Page 29 of King of Praise

Page List

Font Size:

As consciousness fades, I feel Micah shift beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. Even in sleep, he maintains that careful distance, ever mindful of boundaries I’m starting to wish didn’t exist.

Tomorrow will bring its own challenges. Tonight, I let myself drift away, safe in the knowledge that Micah is beside me, strong and steady as an anchor in stormy seas.

His presence wraps around me like a blanket, warm and secure. My body relaxes, tension melting away.

Whatever comes next, this moment feels perfect in its imperfection—two broken people finding wholeness in shared space and silent understanding.

Let tomorrow bring what it will. Tonight, I am exactly where I need to be.

Warmth.Safety. The steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath my ear.

These sensations filter through my consciousness as I drift between sleep and waking. My body feels heavy, deliciously relaxed in a way I haven’t experienced in years. Strong arms cradle me, holding me close without restraint. The scent of pine and leather surrounds me, familiar yet thrilling.

My eyes flutter open to early morning light filtering through the cabin’s windows. As awareness returns, my breath catches in my throat. I’m pressed against Micah’s side, my head resting on his broad chest, his arm curved around my shoulders. One of my hands lies splayed over his heart, rising and falling with each steady breath. Our legs have tangled beneath the quilt during the night, intimate in a way that should frighten me but somehow doesn’t.

Heat floods my cheeks as I realize how I’ve invaded his space. The pillow barrier we’d arranged lies discarded somewhere near our feet, useless against our unconscious need for comfort.

I remain perfectly still, afraid to shatter this peaceful moment. Afraid to examine too closely why I’m not more afraid. After years of living in constant fear of touch, I should be panicking at finding myself in another man’s arms. Instead, I feel safe. Cherished, even.

What is wrong with me?

Micah’s heartbeat remains steady beneath my palm. His breathing deep and even. Warmth radiates from his body, seeping into places in my soul that have been cold for so long. The solid strength of him surrounds me without threat or demand.

Unable to resist, I tilt my head, looking up at his face. My breath catches again. His eyes are open, dark and intense as they study me. How long has he been awake, watching me sleep? Heat spreads through my body at the thought.

Neither of us speaks. The moment hangs suspended between us like spun glass—beautiful and fragile. I’m hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect. The rough dusting of chest hair beneath my fingers. The gentle pressure of his arm around my shoulders. The way our legs have entangled, skin against skin where his pajama bottoms have ridden up.

The intimacy of it all should have me scrambling away in panic. But Micah’s touch holds no threat, no possessive demand. His embrace feels like a sanctuary rather than a cage.

His free hand moves with deliberate slowness, giving me plenty of time to pull away. I watch, transfixed, as his fingers brush a wayward curl from my face. The touch is impossibly gentle, almost reverent. Calluses on his fingertips catch against my skin, sending shivers down my spine.

“You’re beautiful in the morning light.” His voice is rough with sleep.

The praise washes over me like warm honey, settling deep in my bones. How long has it been since someone spoke to me withsuch simple appreciation? Lucas’s compliments always came with conditions, with expectations of what I owed in return. But Micah’s words ask nothing of me.

I find myself leaning into his touch, my body responding to gentleness I’d forgotten could exist. His thumb traces the curve of my cheek, and I nearly purr at the sensation. When was the last time someone touched me with such care?

Our faces draw closer, pulled by some invisible force. Micah’s eyes drop to my lips, darkening with unmistakable intention. My heart thunders against my ribs. He’s going to kiss me. The realization sends electricity crackling through my veins.

I want him to.

The thought should shock me. Aside from all the ways this desire complicates matters, he’s twenty-six years my senior. Yet in this moment, none of that matters. All I can focus on is the tenderness in his touch, the safety in his embrace, the way his presence makes me feel protected and desired.

His breath fans warm across my face. Just a few inches separate us now. I watch his internal struggle play across his features—want warring with conscience, desire with duty. My own breathing grows shallow with anticipation.

Kiss me.Please.

Then something shifts in his expression. Pain flashes through his eyes, followed by guilt. Before I can react, he’s pulling away, extracting himself from our embrace with careful movements that feel like rejection.

Cold rushes in to fill the spaces he occupied. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly bereft. Micah sits on the edge of the bed, his broad back rigid with tension. He doesn’t look at me as he speaks.

“I’m sorry.” His voice sounds strained. “I shouldn’t have … that was inappropriate. Please forgive me for overstepping.”

The formal words cut deeper than they should. Tears prick my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. Of course he pulled away. Of course this can’t happen. What was I thinking?

“It’s fine,” I manage, proud that my voice remains steady. “You didn’t overstep. I—”

But I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t admit out loud how much I wanted that kiss. How much I still want it. The truth feels too dangerous, too complicated.