Page 140 of Stolen Harmony
“Because I was afraid,” he said, honesty breaking through every word. “Because I thought losing you on my own terms would hurt less than waiting for you to leave. Because Victor made me believe I was poison, that anyone who got too close would pay for it.” He dropped one hand to my chest, fingers splayed over my heart. “But then I realized—being alone, being safe—it wasn’t worth it. Not if it meant living without you.”
For a long moment I just breathed, letting the words settle. My chest felt tight, my throat thick with everything I wanted to say and couldn’t. He stroked my cheek, thumb catching on the edge of a tear I didn’t even realize had fallen.
“You said you’d stay,” I said quietly. “But what if I can’t let you in? What if I’m too angry, or too tired, or too broken to be good for you?”
He smiled, soft and sad. “Then I’ll wait. I’ll wait untilyou’re ready, or until you tell me you never will be. And even then, I’ll be grateful I got to know you at all. That I got to love you, even if just for a little while.”
The room seemed to shrink around us, the city’s noise receding to a dull hum. All I could see was Elias—eyes dark, jaw tense, breath shallow. I remembered the first time we’d really seen each other, the night by the piano, the unspoken need in every glance. I remembered what it felt like to trust someone, to want them enough that the risk almost felt holy.
He started to step back, giving me space, but I reached for him, fingers wrapping tight around his wrist. I couldn’t speak, didn’t trust myself not to break if I tried. So I just tugged him closer, let our bodies brush, let myself feel him—real, warm, present.
He looked at me like he didn’t dare believe it, hope flickering in his eyes. “Rowan?—”
I cut him off with a kiss. Fierce, almost clumsy with how badly I needed it. It wasn’t soft or easy. It was desperate, all teeth and open mouths, a tangle of apologies and promises we hadn’t figured out how to say.
He made a sound low in his chest, one hand slipping to the back of my neck, holding me steady as if I might bolt. I kissed him harder, fingers twisting in his shirt, pouring every ache, every memory, every scrap of hope into the contact. I wanted him to feel how much I’d missed him, how much I still wanted to believe.
When we finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, I let myself breathe for the first time in weeks.
“This doesn’t fix everything,” I said, voice shaking.
He smiled, thumb tracing my jaw. “No. But maybe it’s a start.”
The kiss that followed was nothing like the first—a different kind of desperation taking hold. It was as if all theweeks apart, the angry words, the cold silences and missed calls had been building to this single, inevitable moment of surrender. There was a hunger in it, a demand, mouths colliding and parting and seeking again, both of us clinging so tightly it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
I fisted his shirt, dragging him closer, feeling his chest against mine, the hard thump of his heart wild and unsteady under my palm. He groaned into my mouth, rough and hungry, teeth catching on my lower lip until I gasped. That sound seemed to undo him. He pushed me back against the nearest wall, bodies flush, hands roaming with abandon, relearning every inch, every angle, every place that could drive me out of my mind.
We fumbled with buttons and zippers, cursing softly between kisses, neither of us willing to break contact for more than a second. My hands found his belt, jerking it open, tugging at his waistband. He caught my urgency, tearing at my shirt until it ripped, sending buttons flying. I heard myself laugh—a raw, shocked sound—but he only grinned, mouth crashing back to mine.
We broke apart just long enough to yank shirts over our heads, our skin finally meeting, bare and hot. He cupped my face again, kissed me deep, then ran his hands down my back, fingers digging into my hips. I gasped as he pressed me harder against the wall, his thigh shoving between mine, grinding, grinding, making us both gasp.
“God, I missed you,” he whispered, voice ragged, mouth trailing fire down my neck, biting at my shoulder. “You have no idea.”
I did. Because I felt it too—weeks of missing him, wanting him, hating how much it hurt to be without him. I clung to him, my mouth on his throat, nipping at his pulse, my hands franticon his chest, his stomach, feeling the heat, the muscles, the scars I knew by heart.
Somehow, we made it down the hall—stumbling, half-blind, knocking into doorframes, laughing and cursing between kisses. By the time we crashed into the bedroom, I was breathless, dizzy, my jeans halfway down my thighs and Elias’s hand already shoved into my briefs, palm wrapping around me, squeezing just enough to make my knees buckle.
I tore at his pants, dragging them down, desperate to get him naked, to see him, to touch every part of him that had been missing from my life. He kicked off his jeans, toeing out of his boxers, and then we were naked, nothing between us but sweat and air and the tremble of wanting.
He pushed me back onto the bed, crawling over me, his mouth finding mine again. I hooked my legs around his hips, pulling him down until our bodies slid together, cock to cock, chest to chest. The friction was electric, every nerve ending firing, our skin slick with sweat, mouths tasting, devouring, starving.
He trailed kisses down my chest, stopping to mouth at my nipples, biting until I gasped, then soothing the sting with his tongue. His hands roamed everywhere—over my ribs, down my stomach, around my thighs, gripping, squeezing, mapping me out like he was memorizing me for the last time.
I arched into him, my own hands greedy and restless, gliding over his broad shoulders, down his back, feeling the way he shivered at every touch. I pressed my mouth to the curve of his neck, biting down, leaving marks. He moaned, grinding down harder, his cock sliding against mine, both of us so hard it almost hurt.
He slid down, mouth moving lower, tongue tracing the line of my abs, nuzzling the crease of my hip. He looked up, eyes wild, pupils blown, and then he sucked the head of my cockinto his mouth, slow and deep, his tongue swirling, his hand wrapped tight around the base. I bucked, helpless, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clutching the sheets.
“Fuck, Elias—” I gasped, hips jerking. He just hummed, swallowing me down, his throat working, his free hand gliding up my thigh, pressing my legs wider, pushing me open.
He pulled off with a wet, obscene sound, breath hot against my skin, and licked a stripe from my balls to the base of my cock, then lower, mouth and tongue everywhere, tasting, worshipping, claiming.
“Missed this,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “Missed you.”
I pulled him up, desperate to taste him, and flipped him onto his back, sliding down his body, kissing every inch, every scar, every hollow. I pressed my mouth to his chest, sucked a mark into his skin, then kept moving lower, biting at his hip, licking the trail of hair down to his cock.
Elias shuddered, hand heavy on the back of my neck, voice gone rough. “You always know how to drive me fucking wild, you know that?” His thumb traced along my jaw, both a caress and a command. “God, I missed this mouth. Missed having you on your knees for me.”
He watched me, chest heaving, letting me have control but making sure I knew exactly what I was doing to him. There was pride in the way he looked at me—pride and hunger and a possessiveness that made heat pool low in my gut.
