Page 25 of Promised to the Heir

“Baby, I love it when you let me hold you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” I kiss the tip of her nose, catching the faint hitch in her breath. “So tell me, what do you do to unwind?”

She goes still, like I’ve caught her off guard. A faint color climbs her neck, and she drops her gaze to where our hands rest. The reaction’s so unexpected, it kicks my curiosity awake.

I hook a finger under her chin and nudge her eyes back to mine. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No.” She shakes her head, collects herself, shoulders squaring in that familiar, work-mode way. “I make pots.”

“Pots?” I blink.

“Yes, you know.” Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “Clay. A wheel. Water. Mess everywhere.”

Now I can see it — her sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, a streak of clay on her cheek. “You throw them?”

“Mmhmm. Centering’s the hardest part.” She cups her hands as if she’s shaping something right there in the air between us. “You start with this lopsided lump, and it wobbles until you find the balance. You press, steady, guide it until it stops fighting you. Then it listens.”

Her fingers turn slowly, tracing invisible circles. There’s a softness in her face I haven’t seen before.

“It’s like the world narrows to what’s under your hands,” she says, voice lower now. “Just the spin, the pull of the clay, the hum of the wheel. If your mind wanders, it collapses, so you have to stay there. Present.”

I swallow, watching her hands. The way her thumbs move, the concentration in her tone. It’s hypnotic. “Sounds… grounding.”

She smiles, a real one this time. “It is. There’s something satisfying about creating something that lasts. Even if it’s crooked.”

“Like people,” I murmur.

Her eyes lift to mine, warm, amused, and a little unguarded. “Exactly like people.”

She lifts her hands to my chest, palms flat, fingers spreading as if to test the beat of my heart through the fabric. Her eyes flick up—uncertain for only a breath—then she steps in, her body brushing mine as her arms loop around my neck.

“Let’s find out where the balance between us is,” she murmurs.

Before I can answer, her lips catch mine. It’s not gentle or practiced, but it’s real—alive. Her mouth moves against mine with the slow insistence of someone discovering how deep a kiss can go. She presses in closer, and the world narrows to the scent of her hair and the taste of her breath.

A low sound rumbles in my throat. I slide my hands down her sides, tracing the curve of her ribs, the heat of her skin bleeding through the thin cotton. When my thumb slips beneath the edge of her shirt and meets bare flesh, her breath stutters, and she leans in harder. Her nails catch at my shoulders, desperate for something to hold on to.

I pull back just enough to look at her. Her pupils are wide, lips swollen from the kiss, a faint tremor running through her body. My chest aches at the sight—she’s breathtaking like this, suspended between wanting and surrender.

“Your balance seems fine to me,” she whispers, voice roughened by need.

I drag my knuckles down her spine, slow and deliberate, until she shivers. “Guess we found ours.”

She gives a small, shaky laugh, but it dies on her lips when she presses back into me. The next kiss crashes over us like a tide. Her lips part beneath mine, her mouth is warm and slick, and her tongue meets mine in a sensual, searching stroke that steals my breath. She tilts her head, angling for more, and I follow her lead, matching the rise and fall, the press and retreat, until thought dissolves into instinct.

Each flick of her tongue sends a pulse down my spine. She catches my lower lip between her teeth, a soft tug that makes my control snap for half a heartbeat. I answer with a deeper pull, my mouth claiming hers until she moans into me, the sound vibrating between our lips.

I can feel the tremor that moves through her, the way her knees brush mine as if her body’s forgotten how to stand. My hands find her hips again, steadying her, keeping us balanced even as the world tilts and the kiss takes over everything else. The air between us grows thick with heat, with everything we’ve been holding back since that first touch.

When she finally breaks the kiss, her breath ghosts over my jaw. Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging just enough to make me look at her. The look in her eyes isn’t timid or uncertain—it’s fierce, deliberate.

“Jeremy, make love to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

We hit the stairs in a rush, half laughing, half gasping, hands everywhere. She’s ahead of me by a step, hair flying, shirt slipping off one shoulder. I reach for her and catch nothing but air. My shoe catches on the edge of the step, and I curse, yanking it off midstride and letting it fall with a thud that echoes through the hall.