Page 86 of Dreams and Desires

He sprays a line of cream along my collarbone—not lower—and the cold makes me shiver. But that sensation vanishes when his mouth follows the trail, soft and warm. His lips brush against my skin with the kind of care that doesn’t feel like a game.

My fingers curl in the sheets. His hand rests just above my ribs, not quite under my shirt, but close enough that I forget how to breathe evenly.

“Zade…” I whisper, but I don’t even know what I’m asking. For more? For less?

He pauses and looks up. I look at him too. There’s a familiar mischief there, but it’s tempered by something else. Something serious. “I’m distracting you,” he says softly. “Unless you want me to stop.”

I shake my head. It’s the only thing I can manage.

He leans down again, pressing a kiss to my cheek, then another to the edge of my jaw. His mouth never lingers long, just enough to make my skin spark. He stays above the blanket, never pushing, never crossing lines. But every touch leaves a mark.

His hands move to my waist, adjusting the blanket to cover us both. He settles beside me, one arm curled behind my head, the other brushing soft, slow strokes down the side of my body.

“I think you’re trying to kill me,” I murmur, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

“If I was,” he says, brushing a kiss to the top of my head, “I’d make sure it felt good.”

My head tips forward, resting against his collarbone. He feels warm against me. That’s all I notice. The whole room fades until all I can feel is his hand at my back and the rhythm of his breathing.

Everything about this feels… charged. Not overwhelming. Just precise. Like one wrong word or the slightest move could send it all sideways.

His fingers continue tracing slow, thoughtful lines. Every once in a while, he murmurs something under his breath—not quite a word, more like a sound—but it anchors me all the same.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he asks quietly.

I don’t answer, not because I’m trying to be coy, but because I genuinely don’t know. I’ve never made someone look at me the way he’s looking at me now. I’ve never been held like I mattered.

“You make me want to be careful,” he says. “Like maybe this isn’t just fun anymore.”

Something shifts in my chest, low and deep. His words land in a part of me I don’t like to touch too often—the place where disappointment builds houses out of old regrets.

I don’t try to respond with cleverness. I just reach for him again. I kiss him. Slower this time. More certain. And when we part, I see the change in his face—the small crack in that effortless confidence he wears like a second skin.

We lie like that for a long time. No more words. Just quiet touches. The blanket tucked around us. The soft scent of vanilla from the cupcakes still lingering in the room.

At some point, he shifts again, grabbing the whipped cream can from the nightstand.

“You know,” he says, glancing down at me with a half-smile, “we still have some dessert left.”

I laugh and take the can from him, squirting a dollop onto my finger. I hold it up between us like a dare. “Let’s see who finishes first.”

He leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine, and closes his mouth around my finger. The way his lips part, the way he lingers for a second too long. When he pulls back, his voice is low.

“I like a challenge.”

The moment turns quiet again. Not awkward—just… tender. He lies back, pulling me against his chest, one arm snug around my waist. I feel his breath against my hair, his heartbeat under my palm. I close my eyes, letting myself sink into the warmth.

I don’t know how long we stay like that. Minutes. Maybe longer. My mind drifts, and I think of all the times I’ve been in rooms with men who made me feel like I had to shrink to fit beside them. Zade isn’t like that. He doesn’t ask me to shrink. If anything, he takes up space and dares me to meet him there.

His fingers brush the side of my face, and I open my eyes. He’s looking at me like I’m something he didn’t plan for. Something he doesn’t know what to do with, but wants anyway.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I whisper.

And I mean it.

Chapter Forty-Four

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