Page 87 of Stolen Harmony
We stopped at Elias’ door, Max wagging his tail in wide, happy arcs, oblivious to the knot of tension between us. Elias crouched to unclip the leash, scratching Max behind the ears while the dog tried to lick his face. “Good boy,” Elias murmured, voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
I hung back, shoving my hands in my pockets, pretending to watch the exchange and not the lines of Elias’s shoulders beneath his jacket, not the shape of his mouth when he smiled down at his dog. There was a heaviness in the air—something unspoken threading between us, thicker than the autumn chill.
Elias straightened, caught my eye, and for a second neither of us moved. Then he unlocked his front door and nudged Max inside, the dog trotting in without a backward glance, already searching for treats or a warm patch of sun. Elias lingered on the threshold, like he was thinking about asking me in, but I just shook my head and jerked my chin toward the street. “C’mon,” I said, voice low. “Let’s go.”
He nodded, closing the door behind him. We started walking, side by side, silence pulsing between us.
Every few steps, our shoulders brushed, small points of contact that sent electricity through my nervous system despite the layers of jacket and shirt between us. The taste of him still lingered on my lips, sweet and dangerous, a reminder that everything had changed in the space of a single kiss.
The streetlights cast long shadows as we made our way through Harbor's End's empty streets. But the silence between Elias and me wasn't empty. It was full of possibility and fear in equal measure, heavy with all the things we hadn't said yet.
Outside my building, Elias hesitated, his gaze flicking from the narrow doorway to my face and back again. I could see the war playing out behind his eyes, desire fighting with caution, want battling with the knowledge that crossing this line would change everything for both of us.
Then his hand shot out, catching my arm with a grip that was warm and certain and completely at odds with the uncertainty I'd seen in his expression moments before.
Without a word, he pulled me in and kissed me again, harder this time, with more urgency and less careful consideration. This kiss tasted like decision, like commitment, like the first step off a cliff we'd both been standing on for weeks.
I exhaled against him, the sound low and needy, surprising myself with how much I wanted this, how much I needed the solid reality of his mouth on mine. My hands found the front of his jacket, fingers curling into the fabric as I tugged him toward the door.
“Inside,” I managed against his lips, the word more breath than sound.
He nodded, and I fumbled for my keys with hands that were suddenly unsteady. The lock seemed to take forever to turn, and by the time I got the door open, we were bothbreathing hard with anticipation and something that felt dangerously close to desperation.
The door slammed shut behind us, and we were on each other again, all hesitation dissolved in the privacy of my small apartment. Elias's back hit the wall next to the door with a soft thud, and I pressed against him, feeling the solid heat of his body through our clothes.
A trail of fabric began forming between the living room and the bedroom. My jacket hit the floor first, followed by his, then my shirt, discarded without thought or care for where it landed.
I guided him toward the bedroom with gentle pressure at the back of his neck, my fingers threading through his silver hair as I deepened the kiss. He made a sound low in his throat, part surprise and part surrender, that made heat pool in my belly.
When we reached the bed, I pulled back just enough to look at him, needing to see every raw detail. Elias’s hair was a mess from my hands, silver and wild, his lips swollen from kissing, parted as he caught his breath. There was a look in his eyes I’d never seen before—open, terrified, reckless, soft. Trust and hunger colliding. It almost knocked me back.
“You sure about this?” I had to ask, though my body was already vibrating with need, every inch of me aching for him.
“No,” he whispered, voice ragged. “But I’m sure I want you.” That honesty, that utter surrender, was hotter than anything else he could have said.
I let out a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a moan—and kissed him again, slow and deep, pouring every unsaid thing into the press of my mouth to his. My hands found his face, thumbs stroking the sharp cut of his jaw, and he leaned into the touch like he was starved for it.
Elias was hesitant at first. His hands skimmed over my sides, tentative, like he was learning the geography of a newcountry by touch alone. The backs of his knuckles grazed my ribs, then trailed up, slipping beneath my shirt and flattening over my stomach. I could feel how much his hands shook—could feel his breath catch as his palm slid over bare skin, fingertips trembling, reverent.
I caught his wrist and pressed it harder against me, guiding him to explore, to take. “You can touch me,” I said, voice low, the need in it barely disguised. “Anything you want.”
He nodded, and his hands grew a little bolder. He cupped my waist, fingers splaying out, digging in, tugging me closer. I wanted to crawl into him, disappear inside the warmth of his body, the safety of those trembling, desperate hands.
I wanted to savor this—wanted him desperate for it, undone before we ever got naked. I pushed him gently onto the bed and straddled his hips, keeping most of my weight off, just enough to pin him, to remind him that he could let go.
He lay there, hands fisted in the sheets, eyes wide, chest heaving. “Rowan?—”
“Shh.” I bent and kissed him, deep and dirty, licking into his mouth, tasting him. My tongue tangled with his, and he groaned, hips arching up against me, seeking friction. I rocked against him, feeling his cock thick and hard beneath me, separated only by denim. The heat of him burned through every layer, every breath.
My mouth found his jaw, then his throat, biting and sucking just hard enough to leave a mark, not caring for once if he wore it like a bruise tomorrow. He tilted his head back, exposing more of himself, and I licked along the tendon, feeling the way he trembled under me.
“You have no idea how fucking gorgeous you are,” I said against his skin, and he let out a shaky breath, half protest, half plea.
“You’re the one who—” he started, but I swallowed thewords with my mouth on his collarbone, biting, soothing with my tongue, working down. My hands went to the buttons of his shirt, popping them open one by one, dragging the fabric aside to expose pale skin, salt-and-pepper hair dusting his chest, scars and freckles and every imperfect inch of him.
I took my time. I kissed each patch of skin as I uncovered it, lips and teeth and tongue, worshipping every part of him. He let out a shaky moan when I licked a line down the center of his chest, then sucked one nipple between my lips, flicking it until it peaked under my tongue.
“Fuck,” he gasped, voice wrecked. His hands landed in my hair, gripping, tugging, not guiding so much as needing to hold onto something real. I grinned against his skin and switched to the other nipple, teasing it mercilessly, loving the way his body arched for me, hungry and lost.
