Page 43 of Steel's Secret
The kiss that follows isn’t angry. It’s slow at first. Trembling, aching, full of every apology neither of us knows how to say.
Then it deepens. Heat slicing through the cold, fingers digging into fabric and skin, hips meeting hips.
He backs me into the hallway wall. I fist his shirt. He lifts my leg with one hand, mouth trailing those slow, sacred kisses down my neck.
My knees buckle.
His forehead rests against mine, breath uneven. Then his hands slide down my sides, slow, reverent, trembling in a way I’ve never felt from him.
“Aria,” he murmurs, “tell me to stop.”
“I won’t.”
That’s all it takes. He lifts the hem of my shirt, knuckles grazing bare skin. Every inch he reveals feels like a confession. I tug his cut off his shoulders, push his thermal up until he lets me pull it over his head. Heat rolls between us, sharp and hungry.
My leggings cling to his thighs when he presses me into the wall. His fingers hook at my waistband, pausing, waiting for the smallest shake of my head before sliding them down mylegs. Clothes fall to the floor in a trail he’ll pretend not to see tomorrow.
He cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lips, and whispers against my throat, “I’d burn down the world for you. I need you to understand that.”
My body arches into his. Then he lifts my leg with one strong hand, lines our bodies together, and when he finally enters me, my gasp breaks the quiet open. Isaiah groans into my mouth, forehead pressing to mine, moving like he’s trying to memorize every inch of me before the world can take it away.
The pace turns frantic, then soft, then frantic again. Like two people trying to rebuild something already burning.
We collapse together, breath tangled, chests heaving. He pulls me into his lap on the couch, arms around me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
“Isaiah,” I whisper. “What aren’t you telling me?”
His breath stutters. “There’s someone out there tied to my father,” he says slowly. “Someone who should be dead. Someone who doesn’t let grudges go.”
“Who?”
He shakes his head. A lie by omission. A truth by fear.
His thumb brushes my cheek. “You’re not alone in this,” he murmurs. “Not ever again.”
And even though I know better, even though shadows follow me home and SUVs watch me from the curb, I let myself believe him.
For one night.
For one breath.
For one secret I haven’t learned yet.
