Will therapy help me shake it?

Will I find courage if I talk it through?

“Let me think about it,” I say.

He nods, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles. “It’s been a long day. Are you ready to go to bed?”

I hesitate, then nod again. He doesn’t say anything else. Instead, his fingers curl around mine and pulls me toward the bedroom. As we walk, so many questions swirl in my head.

Is this temporary? How long until he decides I’m not convenient? That I’m no longer worth the effort? Nysa mentioned he’s never wanted to settle, and I . . . I’m more trouble than something someone wants to choose to keep.

What scares me more is the thought of letting myself want more.

The thought unsettles me, just as much as the possibility of losing him.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Atlas

I’m in the kitchen again, Blythe in my arms, my mouth on hers. She tastes like something I’ll never get enough of—warm, soft, a slow-burn sweetness that sinks into me, curls around my ribs, leaves me dizzy. The rest of the world dissolves into the press of her body against mine, the quiet, breathless sounds she makes as my hands slide down her back, gripping her hips, pulling her closer.

I should stop.

I need to.

But I don’t. I can’t.

Instead, I lift her onto the counter, her legs parting, locking around my waist, her fingers twisting into my hair like she’s afraid I’ll pull away.

Her mouth is just as desperate as mine, her body just as lost in the gravity pulling us under. Heat licks up my spine, the slow, maddening kind that doesn’t just burn—it consumes. Her hands roam, nails skimming over my shoulders, dragging down my arms, a wordless plea that spikes through me.

She gasps when I grind against her, her body arching, meeting me like she was made for this. “Atlas,” she whispers, voice raw, pleading.

I grip her thigh, dragging my hand higher, drinking in the way she trembles. My lips find her neck lingering, tasting, leaving my mark because some primitive part of me wants to brand her in ways I shouldn’t.

“You taste so fucking good, Blythe,” I murmur against her skin. “I want to taste you all.”

She pushes her hips against mine, heat pulsing between us. “Please, Atlas, make this ache go away.”

A grin tugs at my lips. “You want me to take it away?”

Her breath hitches as I press my hand between her legs, teasing, barely touching, feeling the fire radiating through the thin fabric.

“Yes,” she breathes, and the need in her voice makes me so fucking hard. “Please.”

I chuckle, low and dark. “You think you’ve been good enough for this? Are you a good girl, Blythe?”

She moans in answer, her hips shifting, chasing more.