“I love you too, Elias.”
The words hit me like a physical force, three simple syllables that rewrite everything I thought I knew about about what’s possible in a world that’s shown me too much darkness. She whispers them against my lips, and I feel something fundamental shift inside my chest—some wall I’ve been building for years crumbling into dust.
The confession undoes me completely. All those months of careful professionalism, of pretending the way she made me feel was just partnership chemistry. All those nights lying awake thinking about her voice, her laugh, the way she looked at crime scenes like she could see through the surface to the truth underneath.
“Yeah?” My voice comes out rougher than intended, scraped raw by emotion I’ve been holding back for so long I’d forgotten how to let it loose.
“Yeah.” Her laugh is soft, wondering, like she’s surprised by her own joy. “Though your timing could use some work. Declaring love while standing in your office in nothing but boxers?”
“Hey,” I say, trying for mock-serious but probably failing. “I thought you preferred the naked approach.”
“I’m still deciding,” she tells me, stretching up to kiss me again. “Might need more data.”
Her lips brush mine, soft and sure, and something snaps inside me. The careful control I’ve maintained through ten days of hell, through the rescue, through the debriefing and the drive home—all of it fractures like ice under pressure.
“I’m very thorough when it comes to data collection,” I murmur against her mouth, and she laughs, the sound vibrating through both of us.
She’s here. Alive. Real. Wearing my clothes and saying she loves me, and I need to touch her, need to prove to myself that this isn’t another dream I’ll wake up from.
I lift her easily, settling her on the edge of my desk. Papers scatter to the floor—case files and reports that seemed so important hours ago but mean nothing compared to the woman now looking at me with eyes full of want and love and trust.
“Elias,” she breathes, and my name on her lips sounds like absolution.
Her legs part to make room for me, and I step between them, my hands splaying across her thighs where the boxers have ridden up. Her skin is soft and warm, and when I trace small circles with my thumbs, she pulls me closer.
“Are you sure?” I ask, because I need to hear it, need to know this isn’t just adrenaline. Her answer is to kiss me again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my knees weak. When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dalia says, and the certainty in her voice is like a key turning in a lock I didn’t know existed.
My hands find the hem of my t-shirt where it hangs loose on her frame. She lifts her arms in response, and I pull the fabric over her head, revealing pale skin marked with faint bruises from her ordeal. The sight of those marks—evidence of what she’s survived, of how close I came to losing her—makes something primal and protective surge in my chest. I trace one with my fingertip, gentle as a whisper.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore,” she says, catching my hand and pressing it flat against her ribs. “Not when you touch me like that.”
Always her refusal to hide or pretend or make things easier than they are. It’s what makes her such a good detective, but it’s also what makes her dangerous to my constructed defenses.
When I trail kisses down her throat, she arches against me, and the soft sound she makes sends electricity straight through my nervous system. Her pulse hammers under my lips, proof of life, proof that this is real.
“Elias,” she whispers my name again, and there’s need in her voice that matches the need burning in my chest.
I want to worship every inch of her skin, want to memorize the way she tastes, the sounds she makes, the way she moves against me. I want to replace every bad memory from the last ten days with something beautiful, something ours.
My hands slide up her sides, mapping the curve of her ribs, the soft warmth of her skin.
“Please,” she says, reading the question in my eyes.
I have to stop breathing for a moment, just looking at her. She’s beautiful and I lose myself in the taste of her, the feel of her bare skin against mine. Her hands explore the planes of my chest, fingertips tracing old scars from my military days and newer ones from this job.
The moment her fingers brush the waistband of my boxers, a current of pure need rips through me, primal and undeniable.
“Dalia.” Her name is a growl, torn from somewhere deep, a place untouched by protocol or propriety. My hand covers hers, pressing her palm flat against the hard ridge of my arousal straining against the thin cotton. Her sharp intake of breath fans across my collarbone, sending shivers down my spine.
“Elias.” There’s no hesitation, only answering hunger. “I'm yours.”
That’s all the permission I need. My hands, calloused from years of holding weapons and evidence, slide down her thighs, gripping the soft skin just above her knees. I push them wider, settling myself more firmly between them, the heat of her core radiating through the worn cotton of my boxers she’s wearing.
