Page 14 of Break Me

His mouth moved with purpose, teasing and coaxing, while his fingers worked magic inside me. Every flick of his tongue and thrust of his fingers pushed me closer to the edge.

“Please,” I whispered, not even sure what I was pleading for, but desperately needing more.

He looked up at me, his eyes dark with desire and something that looked dangerously close to reverence.

“Christ, Raven,” he said roughly. “You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

The tension inside me wound tighter and tighter until I wasn't sure I could bear another second of it. I clung to him, every breath unsteady, every nerve stretched thin.

“That's it, sweetheart,” he said, his voice rough. “Let go for me.”

The release hit hard enough to steal the air from my lungs. My body trembled, overwhelmed by the rush of sensation and emotion crashing through me all at once.

For a few seconds, I couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except feel.

Samuel stayed with me through it, steady and patient. His touch eased rather than demanded, drawing out the lingering aftershocks instead of chasing more.

When I finally managed to look at him, he was already watching me. The expression on his face made my chest tighten. As though seeing me trust him with this meant as much to him as the moment itself.

Only when the last tremors had faded did he press a lingering kiss against my skin before slowly making his way back up to me.

His warmth surrounded me as he settled close, one hand brushing my hair back from my face. His gaze held mine, intense and unguarded, carrying so much affection and care that it made my chest ache. No one had ever looked at me that way before. Like I was something worth protecting. Something worth choosing.

The vulnerability of it stole my breath.

He shifted slightly, never taking his eyes off me, and when his attention returned to my face, the expression there nearly undid me. Like, after all these years, he was afraid to blink and lose me.

Samuel Morgan wasn’t just beautiful.

He was built in that effortless way men get from work and grit, not gym mirrors. Lean muscle. A broad chest. The kind of shoulders that made me feel safe even when the rest of the world didn't.

But it wasn’t the muscle that undid me. It was the story written across his skin.

Ink curled over one shoulder in sharp black lines. Wings, maybe, or something close to it, and I reached up, tracing the edge of the tattoo.

“You like them?” he whispered, voice rough.

“Yes,” I breathed, letting my fingers drift lower, down his chest to a small scar on his abdomen, pale and healed but still jarring. I brushed it gently, and he sucked in a tight breath.

“That one’s old,” he murmured. “Long before you.”

I didn’t look away from it. “Does it hurt?”

“Only when you frown at it like that,” he said softly.

My hand slid higher and caught on another scar. This one was impossible to miss. A pale line cut across his chest, wider than the others, the skin slightly raised beneath my fingertips.

He trembled beneath my touch, his jaw tightening, his heartbeat thudding against my palm.

Before I could ask about it, he caught my hand and pressed it flat over his heart.

“This,” he whispered, eyes locked on mine, “hurts more than all the others.”

My breath caught.

His meaning was clear—pain, fear, wanting, the years he’d tried not to want me back.

I cupped his jaw with my free hand, pulling him down until his forehead touched mine.