Page 198 of Operation: Defiance

Chapter Fifty

Raine

I read the same paragraph twice without absorbing a word. My thoughts keep drifting back to earlier tonight. To the way Asher and I sat angled toward one another, close enough for our knees to touch, and I told him what I need to do tomorrow.

He listened.

Not the way most people listen. He let me sort through the information out loud, circle back to the same point again and again until I could find my way through, and didn’t try to fix anything.

When he finally broke his silence, it wasn’t to correct me. Or rein me in. Or tell me it was all too much.

It was to ask the one question that made the next step obvious. He filled the gap I hadn’t been able to put my finger on. Because Asher understands me and what I need from him.

I’ve never met a man—or anyone—who would stand beside me, shoulder to shoulder, and just…be. I don’t have to soften my edges or simplify my logic for him. He trusts me so thoroughly, I don’t have to spend hours explaining why I’m right.

Asher sees me for who I am and doesn’t ask me to be anything or anyone else. He leaves the lamp on without being asked. Makes sure it’s never silent. Cooks meals that don’t trigger me and never complains that they’re boring.

My eyes stray from the page. Asher is on his side next to me, propped on one elbow, reading. His t-shirt has ridden up, exposing a line of skin at his hip. Ink peeks out from under his sleeve, and I follow the curve of the black line with my gaze. I want to touch him. Not for comfort or grounding or to prove that I’m here, but just for me.

An ache starts in my core. It’s deep, like an old wound. Not pain. Need.

I touch my lips, suddenly unable to remember the last time we kissed. Yesterday?

Setting my book on the nightstand, I turn to him. He clocks the way the mattress shifts, looks up immediately, but doesn’t move closer.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I want…to touch you.” Saying it out loud steadies me, and the ache turns into something deeper. The room feels alive in a way I’ve never experienced before.

Asher’s throat works around a swallow, and his eyes soften. “I’m right here.”

I slide my hand over his hip, warm through the thin pants he wears to bed. Muscles shift under my palm, and he lets out a long, slow breath.

My body responds with heat of its own, and when I slide my fingers under the hem of his t-shirt, that heat turns molten.

Smooth skin, a slight tremor as I trace the faint lines of his abs, and when I reach his chest, goosebumps meet my touch.

“Take your shirt off.”

Asher sits up slightly, reaches behind him, and, in one smooth motion, tugs the dark blue t-shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor. He settles back against the headboard, his gaze pinned to mine.

I scoot closer. With one hand, I trace the ink along his arm, following each line, while the other rests over his heart. The solid beat beneath my palm quickens, and my own pulse kicks up at the same time.

Under the blanket, I think…he’s aroused. It’s bulky in a way it wasn’t moments ago.

“I’m not good at this part,” I whisper.

“What part?”

“Wanting.” Heat pools deep in my core, urgent in a way I’ve never felt with anyone. I lean in and seal my mouth to his.

He lets me lead. Waits for my tongue to tease his lips. But as soon as I do, he opens. It’s soft at first. Gentle. But after a moment, he deepens the kiss. The room blurs around me, but not from fear. From so many things I’ve never let myself name. Want. Desire. The fragile but fierce certainty that I’m choosing this—choosing him—and he’s choosing me right back.

The heat between my thighs builds, unexpected, but mine.

When I pull back, he’s breathing harder, and now, there’s no mistaking the bulge under the blanket.

“Oh.” The single word—the only word I have for being wanted—escapes on a sigh. I ground myself even more in the beat of his heart, in how our breathing aligns. I can’t tear my gaze away from the blanket. “You’re…”