Page 24 of King of the Weld
She's younger. On the run. A woman with her own battles to fight. I know I should keep my distance, maintain the boundaries I've built over years of isolation. But I can't seem to look away from her.
I want her. I need her. The admission burns through my defenses, settling like molten metal in my core.
But relationships are the only battle I've never won. The only field where my strength, my training, my determination count for nothing. I've left wreckage behind me. Not just with Amanda after my last deployment, but with every woman who's tried to get close since. I don't know how to let someone in without hurting them.
Sophia steps closer, and a faint sparkle—a tiny metal shaving—hits her shoulder. She lowers her face.
I place my hand on her cheek without thinking, raising her face. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes widen at my touch, and she moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue. I can feel her heavy, warm breath brushing against my beard. This is too fucking hard.
I remember yesterday, hearing the shower running and knowing she was naked behind that door. The forbidden thought of her had crossed my mind then, sharp and insistent. What would this beautiful woman look like without clothes? Would she have scars? Moles? Would she allow me to touch every inch of her?
She leans her face into my hand now, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
"I've never felt this comfortable," she whispers. "This safe."
"You shouldn't get used to it," I warn, my voice rougher now.
Her eyes open, questioning. "Why? Why can't I get used to this?"
"I'm no man for you, Sophia." The words feel like gravel in my throat. "I'm older. Got too many problems. Shit you don't need in your life right now, or ever."
"I don't care," she says with unexpected fierceness. "You took care of me, protected me when no one else did. You didn't even know me, and you stood between me and my father, between me and Harrison. You gave me clothes, food, shelter—" She pauses, something vulnerable crossing her face. "You gave me a choice. I want nothing more than you."
I make a sound—half hum, half groan—and step back, needing distance to think clearly.
"Why are we having this conversation now? You were just here to watch me work, and suddenly we're talking about... what? A future together? Some idyllic fantasy?"
"I might be crazy," she admits, a flush rising to her cheeks. "But I'm sure there's something here, between us. If you're willing to admit it."
"You have no idea what you're saying," I raise my voice, "You're grateful, confused, looking for safety—"
She tries to shove me, her hands pressing against my chest with surprising force. I barely budge, but the action itself startles me. She looks even more gorgeous now that she's angry. Fists closed, eyes squinted, a trace of sweat trailing down her neck and disappearing beneath her shirt.
Fuck. I can't control myself much longer. My body responds, blood rushing south, and I keep opening and closing my hands to channel the energy somewhere, anywhere.
"Step back," I manage, the words more plea than command.
"No," she counters. "Things are already complicated, Ethan. At least you could make this part easier."
"I'm no savior," I warn her. "Whatever you think you see in me—"
"I'm not confused," she interrupts, and once again she drags her tongue across her lips, a gesture that sends heat spiraling through me. "I know exactly what I want."
I can't hold back anymore. I step forward, my body burning, and pull her to me. She's thrown forward, clashing against my chest before looking up with wide, doe-like eyes. My hand spans the entire right side of her face—her skin soft beneath my calloused palm—before I lower my mouth to hers.
Her lips are soft, yielding, then suddenly demanding as she presses closer. My arms encircle her waist, lifting her slightly to better align our bodies. She makes a small sound against my mouth, surprise or pleasure, I can't tell, and winds her arms around my neck.
Without breaking the kiss, I carry her to the small couch in the corner of the workshop—a place I sometimes crash when working late.
She weighs almost nothing in my arms, her tall frame still slender despite her curves. When I set her down, she pulls me with her, unwilling to break contact.
My hands find the hem of her borrowed shirt, tugging impatiently. The fabric resists, and with a growl of frustration, I grip it firmly and tear it open. She gasps, eyes wide with shock and something darker, hungrier. Beneath the shirt, her skin is pale, perfect, encased in a simple red bra that does little to contain the fullness of her breasts.
"Are you scared?" I ask, forcing myself to check, to give her an out if she needs it.
"I trust you," she whispers. "But this is... this is my first time. I'm only scared of not being good enough for you."
