Page 17 of Anchor
Reid stayed near the entryway, watching her. Not invasive, just steady, like he was giving her the choice to close him out or let him in.
She turned toward the window, unable to meet his eyes yet. “Do you know what she said to me?” Her voice was low, almostconversational. “That I shouldn’t be who I am. That I don’t belong in rooms like that. That I’m… dangerous.”
Her breath caught, the word piercing like a hook in her chest.
“And she said it like it was fact. Like she wasn’t just talking about tonight, like she was talking about me, my whole life.”
Reid didn’t move right away. She could hear him breathe, then the faint rustle of his pants as he took a step toward her.
“And it hurts,” she said. “It shouldn’t anymore, but it does. I’ve done everything to make myself… more. And I’m still not enough for her.”
When she turned, her vision blurred. Hot tears smeared the dim bedroom light into gold halos.
He was there, close enough to reach her. His hand lifted without hesitation. His thumb brushed the first tear from her cheek. Slowly. Carefully. Like he was afraid she might break if he moved too fast.
“Claire.” Something in his voice reached through her defenses. “You’re not.”
In that moment, she believed him. She leaned into his touch, the warmth of his palm against her cheek anchoring her in ways she didn’t understand. Her hand came up to cover his, holding it there.
He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the slow, solid rise of his chest. She tilted her face up to him. And then he kissed her gently, measured in a way that gave her room to back away.
She didn’t. She pressed into it, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, slow but unyielding, like something inevitable taking shape. His arms came around her waist, drawing her in with a steadiness that didn’t ask, just held.
When they parted, breath brushing between them, he whispered, “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’m sure.”
He didn’t rush. He let her lead.
Her fingers curled around his as she backed farther into the bedroom, pulling him in after her. The lights stayed low, soft and golden across the bed.
They didn’t speak again as he helped her slip the jacket from her shoulders, the dress pooling to her feet moments later. She didn’t look away. She didn’t have to. Not tonight.
Claire wasn’t thinking about the gala anymore. Or the eyes in the ballroom. Or her mother’s voice, sharp as glass.
She wanted him, but she hesitated—she needed him to know. “Reid, I’ve never… not completely.” The words were tiny.
Something in his expression shifted, no judgment, no surprise, just a deepening of that steady focus he’d kept on her all night.
Her eyes didn’t break from his. “I know what this is. I know what I’m asking.”
His throat worked. “Claire, that’s a big decision.”
“I’ve already made it,” she said. “I didn’t know if I’d ever trust someone enough to say it out loud.” The room was quiet except for the soft tick of a wall clock.
He studied her. He saw her certainty, her fear, and her hope. “I don’t want you to regret this.”
“I won’t,” she whispered. “Not with you.”
“Okay,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing her cheek. “Then we go slowly. You set the pace.”
Her breath shuddered, but the knot in her chest eased. “Okay.”
At the edge of the bed, he let the straps of her bra slip down her arms, placing soft kisses to her shoulders. His gaze swept over her, warm and unhurried, before he stepped closer. One hand cupped her cheek. “I don’t have a condom. But I will still make you feel good.”
The words landed between them, blunt but not cold, just fact.
“I’m on the pill,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “For medical reasons. My doctor… she’s had me on it for years.”
