Page 104 of This Life of Mine

Alex pulls back slightly, breathing fast, hands firm at my waist.

“You’re so fucking hard to resist,” he says, restraint threaded through every word. “But I won’t go any further if you don’t want to. Not one step.”

For a heartbeat, all my old rules flicker through my mind. All the caution. All the fear.

I let them burn.

“Don’t stop,” I say, steady despite my racing pulse. “I want you.”

Something shifts in his eyes. Permission.

He lifts my shirt cautiously, thoughtfully, giving me time to change my mind—and lets it fall to the floor.

His hands still. His breath hitches once, unguarded. His gaze drops and stays there, dark and intent, like everything else in the room no longer exists. He regards me as if I’m precious and treacherous all at once—stunned yet starving.

There’s heat in his gaze, unmistakable, but beneath it is something softer. Awe. Want held carefully in check.

The attention makes my pulse quicken.

I’m exposed, yet desired—and instantly soaked.

My breasts grow heavy, my nipples confined beneath lace.

Alex lowers his mouth, kissing the tops of them, progressing downward—until he finds my nipple straining against my bra. He licks, nibbles, and draws one into his mouth through the fabric.

I arch outward, throwing my head back, offering myself without thought.

He pulls the strap down and devours me, mouth hot and greedy, sucking until I gasp.

The ache between my legs is overwhelming.

When he picks me up, it’s graceful—so easy it steals my breath. The moment his arms lock around me, my body goes still, instinctively trusting the strength holding me.

He carries me down the hall like it’s second nature—cradled against his chest, legs loose, my body fitting perfectly against his.

It’s such a small thing. But it’s everything.

I’m not heavy for him. He doesn’t shift or brace or hesitate. His arms stay steady, sure, holding me with controlled strength that appears deliberate—measured.

The ease of it sends a slow, dangerous heat rolling through me, pooling low in my belly.

Carried in this way—secure and unburdened—does something to me. It sharpens my desire. Bolsters my confidence.

I’m acutely aware of the size difference, of how easily his body accommodates mine without question.

My pulse quickens as he sets me gently on the bed, and I gaze up at everything he is.

Tall—long lines and contained power, torso stretched and strong, tipping into bulk. He lifts his shirt over his head, anddamn me to hell, he has an amazing body. His abs are greatly defined—cut and deliberate—each muscle clearly mapped beneath smooth skin, like they were carved rather than trained into existence. Abs for fucking days.

And then the tattoos.

Dark ink winds up his arms, climbing higher—over his shoulders, across his collarbone. The patterns aren’t loud or ornamental. They belong to him rather than decorate him.

My eyes trace the lines instinctively—and that’s when I notice the scars. Faint. Small. A thin line here. A pale mark there. Nothing dramatic enough to demand an explanation. Nothing clear enough to assign a story to. Just evidence. History written into skin.

I don’t know where they came from, but I know this much—they weren’t born of softness.

They shouldn’t be sexy. But they are.