Page 48 of Fallen Heir

I turned my head to look at him—and he was already looking at me.

Not like a man playing pretend.

Not like a man being polite.

But like a man who wanted. Deeply. Quietly.

Dangerously.

“Jaxson,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Can I ask you something?”

He didn’t blink. “Anything.”

“If I told you I didn’t want to be alone tonight…” I trailed off, my breath catching. “Would that make me weak?”

His jaw flexed once. Then again.

“No.” His voice was low. A promise. A tether. “It makes you real.”

Everything in me shifted with those words. Because I didn’t want to pretend anymore.

I wanted to feel. To live. To stop thinking about my past and just be in the moment.

But I wasn’t sure I could do that with him. My teeth tugged on my bottom lip, nerves and desire warring in my chest. I didn’t know how to say the words racing through my mind, didn’t know how to admit that I wanted him—that I needed to be wanted back. If only for tonight.

My thighs clenched involuntarily, a throb pulsing at my core that I hadn’t felt in what felt like years. My breath hitched. I could already feel the heat between my legs soaking through the lace beneath my leggings, and it had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

It was him.

All of him.

His eyes tracked the motion of my lips, and when his hand lifted, I held my breath.

He gently hooked a finger just under my bottom lip, tugging it free from my bite, his thumb brushing the tender skin there.

My whole body leaned into his touch—unthinking, unguarded—my eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

Needing more.

Craving everything.

Before I could remind myself this was a bad idea—Before I could second guess what this meant—His lips were on mine.

Not too soft.

Not too hard.

Just enough to steal every breath from my lungs.

He tasted like danger and salvation, like every answer I didn’t know I needed. His hands gripped my waist, and I barely registered the motion before he stood up in one smooth movement, lifting me like I weighed nothing—like I was air in his arms.

I gasped against his mouth as he carried me down the hall, the dim light casting golden streaks across his inked arms, the black t-shirt pulled taut against his chest as he held me to him. I buried my face into his neck, inhaling the scent of sandalwood, heat, and something purely Jaxson.

He kicked the bedroom door open.

The room was cast in shadows, the soft glow from the hall behind us, the muted bathroom light pouring in from the left. Not enough to bare me completely. But enough to see.

Enough to see the scars.