Page 46 of King of Praise
The warmthof soapy dishwater seeps into my hands as I methodically scrub each plate, letting the familiar motions ground me in the present moment. It’s become our nightly ritual—Naomi cooking, me cleaning up after. It should feel strange, but somehow it’s become comforting. Normal. As if we could pretend this cabin is just a home rather than a hideout, that we’re just a couple rather than whatever complicated thing we are.
I pass a freshly rinsed plate to Naomi. Our fingers brush during the exchange, sending electric awareness skittering across my skin. I try to ignore it, the way I’ve ignored the growing tension between us for weeks, but it’s getting harder each day.
She stands so close I can smell her shampoo—something floral and light that makes me think of spring despite the winter chill outside. When she reaches up to put away a glass, her movements draw my attention to the graceful curve of her neck. Her red curls bounce and dangle in the messy bun, brushing against the pale skin of her neck.
Focus on the dishes.
But my hands move on autopilot while my mind catalogs every small detail—the soft sound of her breathing, the warmth radiating from her body in the close confines of the kitchen, the way she hums quietly to herself as she works.
When she turns to take another dish, we end up standing face to face, barely inches apart. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, charged with an energy I’ve been fighting since that morning I woke with her in my arms. Her green eyes meet mine, questioning but steady. No fear, despite our proximity. Despite who I am. What I’ve done.
Something in her expression undoes me—maybe the trust I see there, or the quiet strength that’s carried her through hell. Without conscious thought, my hand rises to cup her cheek. Mythumb traces the scatter of freckles across her skin, like stars I want to map with my fingers, my lips.
This is a terrible idea, a voice in my head warns.
But I’m already leaning down, drawn by a gravity I can’t resist any longer. The first brush of our lips is gentle, hesitant—more question than demand. I expect her to pull away, to remember all the reasons this can’t happen.
Instead, she makes a small sound of need and leans into me. My cock instantly turns rock hard.
My control—maintained so carefully these past weeks—shatters. My arms circle her waist, pulling her closer as the kiss deepens. She tastes like the apple cobbler we had for dessert, sweet and warm and perfect. Her hands slide up my chest and around my neck to tangle in my hair. I growl at the sensation.
Time loses meaning as we explore this new territory between us. Each brush of lips, each shared breath feels profound—weighted with the journey that brought us here and the barriers we’ve crossed to reach this moment.
When we finally separate, both breathing heavily, I rest my forehead against hers, eyes closed as I try to regain some semblance of control.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” The words escape before I can stop them, raw with honesty I usually keep buried.
Her hands frame my face, thumbs stroking through my beard. “You won’t.”
“You don’t understand.” I pull back enough to meet her gaze, needing her to grasp the danger. “I’m not gentle. When I want something—someone—there’s an intensity that comes out. After everything you’ve been through with Lucas—”
“Stop.” Her voice carries quiet authority that surprises us both. “You’re nothing like Lucas. He hurt me because he enjoyed causing pain, because he needed control to feel powerful. That’s not who you are.”
Her insight leaves me breathless. How can she see me so clearly when I’ve spent decades keeping people at arm’s length? “I’m not a good man, Naomi.”
“You’re not a nice man to those who don’t deserve your kindness,” she corrects, “but you are good. I see the difference, even if you don’t.”
The distinction she draws sends an ache through my body I can’t describe. My hands tighten on her waist, probably hard enough to leave marks, but she doesn’t flinch. If anything, she presses closer.
“I trust you,” she whispers against my lips. “In ways I’ve never trusted anyone before. You make me feel safe, even when you’re being,” she pauses, searching for words, “dominant.”
The last word sends heat coursing through me. “You like that.” It’s not a question.
Color rises in her cheeks, but she holds my gaze. “Yes. The way you take charge, how protective you are, the way you take care of me. Maybe it should frighten me after Lucas, but it doesn’t. Because you always give me a choice. Always respect my boundaries.”
Her understanding of the distinction between dominance and abuse, between control freely given and control taken by force, humbles me. She sees me—truly sees me—with all my complexities and contradictions.
I stand at a crossroads, knowing this decision will change everything. Moving forward means acknowledging feelings I’ve denied for weeks, maybe years. It means accepting the vulnerability I’ve avoided since Sandra, since watching my son become a stranger, since building walls so high even I forgot what lay behind them. It means risking not just my heart but Naomi’s safety—emotion creates blind spots, compromises judgment.
But standing still, denying what grows between us, seems impossible now. Like trying to hold back the tide with bare hands. The decision crystallizes not through logic but instinct—the same instinct that has kept me alive through decades in a dangerous world. For once, protection might mean embracing rather than avoiding. Connection rather than isolation.
I cradle her face between my palms, studying the trust in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips. “Are you sure about this? About me?”
Her answer comes not in words but action as she rises on tiptoes to press her lips to mine. This kiss carries promise rather than desperation. The beginning of something neither of us planned but both, perhaps, secretly desired. Whatever consequences await this choice, we’ll face them together, bound by understanding that eclipses conventional relationships and defies the complicated circumstances of our union.
I lift her onto the counter, stepping between her thighs as the kiss deepens. Her hands explore my chest through my shirt while mine trail down her sides, mapping the curves of her body. When she gasps against my mouth, the sound ignites something primal in me.
“Tell me to stop,” I growl against her throat, even as I press kisses along the delicate skin there. “If this is too much, too fast—”