I lean in, not to kiss her mouth, but to trace the curve of her shoulder with my lips, feeling the fine tremble that runs through her. My tongue follows the path of a faint bruise along her collarbone–a testament to her survival. She gasps, arching into the contact, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
My mouth travels lower, drawn to the swell of her breast, tongue licking her nipple. A low moan vibrates in her throat, her hips lifting off the desk, seeking friction.
My hand, which had been splayed possessively on her thigh, slides upward, fingers tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She trembles, her legs falling open wider in silent, urgent invitation. The damp heat seeping through the thin cotton of my boxers is intoxicating.
“Look at me, Dalia,” I command, my voice rough with desire.
Her eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded with need, meeting mine. The trust there, the raw vulnerability mixed with fierce desire, steals my breath. “Please.”
In one smooth motion, I pull the boxers down her legs, discarding them onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor. She’s bare before me, utterly exposed. The sight is breath-taking. My chest tightens, an almost painful swell of emotion–love, lust, awe, relief–crashing over me.
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” I murmur, the words inadequate but all I have. My hand returns to her, feeling her shudder. A low groan escapes me at the feel of her.
Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, her heels digging into the small of my back. I watch her mesmerized. The way her breasts tremble with each gasp, the desperate clench of her inner muscles around my probing fingers as I slide two inside her, deep and slow. She’s tight, hot, impossibly wet, gripping me like a vise.
“Dalia,” I rasp, my own control fraying.
My own arousal is a painful throb, demanding release. I shove my boxers down my hips, freeing myself. I grip her hips, pulling her to the very edge of the desk. My tip nudges against her, and we both gasp at the contact.
“I love you,” I whisper, needing that connection, needing to see her soul as I claim her body.
Her gaze locks onto mine, unwavering. “I love you too,” she whispers back, her voice thick with emotion.
With one powerful thrust, I bury myself to the hilt inside her. The sensation is overwhelming. A moan tears from my throat, raw and primal, echoed by her sharp cry of pleasure. She feels like heaven, like the only solid ground after weeks of freefall. I hold myself deep for a moment, shuddering, my forehead pressed to hers, breathing her air, lost in the profound rightness of being joined, fused together.
“I love you,” I choke out, the word a vow.
She gasps, pulling me deeper.
I withdraw slowly, almost completely, savoring the drag, the friction, watching her bite her lip. Then I thrust back in, hard and deep, setting a relentless, claiming rhythm. The desk creaks in protest beneath us. Papers cascade forgotten to the floor with each powerful surge of my hips. Her nails score my back, her moans mingling with my guttural groans, a desperate, beautiful counterpoint.
There’s no finesse now, only raw, driving need. Each thrust is a declaration, a reclamation, an exorcism of every fear, every moment of loss. I plunge into her welcoming heat, again and again. Her legs lock around me, her hips rising to meet every drive, taking me deeper, demanding more.
I lose myself in her. My thrusts become harder, faster, driving into her with a force that rocks the heavy desk. She meets me stroke for stroke, her body arching, her cries climbing higher, sharper.
Then, her climax crashes over her. The sight of her, lost in ecstasy, claiming her pleasure without shame, her body clenching around mine, shatters me completely. My control evaporates and I explode with her.
We stay locked together, panting, trembling, slick with sweat, the only sounds our ragged breaths and the frantic hammering of our hearts slowly beginning to slow. I press my forehead against hers again, our breaths mingling, my body still intimately joined with hers. Her legs slowly loosen their grip around my waist, sliding down to rest limply, but she holds me close with her arms wrapped around my neck.
“Elias,” she whispers, her voice hoarse but filled with a profound tenderness. Her hand softly strokes my damp hair.
My name, whispered in the wreckage of my office, amidst the scattered remnants of our professional lives, land with the weight of a benediction. I kiss her, slow and deep and infinitely tender, pouring every unspoken emotion and word into it–the terror, the relief, the desperate gratitude, the bone-deep love. She kisses me back with equal fervor, her body softening beneath mine, accepting my weight, my presence, my everything.
We stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the desk, breathing each other in, the world outside the office door ceasing to exist. The only thing that matters is the beating of her heart against mine, the slow, shared rhythm of our breath, and the undeniable, irrevocable truth: she’s mine.
And I am, utterly and completely, hers.
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