Chapter 12: The Spent Storm

Pieck’s breathing eventually evened out against the rough wool of Stefan’s coat, the frantic rhythm of her sobs quieting into something slower and more deliberate. The storm had passed, leaving her drained and strangely light, like a vessel emptied of a corrosive fluid she hadn’t realized she was carrying. She lay there with her face still pressed into his shoulder, the damp spot from her tears cooling against her cheek. Her arms remained locked around his neck, though the desperate strength had leached out of them, leaving behind a kind of boneless heaviness.

He continued to hold her without moving, one hand still making those slow circles on her back. The pressure was firm and constant, an anchor point in the aftermath. The quiet of the apartment felt different now—not charged with unsaid things, but simply still. It was their quiet again, scented with salt and wool and the faint lavender from the sachets in the bedroom. The distant toll of the harbor buoy marked time, each resonant note a reminder that the world outside was continuing its indifferent turn.

Stefan shifted after several long minutes, his movement subtle enough not to startle her. His hand on her back stilled, then slid up to cradle the back of her head where his fingers were still tangled in her hair. He gave a gentle, coaxing pressure.

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration in his chest against her ear. It wasn’t an order; it was an invitation out of the wreckage. “Let’s get you up.”

Pieck made a small, wordless sound of protest, a child’s reluctance to leave a warm nest. Her fingers tightened briefly in the fabric of his coat.

“I know,” he whispered. “Just to the bedroom. It’s five steps.”

He began the careful work of disentangling them. His hands were patient as he pried her arms from around his neck, his touch never hurried. He guided her hands down to rest in her own lap, then shifted his own weight, easing out from under her until he was sitting upright beside her on the couch cushion.

The loss of his solid warmth made the room feel cooler. Pieck blinked, her vision clearing as she looked at him properly for what felt like the first time since she’d walked through the door. His face was pale in the dim lamplight from the hallway, the skin around his eyes tight with a fatigue that mirrored her own. There was no pity in his expression, just a focused assessment. He was checking her vitals again, reading the aftermath in the puffiness of her eyes and the slackness of her mouth.

He stood up, his movements smooth despite the awkward angle of their collapse. He held out a hand to her.

She stared at his offered palm for a moment, her mind processing the simple gesture through a fog of exhaustion. Taking it meant moving, and moving meant acknowledging that this part—the raw, unraveled part—was over. The next part required putting herself back together, at least enough to walk down a hallway.

She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure.

He pulled her up to stand. Her legs felt unsteady, not weak exactly but disconnected, as if they weren’t entirely sure they belonged to her body anymore. She swayed slightly, and his other hand came up to steady her elbow.

“Good,” he said softly. That single word carried a world of approval. You’re standing. That’s enough.

He didn’t release her hand. Instead, he turned and began leading her, walking backwards slowly so he could keep his eyes on her as he guided them out of the living room and into the short hallway that led to their bedroom. His steps were measured, giving her time to find her footing on the polished wood floor.

The hallway was dark, lit only by the sliver of light spilling from their bedroom door which he’d left ajar earlier. Their shadows stretched long and thin on the wallpapered walls. Pieck focused on the feel of his hand in hers, on the solid reality of his shoulder ahead of her in the gloom. This was their procession away from the front lines, a retreat into deeper sanctuary.

He pushed the bedroom door fully open with his free hand.

The room was exactly as she remembered it—which was to say, exactly as Stefan maintained it. The bed was made with military precision, the dark green duvet smooth and inviting. The curtains were drawn against the Liberio night, but a streetlamp outside cast a soft, diffused glow through the fabric, painting the room in shades of grey and deep blue. Her side table held a carafe of water and a single glass. His held a stack of books and his reading glasses.

It was a room designed for peace. The sight of it now, after the emotional violence on the couch, made something fragile ache behind her ribs.

Stefan led her to the edge of the bed and stopped. He turned to face her, finally letting go of her hand. His own hands came up instead, settling on her shoulders with a gentle weight.

“Alright,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper here in this more intimate dark. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

His touch became methodical, a practiced routine stripped of any erotic charge and focused purely on care. He started with her blazer, his fingers finding the buttons with an efficiency that spoke of having done this many times before when she returned too tired to manage it herself. He slid it from her shoulders, letting it fall onto the padded bench at the foot of their bed without a second glance.

