Later, in his workshop loft, the scent of cedar and sawdust surrounding them, Lena stood still as Marcus's hands found the hem of her dress.
The fabric lifted, the air cold against her thighs, and she felt the exposure before she saw it—his knuckles brushing her skin as he gathered the hem higher. It wasn't the exposure that terrified her. It was how much she wanted it.
He dropped to his knees in front of her. The power shifted, settled, and she'd never seen him like this—looking up at her with something that wasn't worship but surrender. His hands settled on her hips, thumbs tracing the jut of bone through the thin fabric, and she felt the weight of his gaze like a brand.
"Lena," he said. Her name, low and rough, a question she didn't know how to answer.
His mouth pressed against the inside of her thigh. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, the stubble rough against her skin. He didn't move—just stayed there, lips warm against her, breathing her in, waiting.
She realized then: he was asking her to trust him with more than her body. He was asking her to let him carry the parts of her she'd kept hidden, the weight she'd been hauling alone for five years. And she was so tired of carrying them alone.
Her fingers tightened in his hair. He pressed a kiss to her thigh, slow and deliberate, his eyes still searching hers from below.
She opened her mouth to speak—to say something, anything—but the words caught in her throat. His hands slid higher, thumbs tracing the edge of her underwear, and she felt the heat of his palms through the silk. Waiting for her answer.
The sawdust settled around them. The city hummed somewhere beyond the dark windows. And Lena stood there, half-undressed in his workshop, his mouth on her skin, and for the first time in years, she let herself want without fighting it. She nodded.
His breath hitched against her thigh. Then his hands tightened on her hips, and he pressed closer.
His hands tightened on her hips, the heat of his palms searing through the silk. He pressed closer, his mouth against her thigh, and she felt the tremor run through him—the restrained hunger, the waiting finally breaking.
No.
She wanted him on his feet. Wanted to see his face when she took what she needed.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling—not hard, but insistent. His breath caught against her skin. She pulled again, and he rose, slow and unwilling at first, as if leaving her thigh cost him something. But he rose. His hands left her hips. He stood in front of her, chest to chest, and she saw the question in his eyes—dark, confused, still hungry.
She didn't answer with words.
She fisted her hand in his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him.
Her mouth met his hard, a collision that was all teeth and need. No soft opening. No tentative testing. She kissed him like she was taking something back—five years of silence, of wanting, of not letting herself have this. Her other hand slid up his chest, feeling the rough fabric of his shirt, the heat of him beneath, and she pressed closer, the silk of her underwear brushing his jeans.
He made a sound—a low, broken noise against her lips—and his hands found her hips again, fingers digging in, holding her steady as she kissed him deeper. His tongue met hers, and she felt the surrender in it: he was letting her lead, letting her set the pace, even as his whole body trembled with restraint.
She broke the kiss, breathing hard. His lips were red, his eyes still half-closed. She kept her grip on his shirt, knuckles white against the fabric.
"I want you to kiss me like I'm yours," she said. Her voice was low, raw, and she didn't recognize it. "But I need you to remember something."
His eyes opened. Met hers.
"This is my choice. Not yours. Not the years we lost. Mine."
He stared at her. Then his jaw tightened, and something shifted in his expression—not defiance, but acceptance. He nodded. Once.
"Yes," he said. His voice cracked on the word. "Always yes."