Page 64 of Burned in Stone
I keep my eyes on his face as I move lower. “Is this OK?”
“Mercy. Fuck. I?—”
“It’s OK if you want to say no. I just thought you might want to think of me instead of…”
“I do.” His hands fist in the sheet, then in my hair. “It’s all I want. Only thing I want.”
So I show him what it means to come back to yourself, to be reshaped by a different kind of hunger. I take my time, kissing my way farther down his tattooed chest and letting my nails drag lightly through the fine trail of hair to his navel. He’s shaking and silent, his whole body strung so tight I’m afraid he’ll break if I move too fast—and also if I go too slow. When I finally slide the sheets away, exposing his cock, he jolts like my touch is the first thing that’s ever felt good.
I don’t tease. I don’t take the scenic route. I just wrap my hand around him and lean in, licking up the length and then taking him as deep into my mouth as I can. Cash makes a sound I’ve never heard before, a shattered, pitchless whine that’s pure animal. His hands scrabble at my shoulders, gripping too hard, like he doesn’t trust himself to let go. I don’t care if he bruises me. I want him to. I want to be proof, etched into the cells of his body, that nothing from his past can touch him when he’s with me.
“Fuck, angel,” he rasps, voice gone so low it’s almost infrasound. “You don’t—oh, fuck, that’s amazing?—”
I hum around him, slow and steady, and he keens like maybe he’s dying. I want to be as good at this as he is at wrecking me. I want to erase every fucked-up memory with the heat of my mouth alone.
He comes undone fast. Faster than I expected. Maybe it’s the dream, maybe it’s the exhaustion, but he barely lasts a minute before his body locks up, hands digging into the back of my skull as he gasps a single, broken, “Jesus,” and spills in hot, salt-slick pulses over my tongue.
I swallow, not taking my eyes off his face. He looks like he’s in pain, or maybe just shock. I don’t know how else to help him, soI crawl back up beside him and tuck myself into his side, fingers resting lightly over his racing heart.
For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. Just lies there, breathing, processing.
I stay quiet, pressed against him, letting my hand rise and fall with the rhythm of his chest. I don’t force conversation. I don’t ask questions.
Eventually, he moves. Not to leave, but to pull me closer, tangle our legs together and bury his face in my hair. He’s still trembling. It’s not the good kind, but it’s honest, and I’ll take honesty every fucking time.
“I love you,” he whispers, lips against my scalp.
I freeze, the words landing in my chest like a grenade with the pin already pulled. My breath catches, heart stuttering against my ribs. He just said—he actually just said?—
“Cash.” My voice comes out strangled, barely above a whisper.
He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t try to take it back. His arms just tighten around me, like he’s bracing for me to bolt. “I know it’s too soon. I know we’ve only been official for a couple of days. But fuck, Mercy, I’ve been in love with you since the first time you told me to fuck off when I tried to flirt with you at Devil’s.”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, half-hysteria, half-something that feels dangerously close to joy. “That was literally the first thing I ever said directly to you.”
“I know.” His voice is rough against my hair. “You were so busy, bar was packed, and you’d been serving me and my brothers all night. I decided to shoot my shot, and you looked at me like Iwas just another asshole trying to get in your pants. You shut me down without even blinking. I was gone right then.”
I shift so I can see his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache. This man, who just had a nightmare so bad it left him shaking, who let me see him at his most broken—is choosing this moment to tell me he loves me. Not in some perfect romantic setting, but here, in the aftermath of trauma, when he’s raw and exposed and completely defenseless.
That’s how I know it’s real. That’s how I know he means it. Because he’s not waiting until he has his armor back on. He’s not waiting until he can be strong and impressive and put-together. He’s saying it now, when I’ve seen everything—the fear, the shame, the pain he usually hides from the world.
He trusts me with all of it. And that’s everything.
“I love you too,” I whisper, because what else can I say? It’s the truth. Maybe it’s been the truth for longer than I want to admit. Maybe since that first night he followed me home to make sure I got there safe. Maybe since he started showing up at Devil’s just to check on me. Maybe since he threw his helmet in a parking lot because Gabriel called me a whore.
His whole body goes still. “You mean that?”
“Yeah.” I cup his face, feeling the rough stubble under my palms. “I mean it. I’m terrified of it, but I mean it.”
“Why terrified?”
“Because the last time I loved someone, he used it to control me. To hurt me.” I swallow hard. “And I know you’re not him, I know that, but my brain keeps waiting for the catch.”
“Angel—”
“Let me finish.” I press my thumb against his lips. “I’m scared. But I’m also done running from things that scare me. Done letting Gabriel win even when he’s not in the room. So yeah, Cash. I love you. Even when I’m shaking. Even when I feel broken and don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
His kiss is gentle this time, soft and tender. I cling to him, drowning in the warmth of our shared breath and the reality of what we’ve just admitted. My heart races as the uncertainty pools in my stomach, warping the joy of his confession with the fear that shadows everything I do.