Next came the simple silk blouse beneath. His knuckles brushed against the skin of her collarbone as he worked each small button free. The touch was clinical, yet it carried a profound intimacy—the intimacy of being tended to when you have no resources left for tending yourself. She stood passive, letting him undress her like a doll, her arms hanging limp at her sides.

The blouse joined the blazer. The cool air of the room whispered over her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and across her chest covered only by her sensible lace bra. Stefan didn’t pause. He knelt before her, his hands going to the fastening of her skirt at her hip.

Pieck looked down at the crown of his head as he worked. His hair was neat, perfectly trimmed at the nape. In this position, with him kneeling at her feet while she stood in her underwear in their shadowed bedroom, the power dynamic of their relationship should have felt starkly visible. It didn’t. It felt like surrender on both sides—her surrendering to being cared for, him surrendering to the duty of providing that care without expectation.

The skirt pooled around her ankles. He helped her step out of it, then picked it up and folded it neatly over the bench with the other discarded clothes. Her stockings came next; he rolled them down her legs with a careful touch that avoided snagging the fine material, his hands warm against her calves.

When she stood before him in just her bra and underwear, he rose to his feet again. For a moment he simply looked at her, his gaze traveling over her form not with hunger but with a quiet inventory. He was looking for new tensions, for signs of weight loss or strain she might have brought home from Odiha alongside her diplomatic notes.

Satisfied with whatever he saw—or perhaps just deciding further inspection could wait—he turned and walked to her dresser. He opened the second drawer where she kept her sleepwear and selected a nightgown without hesitation: the softest one, a simple slip of ivory cotton with thin straps.

He brought it back to her.

“Arms up,” he murmured.

She obeyed, lifting her arms like a sleepy child. He gathered the nightgown and slipped it over her head, guiding it down over her body until it settled around her hips. The fabric was cool and clean-smelling, carrying the faint scent of the lavender sachets from the drawer. As he smoothed it over her shoulders, his thumbs brushed along the tight cords of muscle there, a silent promise that those knots would be addressed later.

He unhooked her bra next, his fingers deft at her back before sliding the straps down her arms and removing it completely from under the nightgown. The last piece of Odiha’s uniform was gone.

Finally, he guided her to sit on the edge of the mattress. He crouched again, this time to remove her practical low-heeled shoes that she’d worn from the airfield. He untied them with quick motions and set them aside under the bed.

“In you go,” he said, pulling back the duvet for her.

Pieck swung her legs up onto the mattress and slid beneath the covers. The sheets were cool and crisp against her skin, smelling faintly of sunshine and wind—he must have changed them this morning in anticipation of her return. The pillow yielded perfectly under her head when she lay back.

Stefan tucked the duvet around her shoulders with a few efficient tugs, ensuring she was properly covered. He leaned over her for a second longer than necessary, his hand coming up to brush a strand of damp hair away from her forehead.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

He straightened and moved away from the bed towards his own dresser on the opposite side of the room. Pieck watched him through half-lidded eyes as he opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of soft grey sleep pants and a plain white undershirt.

He undressed with his back to her, shedding his own travel-worn clothes—the charcoal coat first, then his collared shirt and trousers—with quick, economical movements born from years of uniformed routine. The lamplight from the hallway outlined the planes of his back and shoulders as he pulled on his sleep shirt.

When he turned back around, dressed for bed himself, he looked younger somehow. More vulnerable without the layers of wool and cotton that defined his daytime role as driver-aide-protector-husband. He was just Stefan again, tired and coming to bed.

He circled around to his side of the bed and lifted the duvet to slide in beside her. The mattress dipped with his weight, familiar and comforting.

He didn’t immediately reach for her or pull her close. He just lay on his side facing her, mirroring her position on the pillow so that their faces were only inches apart in the dimness. His breathing was steady and even now that his own tasks were complete.

Pieck kept looking at him in silence for several long moments. She brought a hand up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw before her thumb settled on his lower lip. The temptation was sudden and sharp. She bit down gently, just a soft pressure of teeth on the pad of her own thumb where it rested against his mouth, as if testing the idea.

Stefan’s hand came up then, his fingers brushing lightly against her temple before sliding back into her hair. He didn’t pull her closer; he simply rested his palm against the side of her head, his thumb stroking a slow arc over her cheekbone. The touch was an inquiry.

