Page 59 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

“Is it wrong,” he asks, voice low and strained, “that some part of me wished this would happen?”

I touch his cheek. There is shame in his eyes, want, worry, the careful grief of a man who has been trying to keep his handsopen for months. The answer isn't simple. Nothing about this is simple.

“Only if it’s wrong that some part of me did too.”

Dash closes his eyes for one breath. When he opens them, he looks at me like I have put something breakable and holy in his hands. “Bedroom?”

“Yes.”

He carries me there.

I should feel ridiculous, but I don’t. My arms go around his neck, and my face presses against the warm side of his throat. His scent fills my lungs, bergamot bright over sandalwood, familiar now in a way that makes something inside me ache. He doesn't take the shortest route. He moves slowly through the quiet house, giving me time to change my mind, giving both of us time to feel the line we are crossing before we cross it fully.

In the bedroom, he sets me on my feet first.

That matters. He could lay me down and make the momentum choose for us. Instead, he puts me upright in front of him with his hands at my waist and waits until I step back into him.

Dash’s hands stay light on my sides as I close the last inches between us. He bends his head and kisses me again, slower than before, learning the shape of my mouth now that the kitchen’s urgency has softened into something quieter. When I make a small sound against his lips he answers it with a softer one of his own, then pulls back just enough to see my face.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, fingers brushing the edge of my cardigan.

“Yes.”

He eases it from my shoulders with careful hands, folding it over the chair instead of letting it fall. The blouse beneath follows only after he asks again and I answer. Each button is deliberate. Each new inch of skin receives a pause so he can watch my breathing. When the fabric slips away he kisses thebacks of my hands first, then the insides of my wrists, then the soft place where my neck meets my shoulder—close to the old bite but not on it.

I reach for him in return. My fingers find the hem of his sweater and lift. He helps me, raising his arms so I can pull it free. The undershirt goes next. When my palms settle on the warm skin of his chest he makes a low, quiet sound, almost a sigh, and the want in it steadies something in me.

“Still yes?” he asks.

“Still yes.”

He guides me only when I reach for him again. The bed receives us slowly. Dash lays me down on my back and follows, bracing his weight on his forearms so I never feel trapped. He kisses my mouth, my jaw, the line of my throat. His hands map my sides, my waist, the soft curve of my hips. Every time my breath changes he stills. Every time I make a sound he answers it with attention rather than speed.

When his mouth nears the hidden mark beneath my collarbone he stops and looks up.

“You can,” I whisper.

He rests his forehead there first, just as he did in the kitchen. Then he kisses the skin beside the bite, never claiming it, only acknowledging that it is part of me. The tenderness of it pulls a soft, unexpected sound from my throat. Dash hears it. His hand comes up to cup the side of my face while his mouth stays gentle against that old hurt.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

He undresses the rest of me with the same patience—pants, underwear—pausing after each piece to check my eyes, my breath, the way my hands stay open on his shoulders. When I'm bare he simply looks at me for a long moment, not with hunger that demands, but with a quiet, almost reverent attention that makes my chest ache.

I help him out of the last of his clothes. My hands shake a little. He steadies them with his own, then lets me explore the shape of him—shoulders, chest, the strong line of his stomach—until the wanting in me grows steady enough to speak.

“I want you,” I say.

Dash’s breath catches. He reaches for the drawer, finds what he needs, and prepares himself without rush. When he settles between my thighs he doesn't push forward. He waits, the blunt heat of him resting against me, until I lift my hips in clear invitation.

“Yes,” I tell him. “Please.”

He enters me slowly.

The stretch is careful, unhurried, every inch given with attention to the soft sounds leaving my mouth. When he's fully seated he holds still, forehead against mine, breathing with me until my body softens around him. Only then does he begin to move—deep, measured rolls of his hips that keep us close. His mouth stays near my ear, near my cheek, near my lips, catching every quiet gasp and answering it with a low answering sound of his own.

“Callie,” he whispers when I make a particularly soft, broken noise. “I’m right here.”

The rhythm stays gentle. When emotion rises too sharply and tears prick at the corners of my eyes he stops completely, still buried inside me, and gathers me against his chest.