Page 82 of Finding Gideon
Malcolm braced himself against the tile, his other hand cradling my jaw with a tenderness that made my chest ache. His eyes were hazy, awed. “Holy hell,” he whispered. “You just…” He didn’t finish, just looked at me like he’d never seen anything more precious.
I stood carefully. He kissed me, deep and grateful.
Then he dropped to his knees.
My breath caught. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” he said. “I’ve never… I’ve never done it either. But I want to because it’s you.”
That heat in my chest flared, full and achy.
Malcolm’s mouth was gentle at first. Exploratory. Then bolder. I gripped the back of his head without meaning to, hips twitching toward him. My knees nearly buckled. My whole body became sensation—wet tile, trembling limbs, steam, his mouth, his mouth, good lord, his mouth?—
“Malcolm,” I gasped. “Oh—God, that—don’t stop?—”
I didn’t know it could feel like that. Nothing in my life had prepared me for the sheer undoing of it. I came with his name on my lips, hands in his hair, body curling toward his heat.
When he stood again, we held each other under the spray. He kissed my neck, my shoulder, my jaw, my lips. He sucked my tongue. It was pure joy to taste the essence of both of us. I reveled in it.
I didn’t saythank you. It wasn’t that kind of moment. It was something quieter, bigger. A vow passed between mouths and skin. It was safety and trust. It was vulnerability.
We toweled off in silence, touching more than we spoke. But everything I needed to say lingered between us.
I woke to the soft rustle of Malcolm pulling on his jeans.
Sunlight slanted through the blinds, painting him in honey and gold, and for a moment I lay there, watching the flex of his arms.
He lifted his head, caught me looking and smiled, the quiet curve of his lips warming me all the way through.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
My voice came out low, rough with sleep and something else. Contentment, maybe. Or wonder. Or the strange, groundingache of wanting someone to stay longer even when you know they can’t.
He leaned down and kissed me. Just a brush at first, then firmer, like he was sealing something invisible in place. Like he was saying,I see you. I trust you.
“I’ve got to head out soon,” he murmured, thumb grazing the corner of my mouth. “Conference starts at ten. Takes me about two hours to get to Santa Rosa.”
I pushed up on one elbow. “I put your deodorant and cologne in the side pocket of your bag. You think we packed everything?”
His mouth curved, slow. “Yes, baby. We did.”
His hand lingered on my shoulder. “You okay being here on your own for four days?”
The words hit deeper than I expected. I swallowed. “You trust me with your clinic.”
“I do.” His gaze softened, no hesitation.
My laugh came out shaky, caught somewhere in my chest. He didn’t hand out words like that easily. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at me said more than a hundred speeches. Said:I know you’ve got this. I know you’ve got me.
Down in the kitchen, while he filled a travel mug with coffee, I fiddled with the hem of my T-shirt and watched him move around the space.
“Well you already know emails are slow on weekends,” he said, glancing at me. “But if anything urgent comes up, text. Otherwise, no pressure.”
I nodded. “Got it.”
He stepped close, crowding into my space in that way that never felt like too much, and kissed me again. This time slower, deeper. My toes curled against the cool tile.