Pieck answered by shifting forward the last inch. Instead of resting her forehead against his, she went for his shoulder. She pressed her lips to the thin cotton first, a soft kiss over the muscle. Then she opened her mouth and bit down gently through the fabric. The pressure was controlled, not enough to hurt but firm enough to mark the moment. A low hum vibrated in Stefan’s chest, more acknowledgment than protest.

He tilted his head, and when she lifted her face, his lips found hers.

It wasn’t a kiss of passion or hunger yet. It was something softer and more essential at first, his mouth moving against hers with a gentle pressure that spoke of recognition. But then she bit his lower lip, a quick, sharp nip that made him inhale sharply through his nose.

Pieck sighed into the kiss, her eyes fluttering closed. Her own lips moved in a slow, answering rhythm. She tasted the faint salt remnant of her own tears and the familiar, clean taste of him underneath. The kiss deepened minutely, not with heat but with a kind of deliberate thoroughness, as if they were both using the contact to verify something fundamental: You are here. I am here. We are together.

He broke the kiss after a long moment, only to press another one to the corner of her mouth. Then another to her cheekbone, right where his thumb had been stroking. Pieck turned her head and caught the skin where his neck met his shoulder in her teeth. She didn't break the skin, but the pressure was unmistakable—a punctuation mark in their silent conversation.

Her hands, which had been lying inert between them, finally stirred. She lifted them and placed her palms flat against his chest, over the soft cotton of his undershirt. Through the fabric, she could feel the solid, steady beat of his heart. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A metronome set to a slower, saner tempo than the frantic racing of her own pulse during her collapse.

She kept her hands there, absorbing that rhythm. Her fingers curled slightly, gathering handfuls of the shirt material as if to anchor herself to the reality of his heartbeat.

Stefan’s arm slid under her neck, becoming a pillow for her head. His other hand continued its gentle exploration of her face—tracing the line of her eyebrow, smoothing over the tension that still lingered at her temple, finally coming to rest with his fingers splayed along her jaw. He held her face like something precious and fragile.

They stayed like that for what felt like a small eternity, foreheads touching, breathing each other’s air, connected at multiple points but utterly still. The silence was complete now, a living thing woven from shared warmth and the absence of need for speech. Every minute of the seventeen days apart, every strained negotiation in Odiha, every lonely hour clutching a hoodie that smelled less and less like home—it all seemed to dissolve in this simple, silent holding. This was the antidote. This was the peace treaty she actually fought for.

Pieck’s mind, usually a whirlwind of strategy and contingency planning, grew quiet. There was only the feel of his skin against hers, the sound of their synchronized breathing, and the undeniable proof beneath her palms that he was alive and here and hers. The raw, exposed nerve-endings from her breakdown began to soften, soothed by this sustained physical contact.

Eventually—she had no sense of how much time had passed—a different kind of awareness began to seep in. The salt from her dried tears felt tight and itchy on her skin. The grime of travel—the recycled airship air, the tarmac dust, the faint scent of foreign soap from Odiha’s guest quarters—clung to her like a second skin she suddenly wanted to shed. The emotional purge was complete; now her body demanded a physical one.

She opened her eyes. Stefan was already looking at her, his gaze calm and waiting.

“We should shower,” she whispered, her voice rough from disuse and crying.

He didn’t ask if she was sure or if she wanted help. He simply nodded, his forehead rubbing against hers in affirmation.

Moving together required a coordinated disentanglement that felt strangely ceremonial. He withdrew his arm from beneath her head; she lifted her hands from his chest. They sat up in unison, the duvet falling away to pool around their waists.

The room felt cooler away from their shared warmth. Pieck swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet touching the smooth wood floor. Stefan stood first and offered his hand again. She took it, letting him pull her up.

They walked to the bathroom still hand-in-hand, their steps slow and synchronized. Stefan flipped the light switch with his free hand, and the small room was flooded with bright, clinical light from the frosted glass fixtures above the mirror. Pieck blinked against the sudden glare.

He released her hand to step into the shower stall—a modest tiled cubicle with a chrome fixture. He turned the knobs with practiced ease, and water rushed through the pipes with a hollow groan before cascading from the showerhead. He held his hand under the spray, adjusting the temperature with small turns until steam began to curl into the air around him.

