Page 28 of King of Praise

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Yet I can’t stop imagining how it would feel to be held by those strong arms, to be touched with the same gentleness he has shown in quiet moments.

The water shuts off, and I force myself to look away as Micah reaches for a towel from behind the curtain. I hear him toweling off, the rustle of clothing as he dresses. My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he must hear it.

When I dare to look up again, he’s wearing sleep pants but no shirt. Water droplets still cling to his chest and shoulders. His damp hair curls at his temples, and his beard is darker from the moisture.

I grab my nightclothes and practically flee into the toilet closet as I’ve come to call it. It’s the only separate room in this cabin.

I press my back against the closed door of the small room, my heart hammering against my ribs. The space is barely big enough to turn around in, but right now I’m grateful for its confines. The walls feel like they’re holding me together as I struggle to contain the riot of emotions coursing through my body.

My hands shake as I strip off my clothes, the fabric catching on overheated skin. The memory of Micah’s silhouette behind the curtain plays on repeat in my mind.

“Stop it,” I whisper harshly to myself, squeezing my eyes shut. But even in darkness, I can’t escape the image of him—or the ache between my thighs that pulses in response.

I fumble with my nightclothes, nearly losing my balance in the tight space as I step into sleep shorts. The soft cotton of my oversized T-shirt slides over my sensitized skin, and I have to bite back a whimper. Every nerve ending feels raw, hyper-aware.

Pressing my thighs together doesn’t help. It only intensifies the throbbing need that makes me want to slide my hand between them to ease the ache while imagining his hands on my body instead.

A knock on the door makes me jump.

“You okay in there, lovely?” Micah’s deep voice rumbles through the wood, concern evident in his tone.

I press a hand to my mouth, trying to steady my breathing. How long have I been in here? “Fine,” I manage to squeak out. “Just … just changing.”

My reflection in the small mirror shows flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. I look exactly like what I am—a woman consumed by inappropriate desire for a man she shouldn’t want.

When I finally step out dressed for bed, my skin tingles with awareness of his presence on the other side of the room. Whatever this is between us, whatever it’s becoming, feels as inevitable as gravity.

I shake my head, banishing the inappropriate thoughts. Micah has been nothing but respectful, maintaining careful boundaries despite our forced intimacy. I won’t disrespect that by indulging in forbidden fantasies.

He begins his usual routine of adding more wood to the fire and preparing to sleep in the leather armchair. For five nights now, I’ve watched him fold his large frame into that uncomfortable space, refusing the bed despite my protests. Tonight, seeing him wince as he stretches his obviously sore back, I can’t stay silent any longer.

“This is ridiculous.” I blurt out. “The bed is huge. We can share it without even touching.”

Micah goes still, something unreadable flashing in his dark eyes. “I’m fine in the chair.”

“You’re not fine. You’re exhausted and in pain. How can you protect me if you can barely move?” I press my advantage, emboldened by days of witnessing his unfailing respect for my boundaries. “I trust you, Micah.”

Those three words seem to hit him like a punch in the gut. He looks away, jaw clenching. “You shouldn’t.”

“But I do.” I move closer, close enough to see the conflict in his expression. “Please. Let me repay some of your kindness.”

For a long moment, he’s silent. Then, with visible reluctance, he nods. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” I try to keep my voice light as I grab an extra pillow to place between us—a physical barrier to reinforce the emotional ones.

When we finally lie down, the space between us feels both vast and insufficient. Powder crawls between us, reinforcing the barrier, yet I’m acutely aware of his presence—his warmth, his scent, the sound of his breathing.

“Goodnight,” I whisper into the darkness.

“Goodnight, lovely,” he responds.

I close my eyes, trying to slow my racing heart. Sleep seems impossible with him so close, yet exhaustion soon pulls me under.

The steady rhythm of his breathing lulls me closer to slumber. For the first time since Lucas’s death, I drift off without fear of nightmares. Whatever tomorrow brings, tonight I am protected, cherished, secure.

That thought follows me into dream-like thoughts where strong hands caress my skin and a deep voice murmurs praise against my neck. Dreams where age and family ties don’t matter, where I can acknowledge the growing attraction between us without guilt.

But dreams are dangerous things, full of forbidden wishes and impossible desires. Better to let them fade with the dawn, leaving only the comfort of knowing I’m not alone.