Page 55 of Brash for It
We finish drying off in companionable silence.I pull on a pair of boxers, toss her one of my shirts, which she slips into without argument.Seeing her in my clothes has always done something to me, but tonight, after what just happened, it hits harder.Like the sight alone is proof she’s mine in a way no one else gets to claim.
She crawls under the blanket, curls into the pillows, and I follow, sliding in beside her.My arm goes around her without thought, and she tucks herself against me with a little sigh.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the restless edge inside me isn’t there.The storm that usually rattles around under my skin is quiet.She did that.By staying.By choosing.By not running when I gave her the chance.
I tilt my head, press a kiss into her damp hair.“Get some sleep, darlin’.”
She murmurs something soft, too quiet for me to catch, but I feel it in the way her body relaxes completely against mine.Absently, I run my hands through her hair soothing the part of me that couldn’t sleep being away from this.
And I know, as I close my eyes, that nothing about tonight was just about sex.It was about trust.About her stepping into the fire and not flinching.About me finally letting go of the leash I’ve been holding on myself and finding out she wanted me all the ways I am, beast and biker.
The water’s gone cold, the house is quiet, but my bed isn’t empty.And for once, I don’t feel empty either.
I wake to the sound of the AC turning over and the feel of a heartbeat that isn’t mine pressed against my ribs.
For a second I don’t move.Sunrise is just an orange shade through the blinds, the kind of light that lets the room pretend it’s not quite time to get up yet.Kristen’s tucked along my side, one knee over my thigh, an arm flung across my stomach like she fell asleep mid-claim.My shoulder aches in that good, used way where you remember a thing by the echo it left.Her hair smells like clean soap and something that’s just her; the heat where she’s draped across me makes the rest of the bed feel cold.
I blink up at the ceiling and try to find the restless noise that usually sits under my skin.It’s not here.Last night burned it out of me or drowned it under hot water and the sound of my name pulled out of her like truth.Either way, I don’t miss it.
She stirs.Little sound in her throat, soft as a yawn that changed its mind.Her fingers flex against my stomach, then smooth, like she’s making sure I didn’t sneak off while she was sleeping.
“I’m here,” I whisper, voice wrecked with morning.
“I know,” she answers into my chest, words warm on skin.Then she tips her head back and looks at me properly.Her eyes are heavy, content, not a whisper of doubt in them.“Hi.”
“Hey.”I drag my knuckles along her jaw, slow.“Sleep okay?”
“Out like a light,” she mutters, smile curving, lazy and certain.“You?”
“Yeah.”It’s not a word I waste if it isn’t true.
We lie there a while and let the room learn us again in this new shape.I take inventory the way I do when I rebuild engine—listen, feel, wait for a rattle that would mean something’s off.There isn’t one.If anything, the idle is smoother.
“Any regrets?”I ask, because I’m a man who likes to cut out the guesswork before it grows teeth.
Her mouth does that surprised thing where the corner lifts like she got caught liking something.“No.”Then, stronger: “No.”She searches my face.“You?”
“Not a one.”The force of it surprises me.I soften it with a thumb to her cheekbone.“I meant what I said in the shower.You had the choice.You stayed.”
“And I’ll keep staying.”She says it easy, like coffee orders, like addresses you don’t have to look up anymore.She shifts, sprawls more of herself across me, not shy about taking space.“I missed you,” she adds, a small confession with a big shadow.
I swallow around a thing that’s too large to chew.“Three days felt longer than they should’ve.”
Her smile flickers into something like triumph—no gloating, just recognition.She taps my sternum once, playful.“You’ll tell me next time?”
“Yeah,” I commit to her.No flinch.No dodge.“I’ll tell you as long as I can.This popped up and was an urgent ride out.Club shit.”
We let the morning creep a little higher up the wall.When she reaches for the sheet to pull it up, the hem slides and a flash of red peeks along my shoulder where her nails said yes last night.Her eyes catch on it; her mouth goes soft and then proud.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, not sorry at all.
I laugh.“Leave it.I left my own.”I admit looking to the bruised bite on her shoulder.
She smiles proudly, “I asked you to mark me.”
Then, because I want the words in the room where they belong, I say, “You’re mine, Kristen.”
Her gaze cuts back to mine.No flinch.“And you’re mine.”
