Page 99 of Heimlock

Trinte looks at me with a mix of happiness and fear, breath ragged. “I don’t want to fuck this up, Kyrielle.”

Bringing a hand to his cheek, I shake my head. “You can’t.”

His mouth thins, and he straightens, hands falling to his sides. “I absolutely can.”

Hurt twinges in my chest. “Are you saying you regret kissing me?”

“Never,” he says fiercely. “Ever.” He runs his hands over my thighs, but it’s more of a soothing gesture than a sexual one. “But if the last few days have taught me anything, it’s that you are incredibly important to me.”

Trinte says the words, still not looking at me. The worry of rejection melts away. Curling my fingers around the edges of his hands, I say softly, “You’re important to me, too, Trinte.”

His expression’s pained. “I want to take this slow, Kyrielle. I want us to both be sure before we have sex again. If we ever have sex again.” He swallows hard. “And I don’t want that to happen until you know everything.”

I squeeze his hands. “That’s fine. I like slow. But …” I hesitate, considering my words. “Can we clarify what we can consider sex? Because I really want to kiss you again.”

Trinte huffs out a breathy laugh. “Kissing is definitely not sex.”

I pull his hands back to my hips, then wrap my arms around his neck. Our breaths mingle as we stare at one another. “Kiss me again, Trinte.”

“You’ll never have to ask twice,” he mutters before placing a gentle kiss on my lips. A slow, methodical exploration replaces the urgency from before. In this kiss, there are so many unsaid things. Unspoken promises and pleas.

One of his hands grazes my spine while the other one cups my face, brushing my hair aside so he can pepper kisses down the column of my neck. There’s nothing I’d like more than for him to go lower … so much lower.

“Goddess,” he murmurs after delivering one more reverent kiss. “What are you doing to me, Kyrielle?”

Before I can answer, he turns away and grabs my plate of now-tepid eggs. Stabbing the yellow lumps, he lifts the fork to my mouth.

Maintaining eye contact, I let him feed me. Because that’s what you do when a dashingly handsome man offers to hand feed you breakfast.

40

Well, someone spitting hazelnut coffee into my mouth is a new one for me. It’s also probably one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen or experienced. With her on the counter, legs spread, hovering her mouth over mine … it’ll live in my memory forever.

And that kiss? Let’s just say that when I’m alone again, I’ll need a good couple of hours trying to calm my Fyre.

Kyrielle didn’t turn away from my suggestion to take things slow. Truthfully, I’m afraid once she knows everything, she’ll reject me. Staving off sex is a survival tactic, more than anything. Although, after that kiss, I might die if I never get to sink into her body ever again.

Logic says to do nothing until she verbally agrees to get rid of her rule around battle gym members. Really, we don’t have to interact there if she’s so concerned. I spent months orbiting her like a moon, and she was none the wiser. That doesn’t have to change.

After breakfast, it’s time to have a tough conversation. Contemplating the right words, I wash dishes. My stomach churns with anxiety, unsure of what she’s going to say. We’ve been living in this bubble, but like every bubble, this one needs to pop.

Scrubbing the pan used for eggs, I say, “Since you’re feeling better, it’s probably a good idea for me to head home; give you space. I’m sure you’re aching for some alone time.”

Sitting behind me, still on the counter, Kyrielle stays silent. Each wordless moment enhances the apprehension building inside me. Is it too soon to suggest leaving her alone? She’s so independent, there’s no way she wants me to stay.

“I mean,” she says slowly. “My arm gets pretty tired if I lift it for longer than a few seconds.”

Staring at the sudsy water, I suppressed a grin. Trying to act unaffected, I ask, “So you still need help washing your armpits?”

“It would be a shame to be stinky,” she agrees.

My heart beats at an aching, excited rhythm. She doesn’t want me to leave. We both know damn well that if she wanted to, she’d be able to wash herself. By this evening, the wing itself will be almost repaired.

But she wants me here.

Placing the clean pan in the dish rack, I turn the water off and face her, leaning against the counter. Kyrielle’s watching me, nibbling on a lip with apprehension.

Feeling lighter than I have in years, I keep my tone casual. “Well, I’d hate for you to be stinky.”