Page 39 of Hooked On Victor
But he did breathe.
“I’m here,” she said softly.
Her voice felt small in the space. Intimate.
He turned at that, slowly, like stone rolling under water, his eyes catching the firelight from a single candle she hadn’t even noticed burning on the mantle.
Something in his expression fractured.
His mouth trembled for a second before he bit it back.
He reached for her, slow and cautious, fingers splayed like he was worried she might vanish if he moved too quickly. When his hands settled on her waist, they were heavy, grounding her to the floor.
They didn’t grip.
They held.
Almost reverent.
Then he kissed her.
Not the way he had in the kitchen, with desperation and blood in the air. Not like the storm outside when he’d claimed her with thunder echoing in his ribs.
This was slow.
Deep.
A kiss that carried the weight of everything they hadn’t said in the miles between danger and silence.
Rose felt it all the way to her spine.
Her fingers found the back of his neck, traced the short hairs there, nails biting just enough to make him shudder. She pulled him closer, felt the moment he gave up resisting, the slight groan that rumbled in his chest as his forehead pressed against hers.
He lifted her shirt.
Not in a hurry.
Inches at a time, like he was unwrapping something precious, something holy. The fabric rasped over her ribs, her stomach, and she felt goosebumps race after his fingers. She exhaledshakily when the cold air met her bare skin, but the heat in his gaze stole the chill immediately.
She tugged at his waistband in return, fingers clumsy with want, feeling the hard muscle of his abdomen jump under her touch. She felt his breath hitch—sharp, broken, like he didn’t know how to hold it anymore.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t have to.
They moved through the old safehouse in silence, steps slow but certain, navigating around the abandoned furniture and the shadows that leaned too close. She could hear their breathing. The quiet shuffle of clothes dropping onto ancient rugs. The wet sound of rain against the windows.
The bedroom door was crooked on its hinges.
Victor kicked it open gently.
Inside, the bed was made of solid timber, old enough to creak in protest as he laid her down. The mattress was cold through the thin sheet, but his body covered hers before she could shiver, heat flooding every place they touched.
He moved over her with painful care, as though afraid to break her. As though he didn’t deserve to even try.
His mouth pressed to her collarbone.
Slow.
