Page 41 of Savage Reins
"No." I pull him closer, until I can smell the smoke still clinging to his hair. "You ran into a burning building for me. You could've died."
"The thought of losing you—" He stops, shakes his head. "It made me crazy. When I heard your father screaming for you, when I realized you were trapped in there…"
I see it then, the fear he's been hiding beneath the rage. The same fear that's been eating at me for weeks—that this thingbetween us will get us both killed, but that losing it might be worse than death.
"I've fallen for you too," I whisper.
The admission simmers between us for a heartbeat. Then his hand is in my hair, careful of my injuries, and he's leaning down to kiss me.
His mouth is gentle at first, testing, asking permission I've already given. But when I kiss him back, when I pull him closer despite the pain in my hands, something desperate breaks free between us.
"Mira," he breathes against my lips.
"I know." I understand what he's not saying—we're both in too deep, that tomorrow might bring death to our doorstep. But tonight, in this moment, none of that matters.
I'm scared, overwhelmed by how much I want him, by how completely he's infiltrated every corner of my life. But I also know, with absolute certainty, that he will fight for me. That whatever comes next, I won't face it alone.
His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I can feel the tremor in his touch. "Are you sure about this?"
Instead of answering with words, I kiss him again, deeper this time. My bandaged hands find the hem of his shirt, and I feel him tense at the contact.
"Your hands?—"
"Will heal." I look into his eyes, dark and intense in the lamplight. "I need you, Renat. All of you."
Something shifts in his expression then, the last of his restraint crumbling. He kisses me like a man who's been drowning, like I'm the first breath of air he's tasted in years.
When he pulls back, his breathing is uneven. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't." I trust him completely, this man who could destroy me with his bare hands but touches me like I'm made of glass. "I trust you."
The words seem to break something open in him. He kisses me again, hungrier now, and I feel the careful control he's maintained for weeks finally slip away.
His mouth trails along my jaw, then lower, his breath brushing the base of my throat. I tilt my head, giving him access, even as my heart pounds so hard I feel it in my bandages. He kisses down my neck, one hand braced beside me, the other finding my waist with reverent pressure.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, but I don’t answer. I shift beneath him, bringing my thighs apart just enough to guide him closer. The mattress dips under his weight as he settles between my legs, his body heat sinking into mine.
He lifts the hem of my tank top slowly, waiting for me to stop him but I don’t. I arch my back and help him pull it over my head, baring skin that still smells faintly of smoke and antiseptic. His gaze rakes over me. Hunger, awe, restraint—all of it etched into what I can make out of his face.
His hands don’t shake, but I feel the tension in them as he cups my ribs. He leans down and kisses my chest, his mouth tender as it finds the top curve of my breast. My breath stutters.
I don’t feel burned anymore. I feel wanted. Alive.
Renat’s breath warms my skin as he moves lower, his mouth closing around my nipple. The heat of it sends a sharp, immediate jolt through me. I gasp and clutch at his shoulders, my fingers useless in their wrappings, but he still feels the pressure. He groans softly and shifts closer.
The denim of his jeans drags against my inner thighs. I feel the hard line of him through the fabric, the weight of his body held just enough off mine to keep from hurting me. He kisses across my chest, his stubble scraping lightly, then lifts his head.
He pushes his hand beneath the waistband of my shorts, his touch rougher now, his breath harsher against my skin. I lift my hips without needing to be told. He grips the fabric and yanks both my shorts and panties down, dragging them over my legs and off the edge of the bed. The air bites against the skin he’s uncovered, and I feel the shift in him—not in what he sees, but what he knows is finally his.
His hand slides between my thighs and finds the heat there, fingers slipping through the wetness he’s been teasing to the surface. He groans low, close to my ear, his voice nothing more than gravel and hunger.
“You’re dripping for me,” he says. “You’ve been holding this in all fucking night.”
His fingers work slowly at first, pushing inside me until my back arches. I can’t see his face in the dark, but I feel the tension in his body, the way his other arm braces against the mattress to keep from crushing me. I curl my bandaged hands into the sheet, moaning as he fucks me with the same restraint he’s about to lose.
“I want you,” I whisper, breathless. “I want all of it.”
He pulls his fingers free and shifts back. The mattress dips with his weight, then lifts as he stands. I hear the drag of fabric, the belt unbuckling, the quiet rustle of him getting undressed. I can feel the heat coming off him, the silence turning heavier with everything that’s about to happen.
