Page 62 of His Secret Merger

His mouth brushed the hollow of my throat, the faintest graze, and I swore the world narrowed to just that single point of contact. My fingers instinctively curled into his shoulders, anchoring myself as if I might float away without him.

“Jules,” Damian murmured, his voice rough and low, the sound of my name breaking something open inside me.

His hands slid slowly down my sides, not rushing, not demanding, just learning me, calming me. And then, without a word, he eased me back against the cushions, his mouth trailing over my collarbone, his fingers teasing the edge of my robe aside until I trembled under his hands.

A soft gasp slipped from my lips when he kissed the inside of my knee, the deliberate press of his mouth sending heat spiraling through me. His hands gripped the backs of my thighs, easing them apart, and the last of my defenses crumbled like paper.

For a moment, I felt suspended—caught between breath and sensation, thought and surrender. And then all I felt was him.

He took his time. Oh God, he took his time. Every slow, coaxing flick of his tongue, every low murmur against my skin unspooled the tight coil in my chest, melting the tension I’d carried for weeks. My hands tangled in his hair, hips arching helplessly toward him as I dissolved into the steady, relentless pleasure he drew from me.

When the release came, it ripped through me with a raw, unsteady sob—not just from the pleasure, but from the sheer, aching relief of beingseen,of being held together when I was sure I was coming apart.

Damian kissed his way back up my body, his mouth brushing over the curve of my waist, the rapid thrum of my pulse at the base of my throat. When his eyes met mine again, there was a softness there that undid me all over again—no cocky grin, no swagger, just Damian, stripped bare of everything but the need to be close.

Without a word, he slipped an arm beneath me, lifting me effortlessly from the couch. I buried my face in his neck, breathing him in, letting the solid strength of him anchor me as he carried me toward the bedroom.

At that moment, I realized nothing had been fixed. Nothing was certain. But for the first time, I wanted to believe we might figure it out anyway.

Together.

Damian laid me down on the bed as if I were something precious, his arms cradling me even when the mattress was already beneath my back. The bedroom was dim, the soft glow from the hallway casting faint light across the room, turning the shadows on his face into something almost achingly beautiful.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

He hovered above me, eyes searching mine, his breath uneven, his hands braced on either side of my shoulders as if he were still holding himself back, still giving me a chance to pull away. But I didn’t want space, not now. I reached up, tracing my fingers along his jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble, the tense line of his mouth.

“I’m still angry,” I whispered, the words trembling out of me before I could stop them. “I’m still scared.”

His mouth softened at the corners, his eyes dark and steady. “I know.” His voice was rough, like gravel and silk all at once. “Me too.”

My thumb brushed the edge of his lip, and then I pulled him down to me.

The first kiss was slow. Not hesitant—we were too far past that—but careful, as if we were relearning each other in the quiet. His mouth moved over mine with unhurried purpose, his hands framing my face, thumbs brushing the curve of my cheekbones like he needed to memorize every inch of me.

There was no rush now. No sharp edges, no frantic need to sate the ache between us. Just the slow, steady unraveling of tension as Damian touched me like he had all the time in the world.

My hands found their way beneath his shirt, fingertips tracing over the hard planes of his back, the knot of tension at his shoulders, the faint tremor in his arms when I whispered his name against his skin. He shuddered at the sound, a low groan escaping his throat, and I felt his restraint slip, just a little.

When he finally slipped inside me, it wasn’t desperate or frenzied. It was slow, almost reverent—a quiet claiming, a silent promise neither of us dared speak aloud yet. His forehead pressed to mine, his breath mingling with mine, his hands tangled with my own as we moved together in the dark.

I didn’t know where we’d go after this, didn’t know if the pieces we were clumsily trying to fit back together would hold. But in that moment, in my bedroom, with his body pressed to mine and his mouth brushing soft, shattering kisses against my skin—I let myself believe.

And when the world finally fell away, when the last trembling sigh escaped my lips and his arms closed tight around me, I thought—maybe this was the beginning. Maybe this was what it meant to stop running and finally stay.

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

I could hear the faint dripping from the rain outside my window, the occasional shift of his fingers as they drifted through my hair. It should have felt fragile, this silence—like something waiting to break—but instead it wrapped around us like a cocoon, soft and protective, something I hadn’t realized I craved until I had it.

His lips brushed the top of my head, barely there, and I felt the words he didn’t say catch in my throat.

I should tell him I’m sorry. I should tell him I’m grateful. I should tell him I’m terrified.

Instead, I let my fingers curl gently against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath my palm, and whispered, “Stay.”

Just that. Just one word.

His arm tightened around me, a slow, quiet squeeze that said everything neither of us was brave enough to put into sentences.

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