Satisfied, he turned back to her. His movements were unhurried as he reached for the hem of his own undershirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. He dropped it into the wicker laundry hamper by the door without looking away from her.

Pieck mirrored him, reaching for the straps of her nightgown. She slid them off her shoulders and let the soft cotton slide down her body to puddle at her feet. She stepped out of it and picked it up, placing it neatly on top of his shirt in the hamper. The air in the bathroom was warm now from the steam, damp against her bare skin.

They stood facing each other for a moment in the bright light, stripped of every layer—clothing, pretense, professional armor. There was no shyness in it; after everything they’d just weathered on the couch, modesty felt irrelevant. This was just another stage of shedding what didn’t belong inside their sanctuary.

Stefan moved first, stepping into the shower stall and holding out his hand to guide her in after him.

The water was perfect—hot enough to loosen muscles but not scalding. It hit Pieck’s shoulders first, a welcome pressure that made her sigh as she stepped fully under the spray beside him. Stefan closed the glass door behind them, sealing them into a private, steam-filled capsule where the sound of falling water created a white-noise barrier against the world.

For a minute they just stood there together under the downpour, letting the heat seep into their bones. Pieck tilted her head back, closing her eyes as water sluiced through her dark hair and over her face, washing away the last gritty traces of tears and travel fatigue.

Stefan reached past her for the bar of soap he kept on a ceramic dish—a plain, unscented oat-based one he knew didn’t irritate her skin. He wet it under the water until it lathered in his hands.

He turned her gently by the shoulders so her back was to him.

His hands came to rest on her shoulder blades first, his soap-slick palms warm against her skin even through the hot water. He began to wash her with a methodical care that felt almost reverent. His fingers worked in slow circles over the knotted muscles of her upper back, kneading as much as cleaning. He moved down her spine with deliberate strokes, washing away Odiha and anxiety and seventeen days of accumulated tension along with the physical grime.

Pieck leaned into his touch, her head bowed under the spray. The simple act of being washed by him carried a profound intimacy that went far beyond sex. This was maintenance. This was stewardship. This was him tending to the vessel that carried Ambassador Pieck Finger so that Pieck herself could exist within it.

He soaped her arms next, working from her shoulders down to her wrists with long, smooth passes that left trails of white suds which the water immediately chased away. His touch was thorough but never intrusive, covering every inch as if performing an important ritual.

When he was finished with her back and arms, he turned off the water briefly to rinse the soap from his own hands before nudging her gently to turn around and face him again.

Her turn.

She took the bar of soap from him, their fingers brushing in the transfer. She lathered it just as he had done, creating a rich foam between her palms.

She started with his chest, spreading suds over the planes of muscle there with firm strokes that mirrored his own methodical approach. Her hands slid over his shoulders and down his biceps, washing away the long day of driving and waiting and holding her together while she fell apart. She could feel the different texture of old scars beneath her fingertips—faint lines from a life lived before her, reminders that he too carried histories that didn’t belong to their shared present.

She moved behind him then without needing to be asked so she could wash his back properly in return which felt only fair somehow though fairness wasn’t really part of their equation anymore just mutual care as foundational principle.

His back was broader than hers made strong from years wearing heavy police gear now repurposed for carrying groceries and diplomatic files and sometimes just carrying her. She worked the soap into his skin with strong circular motions feeling knots under her thumbs that spoke of his own silent tension held while she was away probably while watching for threats with binoculars from their balcony certainly while receiving Jean’s report about her breakdown on foreign soil.

She washed all of it away or tried to at least sending suds and worry spiraling down the drain together leaving only clean skin underneath which maybe would have to be enough for now though honestly it already felt like more than enough because he was here solid under her hands real not memory not hoodie scent but living breathing man sharing this small steamy space with her where nothing existed except water and touch and this quiet mutual cleansing which somehow felt like a fresh start or at least a badly needed reset.

When she finished she turned him back around under spray rinsing soap from both their bodies until water ran clear leaving them standing together slick and warm and finally clean in every sense that mattered tonight anyway which admittedly wasn't every sense but enough for this moment definitely enough for right now while steam rose around them wrapping them in its own private cloud inside glass enclosure where world couldn't reach unless they allowed it which they wouldn't not tonight maybe not ever again if she could help it though she knew better than most how little control anyone actually had over such things but still she could try she would always try for this for him for them

Stefan reached past her to turn off the water. The sudden silence felt loud, filled only by the drip from the showerhead and the soft sound of their breathing in the steam-heavy air. He slid the glass door open, letting in a rush of cooler bathroom air that raised goosebumps on Pieck’s skin.

