Page 48 of Jayson (Gatti Enforcers #3)

KEIRA

J ayson’s breath brushes the back of my neck, slow and steady, his chest rising and falling against my spine like a tide I never want to end. His arm is slung around my waist, heavy and warm, anchoring me to this moment. To him.

His hand glides over the fabric of my shirt, slow and absent, fingers tracing the hem like he’s memorizing it. My skin prickles where he touches, a hum low and deep curling in my belly. I shift, just enough to feel him more fully behind me, his thigh curling over mine.

He exhales, then nudges me gently until I roll to face him. The dim light paints his features in soft gold—bruised temple, split lip healing, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. But he’s beautiful. Ruined and real and still here.

Still alive.

I reach up and brush my thumb across his mouth, feather-light.

He catches my wrist and kisses the inside, slow and deliberate, like it’s a vow .

“I thought I lost you,” I whisper. “There was so much noise. And I was just… waiting. I didn’t know if you’d come back.”

He slides a finger down my cheek slowly, thoughtfully. His voice is gravel now. “I will always come back to you.”

I let the words fall into my chest and root there.

My fingers tangle in his hair, tug him closer. Our mouths meet, tentative at first, like the storm might return if we move too fast. But it doesn’t. The world stays still.

And then we’re kissing deeper. We’re not frantic. We kiss as though we’re remembering. Every second. Every bruise. Every reason we’re still breathing.

His hand slips beneath my shirt, palm warm against my stomach, and I arch into him without shame. His touch is careful, reverent. Like he’s afraid I’ll shatter. But I’m not glass anymore.

I tug at his shirt, push it up his chest. His skin is hot beneath my palms, scarred and solid and mine.

When he slides his hand down, easing my underwear aside with aching slowness, I gasp into his mouth. He doesn’t rush. He explores. Learns me all over again like he’s been starving for the feel of me.

I guide him closer, wrapping my leg around his hip. He groans low in his throat when I shift my hips and pull him against me fully.

We move in sync, slow and deliberate. Not wild or rough, just raw.

Every thrust is a promise. Every moan, a confession neither of us needs to speak aloud.

He cups the back of my neck, his thumb sweeping along my jaw as he moves deeper, his mouth brushing mine like he needs to taste my breath to survive.

And I hold him like I’ll never let go. Because I won’t. We’re not just two survivors clinging to the wreckage. We’re the ones who walked out of the fire, bloody but breathing. And tonight, we make love like it means something. Like we mean something. Like we’re finally, finally home.

My cheek rests against his chest, damp with sweat, rising and falling with the kind of breath that only comes after surviving something. His heartbeat drums steady beneath my ear—a rhythm I cling to like a tether, proof that we made it. Again.

Jayson’s fingers thread through my hair, slow and aimless. Stroking the nape of my neck like time doesn’t exist outside this room. Like this moment is enough.

And maybe it is. For now.

The sheets are tangled around our legs. The window’s cracked just enough to let the breeze slip in, cool against my flushed skin. The scent of us—salt, heat, something unspoken and sacred—lingers thick in the air.

He brushes a kiss over my temple. A breath. A promise.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

I nod against him. “Better than okay.”

He hums low in his chest, but something about it feels heavier than comfort—like he’s afraid to believe it.

Then silence. A long stretch of it. Not uncomfortable. Just full of everything we’re not ready to say out loud.

His hand stills in my hair.

“I would’ve walked through fire to get back to you, Keira.”

He says it like it’s not up for debate. Like burning for me would be an honor, not a consequence.

And for the first time in a long time, I believe someone means it .

My fingers trail across a scar etched along his collarbone. One of many. All of them maps of a man who’s bled for more than he ever says.

“Is it over?” I ask softly.

His hand slides down my spine in response. “Not yet. But it will be soon.”

“Promise me you’ll stay safe. That you’ll come back.”

He tilts my chin up, makes me look at him. His eyes are raw, stripped down to nothing but truth. No armor. No lies.

“I will always fight for you,” he says. “No matter what.”

My throat tightens. I nod, blinking too fast, trying to hold it together. Again.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper.

His hand cradles my jaw. His lips brush the corner of my mouth.

“You don’t have to. We’ll learn together.”

His thumb finds my lower lip, dragging across it like he’s memorizing the shape of the word he’s about to say.

“You and me, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I breathe it into his skin.

And maybe it’s the quiet. The safety. The way he looks at me like I’m more than the worst things that happened to me—but something worth rebuilding.

But the ache starts again. Slow. Steady. A heat blooming low in my belly that he feels too, because his hand slips to my hip, and his mouth finds mine—gentle this time.

Like he’s falling in love with me in pieces.

And when I pull him back into my arms, there’s no rush. No sharp edges.

This time, it’s slower.

This time, it’s worship .

His mouth traces my jaw, my throat, every kiss drawn like a prayer. His touch is reverent. His hands don’t just roam—they remember. My skin, my scars, the shape of what I’ve become beneath him.

My hands slide up his back, over sinew and scars. I learn him like scripture. Each mark a psalm. Each breath, a gospel.

He presses his forehead to mine. Our breaths tangle like threads.

“I need to feel all of you,” he murmurs. “I need to feel your soul.”

So I give it to him.

When he moves inside me, it’s not just a body seeking pleasure—it’s a man trying to anchor himself to something real. To someone real. To me. And I take him. All of him. No masks. No armor. Just sweat and skin and the kind of connection that makes the rest of the world feel fake.

When I moan his name, it isn’t want. It’s surrender. It’s trust.

He buries his face in my neck and groans like I’ve broken something inside him that was meant to stay locked away. But it’s out now. And I’ll never let it go.

His rhythm stays slow, deliberate. His hands roam—over my thighs, my ribs, the curve of my back like he’s claiming the very idea of me.

Outside, the wind howls. The world is still spinning, still threatening to burn us down. But in here, with him inside me, around me, whispering truths he doesn’t know how to say?

I feel untouchable. I feel seen. I feel loved.

When we fall apart, we do it together—every wall crumbling, every scar exposed. And when the shaking stops, we’re not ruined. We’re free.

He stays wrapped around me afterward. Breath warm on my neck. Heartbeat strong and steady against my spine .

“Sleep now, Little Chaos,” he whispers, lips brushing my shoulder.

I smile, barely. “Little Chaos,” I echo, already sinking.

And just before the dark takes me, I think: even if everything else crumbles—even if we don’t survive what’s coming—tonight, I’m his. And maybe—just maybe—he’s mine too.