Page 103 of Tiny's Testament
The planning continues around us. Dagger offers to handle the priest if necessary, Bones volunteers to stand watch outside the chapel, Blayze assigns cars, and Trigger complains about the color palette. It’s all so normal, so club, so alive that it almost hurts.
Tiny leans in close enough that his lips brush my ear. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs. “Before someone gives you a task.”
I laugh softly. “Too late.”
His hand slides to my lower back, firm and protective, guiding me away anyway. He nods once at Capone as we pass, silent permission granted in the same motion.
The hallway is quiet. Our room feels warm and familiar, and mine in a way I never expected any place to feel again. Tiny closes the door behind us, and the moment the latch clicks, the air shifts.
Tiny turns to me, and something in his face cracks open. Not sadness, but need.
I swallow, pulse thudding. “Tiny…”
He steps closer, one big hand sliding up my arm until his palm cups my cheek. His thumb brushes along my jaw the way I did earlier, and his eyes hold mine as if he’s making sure I’m here, like he’s terrified I’ll vanish.
“I stood in that room and told the truth because you made me believe I could survive it,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
My throat tightens. “You don’t have to do anything with it.”
“I do,” he insists softly. “Because I want you. Not just in my bed. In my life. In everything.”
The words hit me like heat. It’s not a proposal. Not a dramatic declaration. It’s Tiny, stepping fully into love as if it’s a battlefield he’s finally chosen to fight for.
I reach up, gripping his cut lightly. “Then take me,” I whisper.
His eyes darken, and the restraint in him finally gives into devotion, into something he’s been holding back for so long it feels like it lives in the seams of his bones. Tiny kisses me like he’s starving, like the confession cracked him open and now he’s desperate to fill the hollow places with something real. His mouth is hot and steady, not rushed, not careless, and the way he holds my face makes it feel like he’s afraid I’ll break if he blinks.
I kiss him back with everything I have.
His hands slide down my sides as if he’s relearning my shape, palms spanning my ribs, my waist, my hips with a slow patience that turns my breath shaky. He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, carrying me toward the bed with my arms around his neck, my heartbeat stuttering against his lips. The room is dim, the air warm, and every second feels suspended, like the world outside the door has stopped demanding things from us.
He lays me down gently, then hovers for a beat, braced above me with the kind of careful control that makes my entire body ache. His gaze traces my face, my mouth, my throat, the curve of my shoulder, and the look in his eyes isn’t hunger alone.
“You sure?” he asks, voice rough, reverent, as if yes means something sacred.
I nod, fingers curling around the front of his cut, pulling him closer. “I’m sure,” I whisper. “I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
Tiny’s mouth finds mine again, slower this time, deeper, the kiss turning into a promise he keeps with his whole body. His hands move with intention. One sliding beneath my hoodie to skim warm skin, the other cradling the back of my head as if my comfort matters more than his urgency. He kisses his way down my jaw, my throat, pausing at the pulse there like he’s memorizing the proof that I’m alive.
My breath breaks when his lips brush over skin that used to flinch, and instead of recoil, I melt, because he touches me like I’m not fragile. Like I’m chosen. Like I’m wanted without apology.
Tiny removes our clothes and settles his weight over me slowly, his heat surrounding mine, his thighs sliding between my legs, grounding me, anchoring me. The pressure is steady, the contact intimate in a way that makes my eyes sting.
Tiny doesn’t want less. He wants all of me.
He moves as if he’s been waiting months to worship what survived, like every kiss is him telling my body it’s safe now, like every breath against my skin. His forehead presses to mine as the bed creaks softly beneath us, his hands laced with mine, his mouth catching every sound I make.
I let myself be held open by pleasure rather than by fear. I drift into warmth rather than run toward numbness. I let the sensations build until I’m shaking, my nails digging into his shoulders.
“Syvannah,” he whispers my name like it’s the only prayer he knows.
I cling to Tiny like he’s real, like this is real, and when the wave finally rolls through me, I don’t feel lost in it.
I feel found.
Tiny follows with a shuddering exhale, his face pressed into my neck as if he can’t bear the distance between us. He stays wrapped around me afterward, breathing hard.
