Page 122 of Jayson
But Jayson’s here. And his bruised hands still reach for mine in the middle of the night. So I hold them. Even when they ache. Even when they bleed. Because maybe that’s the price I pay to sleep safe.
Maybe safety isn’t soft. Maybe it’s blood and grit and a house full of people who’ve seen hell… and still choose to stay by your side.
47
KEIRA
Jayson’s breath brushes the back of my neck, slow and steady, his chest rising and falling against my spine like a tide I never want to end. His arm is slung around my waist, heavy and warm, anchoring me to this moment. To him.
His hand glides over the fabric of my shirt, slow and absent, fingers tracing the hem like he’s memorizing it. My skin prickles where he touches, a hum low and deep curling in my belly. I shift, just enough to feel him more fully behind me, his thigh curling over mine.
He exhales, then nudges me gently until I roll to face him. The dim light paints his features in soft gold—bruised temple, split lip healing, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. But he’s beautiful. Ruined and real and still here.
Still alive.
I reach up and brush my thumb across his mouth, feather-light.
He catches my wrist and kisses the inside, slow and deliberate, like it’s a vow.
“I thought I lost you,” I whisper. “There was so much noise. And I was just… waiting. I didn’t know if you’d come back.”
He slides a finger down my cheek slowly, thoughtfully. His voice is gravel now. “I will always come back to you.”
I let the words fall into my chest and root there.
My fingers tangle in his hair, tug him closer. Our mouths meet, tentative at first, like the storm might return if we move too fast. But it doesn’t. The world stays still.
And then we’re kissing deeper. We’re not frantic. We kiss as though we’re remembering. Every second. Every bruise. Every reason we’re still breathing.
His hand slips beneath my shirt, palm warm against my stomach, and I arch into him without shame. His touch is careful, reverent. Like he’s afraid I’ll shatter. But I’m not glass anymore.
I tug at his shirt, push it up his chest. His skin is hot beneath my palms, scarred and solid and mine.
When he slides his hand down, easing my underwear aside with aching slowness, I gasp into his mouth. He doesn’t rush. He explores. Learns me all over again like he’s been starving for the feel of me.
I guide him closer, wrapping my leg around his hip. He groans low in his throat when I shift my hips and pull him against me fully.
We move in sync, slow and deliberate. Not wild or rough, just raw.
Every thrust is a promise. Every moan, a confession neither of us needs to speak aloud.
He cups the back of my neck, his thumb sweeping along my jaw as he moves deeper, his mouth brushing mine like he needs to taste my breath to survive.
And I hold him like I’ll never let go. Because I won’t. We’renot just two survivors clinging to the wreckage. We’re the ones who walked out of the fire, bloody but breathing. And tonight, we make love like it means something. Likewemean something. Like we’re finally, finally home.
My cheek restsagainst his chest, damp with sweat, rising and falling with the kind of breath that only comes after surviving something. His heartbeat drums steady beneath my ear—a rhythm I cling to like a tether, proof that we made it. Again.
Jayson’s fingers thread through my hair, slow and aimless. Stroking the nape of my neck like time doesn’t exist outside this room. Like this moment is enough.
And maybe it is. For now.
The sheets are tangled around our legs. The window’s cracked just enough to let the breeze slip in, cool against my flushed skin. The scent of us—salt, heat, something unspoken and sacred—lingers thick in the air.
He brushes a kiss over my temple. A breath. A promise.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod against him. “Better than okay.”
