (R-18)

Chapter 7

The silence between us lingered like smoke-thin, fragile, and impossible to escape. It filled the air, thick with unspoken thoughts and hesitant emotions. I sat on the edge of his bed, my legs curled beneath me, a quiet observer of the storm raging within him. Vios paced the room like a caged animal, each step a testament to his inner turmoil. His jaw was a hard, tight line, and his shoulders were coiled with tension, a stark contrast to the man who had held me so gently just moments before. The message from his ex had stirred something deep and raw, an old wound reopened.

"I didn't reply," he finally said, his voice cutting through the stillness like a knife. He stopped pacing and turned to face me, his gaze intense. "I don't want to go back to anything that made me feel disposable."

I nodded slowly, unsure whether to feel relief or a quiet, lingering fear. Was this a genuine statement of truth, or just a desperate attempt to reassure us both?

He ran a hand through his hair, a weary, frustrated gesture. "I used to think love was about proving yourself. About fixing everything. Being the one who was always useful, always needed. But with her, I was just... convenient. An option she could always fall back on when things got hard." His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of past hurts.

I swallowed hard, the familiar sting of recognition tightening my throat. "I know that feeling," I admitted, the words barely a whisper.

He turned to me then, his eyes searching mine, seeking a shared truth. "Do you?"

"I once dated a man," I began, the memory surfacing unbidden. "He only came to me when he needed clarity. Not love. Not companionship. Just answers. Like I was his personal oracle, a resource to be tapped whenever he felt lost."

Vios's pacing had ceased entirely now. He sat beside me on the bed, the mattress shifting slightly under his weight. He was close, but not touching, giving me space as he listened intently. "And you gave him answers?"

"I gave him everything," I whispered, my gaze dropping to my hands clasped in my lap. The full confession spilled out of me, a painful release. "My energy, my time, my empathy, my very essence. I gave it all until I had nothing left for myself."

The room was quiet again, but this time it felt different. The tension had dissolved, replaced by a deep and honest understanding. It was a comfortable silence, filled with the resonance of shared vulnerability.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of my knuckles with a feather-light touch. "I don't want you to give me everything, Tori," he said, his voice low and firm. "I want you to choose what you give. And I'll do the same."

I looked at him, truly looked. The man who had pinned me to the wall with a hungry, desperate desire now sat beside me with a quiet reverence. His touch was no longer about possession, but about respect. It was a disarming shift that left me breathless.

"I don't know how to do this," I admitted, my voice trembling slightly with the weight of my fear and hope.

A small, genuine smile touched his lips. "Neither do I," he said. "But maybe we can learn. Together."

I leaned into him then, letting my head rest on his shoulder. His arm wrapped around me, slow and sure, pulling me into a safe embrace. We didn't speak for a long time. We just breathed, the rise and fall of our chests a silent rhythm. We were two broken people, choosing to put ourselves back together, piece by piece, in the presence of each other.

Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, it cast the room in a rich, amber light. The world outside faded into shadow, and in that private, golden glow, he kissed me again. This time, there was no urgency, no hunger. There was only intention.

His lips moved slowly over mine, as if he were memorizing the shape of my mouth. His hands remained gentle, resting on my waist, not pulling me closer, but grounding me. Every brush of his thumb against my skin was a quiet question, a request for permission. And every sigh, every small sound I made, was an answer.

We undressed each other with care, not urgency. Our movements were deliberate, slow. There were no frantic fumbles, only a shared, silent language of touch. He pulled the shirt over my head, and I reached for the buttons on his jeans. Each touch was an act of grace.

When he entered me this time, it didn't feel like a conquest. It felt like a promise. A silent vow made in the sacred space between us.

We moved together, not chasing a frantic climax, but a deeper connection. The rhythm was slow, a dance of give and take, of two separate souls finding a shared pulse. And when the climax came, it was not an explosion, but a quiet unraveling. A soft release, a shared breath, a whispered sigh of mutual surrender.

Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, our bodies a landscape of skin against skin, heart against heart. His fingers idly traced patterns on my back as I rested my head on his chest.

"I think I'm falling," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

I didn't reply. I just kissed his chest, right where his heart beat strong and steady against my lips. Because in that moment, with his arm wrapped around me and the soft evening light filling the room, I knew I was falling too.