Page 44 of His Orders

“Thank you for this,” she says, voice quiet. “It means a lot.”

I nod, watching her.

She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask. The air between us turns heavier, but not unpleasant. The kind of weight that comes from things unsaid, not because they are hidden, but because naming them might change everything.

Later, we clean the dishes side by side. The fire I lit earlier crackles low in the hearth, the orange glow casting shadows across the wood-paneled walls. She dries while I wash, passingme towels and silence and something that feels suspiciously like trust.

When we finish, she moves to the armchair near the fire and pulls her knees beneath her. The light plays across her face, turning her hair to burnished mahogany and her eyes to pools of green dipped in amber.

I don’t sit. I just watch her.

And in that stillness, I feel it again. The shift, the heat, the pull I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

I have tried to be careful with her, patient with all her walls and silences. But standing here now, watching the firelight dance across her skin, I know I am one wrong look away from giving in completely.

And the truth is, I have never been good at resisting her.

15

IVY

In the cabin, there's no noise to distract me, no outside pressure to worry about. The fire in the hearth has softened to a gentle flicker, and the soft lamplight stretches shadows across the knotty pine walls, warm and still. Ethan’s sitting on the couch, one arm resting along the back, legs spread, relaxed in a way that makes him look untouchable. But I know better. I know the restraint behind that posture, the coiled tension he wears like a second skin.

He hasn’t said much since I asked him to stay. No questions. No expectations. Just a soft nod and that quiet steadiness I’ve come to rely on more than I should.

And I think that’s what undoes me.

He doesn’t push. He waits, the way he always has. And it hits me, sharp and certain in my chest. He’s never tried to force his way in. He’s always lingered at the edge, quiet and steady, hoping I would come to him on my own. There’s a possessiveness in him, yes, but it never scorches. It doesn’t suffocate or demand. It protects. Even when he’s distant, even when his silence cutssharper than words ever could, he still respects the space I need to breathe.

And suddenly, I don’t want to wait anymore.

I cross the room slowly, barefoot, heart in my throat, each step a quiet confession I don’t know how to speak out loud. He watches me, but he doesn’t move. His gaze stays fixed on me—steady, unreadable, patient.

When I reach him, I don’t speak. I just kneel between his knees and rest my palms on his thighs.

His breath hitches, almost imperceptibly. Still, he doesn’t touch me.

I look up at him, into those dark, storm-scarred eyes, and for a moment I forget what it means to be afraid.

Then I reach for the waistband of his jeans.

He lets me.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t stop me, doesn’t say a word.

His belt comes undone easily. I pull the button free, slide the zipper down, and then he lifts his hips, wordless, helping me draw his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one slow, deliberate movement.

He’s already hard—thick and flushed, his cock heavy in my hand, the skin hot and smooth. I wrap my fingers around him and hear the low, gravel-wrapped sound he makes, that quiet groan pulled from the back of his throat like he’s been holding it in.

When I lean forward and lick the head—just once, slow and teasing—his hips shift, a barely-there roll toward my mouth.

But still, he doesn’t rush me.

That’s what makes my chest ache.

Because I can feel how tightly he’s holding himself back, letting me set the pace, letting me take what I need—and I don’t know if anyone’s ever done that for me.

I drag my tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and unhurried, before I take him into my mouth. He’s thick and hot, and the stretch makes my jaw ache, but I don’t stop. I want to feel him fill me, want to hear him lose that composure he clings to so tightly.

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