Touch
689 Words
Chapter Nine: Touch
First-person POV (Amara)
I couldn’t sleep that night.
Not because of guilt.
Not because I had stepped into the West Wing.
But because of the way Liam looked at me after.
Like he was breaking — but didn’t want me to see.
The mansion was quiet. The wind whispered against the glass. I sat on the edge of the bed, hugging my knees, listening for his footsteps.
I didn’t expect him to come.
But he did.
---
The door creaked open slowly. I didn’t turn around.
I felt his presence before he spoke.
Then, softly:
“You’re awake.”
I nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“I couldn’t either.”
He came closer. Quietly. Carefully. As if afraid to scare me.
Then he sat beside me, his weight sinking into the mattress.
I didn’t speak.
He didn’t speak.
The silence between us was thick, alive, and heavy with the truth we kept pretending not to feel.
---
Then I said the words I hadn’t dared say before.
“You’re not a monster, Liam.”
He turned his head slowly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“I’ve hurt people.”
“You were hurt first.”
He looked down at his hands. “I ruined her. You saw the letter.”
“She was already dying,” I whispered. “And you were trying to survive in your own way.”
His eyes flicked to mine — full of something dark and broken and almost human.
“I’ve tried not to feel anything for you,” he said.
“I know.”
“But it’s not working.”
I didn’t breathe.
He reached forward and gently tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.
His hand lingered against my cheek.
My eyes fluttered closed at the warmth of his skin.
“I’ve kissed a thousand lips,” he murmured. “But none have ever felt like they could destroy me.”
I opened my eyes, heart thudding.
“Then let me ruin you,” I whispered.
And he kissed me.
---
It wasn’t fast.
It wasn’t rough.
It was slow and aching, like he’d been holding it in for too long.
His lips moved against mine with a hunger that scared me — not because it was dangerous, but because it felt like truth.
Like pain and longing and regret all wrapped into one moment.
His hands cupped my face. Mine clung to his shirt. We sank into the bed like falling wasn’t a choice anymore.
Every time he pulled away, he came back harder — like he was afraid this would be the last time he’d be allowed to feel anything.
---
His lips found my collarbone, my neck, my trembling mouth again.
He paused.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against my skin.
I didn’t.
Because I didn’t want him to.
Because this wasn’t about pretending anymore.
This was real.
---
We didn’t rush.
We didn’t strip away clothes like fire.
We peeled them off slowly, like layers of grief.
And when he finally laid beside me — skin against skin, heart against heart — I didn’t feel shame.
I felt seen.
Wanted.
Human.
---
Afterwards, we lay tangled together in the dark.
His hand in my hair. My head on his chest. His breath still uneven.
No words.
No lies.
Just touch.
Just silence.
And maybe something like… peace.
---
Minutes passed. Or hours. I didn’t know.
Then, out of nowhere, he whispered:
“I’m afraid of what you make me feel.”
I tightened my grip around him. “I’m afraid of what I feel too.”
“Then why did you let this happen?”
“Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to feel empty.”
He didn’t respond.
But I felt him press his lips to the top of my head.
Softly. Carefully. Like he was kissing a memory he didn’t want to lose.
---
Eventually, I fell asleep in his arms.
And for the first time since our wedding…
He didn’t leave the bed.
---
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- Writer
