Page 80 of Knot Their Safe Haven
His hands didn’t stay still: one gripping at my waist, the other fisting into my hair, using it to angle my head for deeper access. Our bodies pressed together so close I could feel hisheartbeat pounding in his chest, matching the chaos in mine. He tasted like secrets and decisions, the kind that changed a person forever.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if Knox would have ever kissed me like this, if Adyani would have even tried, if Malcolm would have dared. I decided it didn’t matter. This was a new thing entirely. This was a thing that could not be compared.
"Alessandro," I managed, but the rest of his name got swallowed by his mouth reclaiming mine. He moved his thigh, and I swore, the friction sending a shockwave through every muscle I had. It was embarrassing how ready I was for him, how my body betrayed every defense I’d ever built.
He broke the kiss, just enough to let our noses brush, “You’re shaking," he murmured, and I realized I was.
"Not from fear," I said, and bit his lip again for punctuation.
He made the sound again—animal, desperate—and it thrilled me to know I could do that to him. He shifted, hands moving to fully cup my ass, hauling me up and onto him so my feet dangled above the polished floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist, letting him hold all of me, surrendering not out of weakness but because I knew I could take it, and more.
He pressed me tighter to the glass, and the cold shocked through my dress, a slice of clarity that made everything else burn hotter. I raked my fingers down his neck, leaving faint red scratches, and he hissed, then laughed, then bit the line of my jaw in retaliation. We were a tangle of teeth and hands and need.
I realized I was grinning like a lunatic. He looked at me, caught the expression, and grinned back, devil and angel all at once.
"You like being manhandled," he teased.
"I like being handled by you," I shot back.
He made a pleased sound, almost a purr, and kissed me again, softer for a moment, as if to remind me he could go gentle if I wanted. But when I opened to him, he took, and the taking was as sweet as anything I’d ever known.
I let myself melt into it, into him, feeling every sharp edge and hungry point between us. His scent was everywhere, inside me now, and I wondered in a mad flash if this was what soul-matching felt like—a slow chemical burn with no antidote.
He slowed the kiss, pulling back with reluctance, and brushed his lips over my cheek, my eyelids, the tip of my nose. For a second, the only sound was our breath and the distant tick of the antique clock on the mantle. I realized I was shaking for real now, adrenaline and want fighting for primacy.
He didn’t let me go.
"Still want to kill me?" he asked, voice a blend of hope and mockery.
"Give me five minutes," I said. "I might change my mind."
He laughed, full-bodied and rich, and it made me laugh too, because nothing about this made sense and that was the point. For once I didn’t have to make sense. I just had to be here, in this moment, wanted by a man who could kiss me into oblivion and make me feel invincible at the same time.
He set me down, gentle, like I was fragile glass. I steadied myself on his shoulders, refusing to let go entirely. He seemed just as unwilling: his hands trailed up and down my sides, as if he needed to remind himself I was real.
"I’ve wanted to do that for too long," he admitted. His honesty was disarming.
"I could tell," I said, and kissed his cheek, a small, almost innocent thing compared to what had come before. It made him blush, a faint color on olive skin, and I found myself wanting to see how else I could undo him.
He leaned his forehead to mine, breathless, vulnerable.
"Don’t run from me?"
It wasn’t a question, not really.
It was a plea disguised as a demand.
"Don’t give me a reason," I replied, and the smile that broke over his face was so genuine it scared me.
We stood there, pressed between the glass and each other, and I realized I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay suspended here, outside of time, the rest of the world nothing but a backdrop.
I let my hands trace the line of his jaw, memorized the way his eyes softened when he looked at me, the way his mouth quirked. The sound he makes—part growl, part plea—shoots straight to my core.
We're moving backward, still kissing, until my back hits glass.
The window is cold against silk, a sharp contrast to Alessandro's heat pressing against my front. His hands frame my face, holding me steady as he takes control of the kiss, turning my initiation into his claiming.
"Velvet," he breathes against my mouth.