He stepped out first, grabbing two large, clean towels from the heated rail. He handed one to her before wrapping the other around his own waist.

They dried off in a companionable quiet, the rough cotton absorbing moisture from skin still pink from the heat. The ritual felt ordinary, domestic—the kind of thing married couples did every day without thinking. For them, after weeks apart and the emotional cataclysm of the evening, it felt newly precious. Each pass of the towel was a reclamation of normalcy.

Stefan hung his towel back on the rail and moved to the small linen closet, pulling out fresh loungewear for both of them. He handed Pieck a pair of soft grey drawstring pants and a long-sleeved cotton shirt that she recognized as one of his older ones, worn thin and comfortable. For himself, he took similar pants and a fresh undershirt.

They dressed without speaking, the rustle of fabric the only sound. The clothes were warm from the heated closet and carried the faint, clean scent of lavender detergent. Pieck rolled the sleeves of his shirt up her forearms, the cuffs loose around her wrists. Dressed like this, in his clothes, in their home, she finally felt the last remnants of Ambassador Finger dissolve completely. She was just Pieck now. Tired, clean, and home.

Stefan finished tying his own drawstring and ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He looked at her, his gaze checking in one final time.

“Hungry?” he asked, his voice quiet in the tiled room.

She realized she was. The emotional purge had emptied her completely, and now a basic, physical need was reasserting itself. She nodded.

He held out his hand again—that simple, grounding gesture—and she took it. He led her out of the bathroom, across the darkened bedroom, and down the hallway towards the kitchen.

The apartment was still and dark except for the slice of light spilling from the kitchen doorway. Stefan flicked on the overhead light as they entered, a single bulb in a frosted glass shade that cast a warm, yellow glow over the small space. It was his domain, meticulously organized: pots hanging from a rack, knives aligned on a magnetic strip, herbs drying in small bundles by the window overlooking the fire escape.

He guided her to one of the two chairs at their small wooden table tucked into a corner. “Sit,” he murmured, giving her shoulder a gentle press.

She sank into the chair, folding her legs beneath her as she watched him move to the icebox. He pulled out a carton of eggs and a small ceramic dish of butter. From a breadbox on the counter, he retrieved half a loaf of dark rye. His movements were economical and assured, each step part of a well-practiced routine.

He lit the gas burner on the stove with a soft whoosh, set a cast-iron skillet on the flame, and dropped a knob of butter into it. While it melted, he cracked four eggs into a bowl with one-handed precision, added a splash of milk from a bottle in the icebox, and whisked them briskly with a fork until they were frothy. The rhythmic clink-clink-clink of the fork against the ceramic bowl was a soothing sound.

The butter sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with a rich, comforting aroma. Stefan poured in the eggs, and they immediately began to set at the edges. He used a wooden spatula to push them gently, forming soft, creamy curds. In another minute, he slid two thick slices of rye bread into the oven’s warming compartment to toast.

Pieck watched him work. There was a profound peace in this—in being cared for in such a fundamental way. This wasn’t about grand romantic gestures; it was about scrambled eggs at midnight after a long journey home. It was about knowing someone would always make sure you ate, even when you were too exhausted to remember you needed to. Stefan’s quiet competence in this kitchen was the bedrock upon which their entire hidden life was built.

He plated the eggs just as they set into perfect, fluffy mounds—not dry, not runny. He pulled the toasted bread from the oven, buttered it generously, and cut each slice diagonally. He brought both plates to the table, setting one before her along with a fork. He fetched two glasses of water before taking his own seat across from her.

They ate in silence.

The eggs were perfect, seasoned with just a pinch of salt and pepper. The toast was crisp at the edges and chewy in the middle, the butter melted into its pores. Pieck ate slowly, savoring each bite, feeling the simple nourishment spread through her depleted system. The food grounded her in a way nothing else could have at that moment. It was a physical anchor: you are here, you are eating food he made for you in your kitchen, you are home.

Stefan ate with his usual quiet focus, his eyes occasionally lifting from his plate to glance at her. He was monitoring her intake, making sure she was actually eating and not just pushing food around. When she finished her eggs and started on the second half of her toast, some of the watchful tension eased from his shoulders.

