But I don't move. Can't move. Because despite everything, despite the fear and the uncertainty, I want this. Want him.
Ian's hand cups my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. "You're exhausted," he murmurs. "And scared. And you've been carrying this all alone for too long."
The words undo me. Break through the last of my defenses, crumbling the walls I've spent years building. Because he's right. I am exhausted. And scared. And so, so tired of being strong all the time.
A sob escapes before I can stop it, followed by another. Ian pulls me against him, his arms wrapping around me, holding me together as I fall apart.
I cry for everything—the fear, the loneliness, the constant struggle to keep my head above water. For the dreams that seem so far away and the reality that's always nipping at my heels.
Ian holds me through it all, his hand stroking my hair, his chest a solid wall against my cheek. He doesn't shush me or tell me it's okay or offer empty platitudes. He just... lets me cry. Lets me feel. Lets me be vulnerable in a way I haven't in years.
When the storm passes, I'm left hollowed out and raw, my face buried in his shirt, my body trembling with aftershocks. Ian's hand tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"You're not alone," he says, his voice fierce. "Not anymore."
And then he's kissing me, his lips pressing against mine with a tenderness that steals my breath. I kiss him back, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more of him, all of him.
The kiss deepens, turning hungry and desperate. Ian walks me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed, then lowers me onto it, following me down until his body covers mine.
We kiss for what feels like hours, our hands exploring, learning, discovering. There's no rush this time, no frantic need to prove something or escape something. Just the two of us, tangled together, giving and taking in equal measure.
Ian's hands slide under my shirt, his calloused fingers stroking my skin, igniting sparks in their wake. I arch into his touch, my body remembering his even as my mind tries to catch up.
He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting mine. "Tell me if you don’t want this," he murmurs, his thumb stroking my cheekbone.
I stare up at him, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. I should say it. Should tell him to stop, to leave, to let me go back to the way things were before he walked into my life and made me feel things I can't afford to feel.
But I can't form the words. Can't lie to him, not when he's looking at me like that, not when his touch is setting me on fire.
I reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. He helps me pull it over his head, revealing the expanse of his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the scars that tell stories I'm desperate to know.
My fingers trace the jagged line running from his collarbone to his ribs, feeling the raised tissue beneath my touch. "What happened?"
Ian's eyes darken slightly, but he doesn't pull away. "A job went bad. A long time ago."
I lean up, pressing my lips to the scar, kissing my way down his chest. His skin is hot against my mouth, tasting faintly of salt and something uniquely him. I explore him with my lips and hands, learning the topography of his body—every ridge, every valley, every place that makes his breath catch when I touch it.
His hands tangle in my hair as I move lower, guiding but not rushing me. The muscles of his stomach tense beneath my tongue as I trace the definition there, following the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband.
When I reach his jeans, I look up, meeting his gaze. The intensity in his eyes steals my breath—hunger and heat and something softer that makes my heart flutter wildly against my ribs. I hold his stare as I undo his belt, the metallic clink sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine.
I pop the button of his jeans, dragging the zipper down slowly. He lifts his hips, allowing me to tug the denim down his powerful thighs, taking his boxers with them. His arousal springs free, thick and hard against his stomach.
I wrap my fingers around him, feeling the velvet-soft skin over steel hardness. He's heavy in my hand, pulsing with each beat of his heart as I stroke him slowly from base to tip. A bead of moisture forms at the head, and I brush my thumb over it, spreading it down his length.
"Claire," he breathes, my name a reverent prayer on his lips.
I lower my head, maintaining eye contact as I take him into my mouth. His taste explodes on my tongue—salt and musk and man. His head falls back, a deep groan rumbling through his chest as I hollow my cheeks around him.
I lose myself in the rhythm, in the power of reducing this controlled, powerful man to desperate sounds and trembling muscles. His hands tighten in my hair, not guiding, just anchoring himself to me as I worship him with my tongue and lips.
"You're incredible," he manages between ragged breaths, his voice strained with pleasure.
I pull back, looking up at him through my lashes. "You like that?"
His eyes meet mine, dark with desire. "You know I do."
I smile and take him deeper this time, my hand working what my mouth can't reach. His hips lift slightly off the bed, seeking more of the wet heat of my mouth. I can feel him tensing, his thighs hardening beneath my free hand.