They didn’t speak. There was no need to fill the quiet with chatter about her trip or his vigil or Jean’s report. All of that existed outside this kitchen bubble. Inside it, there was only the sound of forks on plates, the soft crunch of toast, and the comfortable silence of two people who no longer needed words to communicate their presence to each other.

When Pieck finished her last bite and set her fork down with a soft clink, Stefan immediately rose from his chair. He collected both their plates and carried them to the sink. He ran the tap to rinse them before placing them in the dish rack to dry later.

Pieck stayed seated, her body languid with food and warmth and exhaustion. She watched him move around their kitchen—rinsing their glasses, wiping down the counter with a damp cloth, turning off the stove light so only the overhead bulb remained on.

Her gaze followed him as he moved with that familiar, efficient grace. But something had shifted in her watching now. The profound gratitude and comfort she’d felt moments before began to transmute into something else entirely as she tracked the line of his shoulders under the thin cotton shirt, the way his sleep pants sat low on his hips.

Seventeen days.

The number echoed in her suddenly clear mind. Seventeen days without his touch beyond what memory could conjure. Seventeen days of maintaining absolute control over every gesture and word while inside she felt like a live wire stripped of its insulation. The shower had been about cleansing and care. The meal had been about grounding and sustenance.

But now… now that she was clean and fed and finally safe inside their sealed world… another hunger woke up. It was an old companion, one that had been humming beneath her diplomatic composure in Odiha every time she thought of him. It had been there as she cried into his hoodie. It had been subdued by her breakdown and then by his gentle ministrations.

Now it ignited fully—a raw, physical need that burned away the last vestiges of weariness.

Stefan finished at the sink and turned around, drying his hands on a towel hung by the window. He looked at her sitting at the table, and he must have seen the change in her posture or in her eyes because he went very still.

Pieck pushed back her chair slowly. The legs scraped softly against the wood floor.

She stood up.

She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him across their small kitchen, her gaze holding his with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. The comfortable quiet between them changed texture, becoming charged and anticipatory.

She walked toward him.

Stefan didn’t move from his spot by the sink. He watched her approach, his expression unreadable but his body language opening slightly—an unconscious yielding to whatever was coming.

When she reached him, she didn’t stop. She leaned in and bit the side of his neck, right above the collar of his shirt—a sharp, claiming sting that made his breath catch. Then she placed both hands flat against his chest and pushed.

It wasn’t a violent shove; it was a firm, unequivocal command for movement. He took a step back to keep his balance as she advanced again, pushing him once more until his back met the doorframe leading out of the kitchen into the hallway.

She kept pushing him backwards down the dim hallway towards their bedroom door which stood open still spilling weak light onto floorboards ahead while streetlamp glow filtered through curtains beyond bed visible now as dark shape in room beyond threshold which she steered them both towards without breaking stride or reducing pressure from palms planted firmly against his sternum guiding him like rudderless vessel being towed back into port where it belonged finally after too long away at sea during which storms had raged but now waters were calm enough for docking though maybe not gentle maybe never truly gentle between them when it came to this particular need which demanded collision not caress tonight anyway maybe always honestly given who they were together here behind locked doors where only truth mattered anymore not performance.

He didn’t resist. He let himself be propelled backwards through their home until they crossed the bedroom threshold. The lamplight cast everything in soft monochrome shadows across the rumpled duvet. He stumbled back another step until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, making him lose balance enough to sit down heavily, then fall backwards onto the bed with a slight bounce from the springs.

He looked up at her standing over him, silhouetted against the doorway light. Pieck climbed over him, settling her knees on the mattress to straddle his hips. She pinned him down, leaning forward to brace her hands on the pillow on either side of his head. Looking down into his shadowed face, she lowered her mouth—not to his lips first, but to the column of his throat. She bit down there, harder than before, feeling the vibration of a swallowed groan against her teeth. Her tongue soothed the spot immediately after.

Then she finally took his mouth, not for a soft healing kiss this time, but for something deeper and hungrier. She bit his lip again in the middle of it, a sharp punctuation to her desperation. The taste was scrambled eggs and mint toothpaste underlaid by something uniquely him. His hands came up to grip her hips, not to guide but just to hold on.