They Said I Had No Choice, So I Learned How to Take One novel · Chapter 2 of 3

Chapter 2: The Door That Shuts

In the attic, Bram pulls Yara against the door the moment it shuts, and they explore each other with hands only, over and under clothes, both still dressed, while he reveals he has been watching the household's routines to find her a safe window to leave, and she gasps his name as his hand goes still under her shirt, waiting for her answer.

The attic door clicked shut and Bram's hands were on her.

One fisted in her sweater at the small of her back, the other flat on the door beside her head, and he kissed her like he had been holding it in for years.

Yara made a sound against his mouth. She didn't mean to. It came out of her before she could stop it, a small broken thing that made his grip tighten.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His forehead rested against hers, and his breath was warm on her mouth.

'Say no,' he said. 'And I'll stop.'

She should have said it. She knew she should have said it. Instead her hands came up and fisted in the wool of his coat, and she pulled him back down to her.

He kissed her harder this time. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she tasted coffee and something sharp underneath it, something that made her press closer.

The door was cold against her back. His body was warm against her front. She was caught between them, and she didn't want to be anywhere else.

His hand came out of her sweater and found the hem of it. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her stomach, and she flinched, and he went still.

'Cold?' he asked.

'No.'

It wasn't cold. It was the shock of being touched at all. No one had touched her like this in years. No one had touched her like this ever.

His fingers spread over her stomach. They were warm and rough and careful, and they moved up under her sweater, over her ribs, and stopped just below her bra.

'Yara.'

She opened her eyes. She hadn't realized she had closed them.

'I need you to understand something.'

His voice was low and even, but there was something underneath it. Something that made her stomach tighten.

'I've been watching this house for months,' he said. 'Before I ever came here. Before the snow. I know the routines. I know when Gregor is out. I know when Pavel is drunk in the west wing.'

His thumb moved in a slow circle on her ribs. She could barely breathe.

'I know the window in the kitchen pantry,' he said. 'The one that doesn't lock from the outside. I know the path through the trees behind the stable. I know the road that isn't on any map.'

He kissed her jaw. Once. Soft.

'I can get you out of here,' he said against her skin. 'When you're ready. Not before. But I can do it.'

Her heart was pounding so hard she thought he must feel it through her ribs.

She should have asked him why. Why he had been watching. Why he knew the road that wasn't on any map. Why he had come here at all.

But his hand was moving again, sliding up under her bra, and her thoughts scattered like snow in a gust of wind.

His palm closed over her breast. His thumb found her nipple, already hard, and he made a low sound in his chest.

'You have no idea,' he said, 'how long I've wanted to touch you.'

She arched into his hand. Her body made the decision before she did, and she didn't stop it.

'Tell me,' she whispered. 'Tell me how long.'

'Since the first night.' His mouth moved down her throat. 'Since I watched you fold napkins in the kitchen like the world depended on it. Since I saw the way you went still when Pavel walked in.'

He bit her collarbone, just hard enough to make her gasp.

'I wanted to kill him for the way you looked at the door.'

Something hot and dangerous unspooled low in her belly.

No one had ever wanted to kill anyone for her. No one had ever wanted anything for her at all.

She pulled at his coat. She wanted it off. She wanted his hands on her skin, all of it, everywhere.

He shrugged out of it without breaking the kiss. It fell to the floor behind him, and then his hands were back on her, under her sweater, pushing it up.

'Wait,' she said.

He stopped instantly. His hands froze on her ribs, and he looked at her with those dark, steady eyes.

'What is it?'

'Not here.' She swallowed. 'The door. They could come up. They could hear.'

Bram looked at the door for a long moment. Then he looked back at her.

'They won't,' he said. 'I checked. Gregor is in his study with the door closed. Pavel is in the west wing. The housekeeper is in the kitchen.'

'You checked.'

'I always check.'

Something about that made her chest ache. He had checked. He had made sure she was safe before he touched her. No one had ever made sure she was safe.

She reached up and touched his face. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, the soft skin under his eye.

'Thank you,' she said.

He turned his head and kissed her palm. The gesture was so tender it made her want to cry.

'Don't thank me for that,' he said. 'Not for that.'

His hands moved again, sliding her sweater up and over her head. It joined his coat on the floor.

The air in the attic was cold. Her skin prickled with it, and with the heat of his eyes on her.

He looked at her for a long moment. Just looked. His gaze moved over her face, her throat, the plain white bra she wore, the bare skin of her stomach.

'You're beautiful,' he said. 'You know that.'

She shook her head. She didn't know that. No one had ever told her that.

'You are,' he said. 'You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And you don't even know it. That's the worst part.'

He kissed her again, softer this time, and his hands went to the button of her jeans.

She let him undo it. She let him slide the zipper down. She let him push the denim over her hips, down her thighs, until she was standing in front of him in nothing but her bra and underwear.

The cold air hit her bare legs. She shivered.

He dropped to his knees in front of her.

She stared down at him. Her heart was a wild thing in her chest, pounding against her ribs like it wanted out.

'What are you doing?' she whispered.

'Looking at you.'

His hands settled on her hips. His thumbs traced the edge of her underwear, slow, so slow.

'I've thought about this,' he said. 'About what you'd look like. About what you'd taste like.'

He pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh, just above her knee.

She made a sound. She didn't know what it was. It didn't matter.

'Bram.'

He kissed higher. The inside of her thigh, the soft skin there, and she was shaking, and she didn't know if it was the cold or the wanting.

'Tell me to stop,' he said against her skin. 'Tell me and I will.'

She didn't tell him to stop.

She reached down and buried her fingers in his hair. It was soft. Softer than she had imagined.

'Don't stop,' she said. 'Please. Don't stop.'

He made a sound, low and rough, and then his mouth was on her through the thin cotton of her underwear, and her knees buckled.

He caught her. His hands gripped her hips and held her up, and his mouth worked against her, hot and wet through the fabric, and she couldn't think, she couldn't breathe, she couldn't do anything but hold on to him and feel.

It built fast. Too fast. She had been empty for so long that even this was almost too much, and she felt the pressure coiling low and tight, and she knew she was going to fall apart right here, against the attic door, with his mouth on her and his name on her lips.

But he stopped.

He pulled back and looked up at her, and his face was flushed, and his lips were wet, and he was breathing hard.

'Not yet,' he said. 'Not like this. Not against a door.'

She wanted to scream. She wanted to beg. She wanted to grab his hair and pull him back to her.

'You're cruel,' she said.

He smiled. It was a small, private thing, and it made her chest hurt.

'I'm patient,' he said. 'There's a difference.'

He stood up. He pulled her against him, and she could feel the hard length of him pressing against her stomach, and she wanted him so badly she thought she might die from it.

His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her ass, and he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he carried her to the old chaise in the corner, the one with the faded floral print and the dust on the arms, and he laid her down on it.

He came down over her. His weight pressed her into the cushions, and she could feel every inch of him, and it still wasn't close enough.

'I want you,' she said. The words came out before she could stop them, and she didn't care. She wanted him to know.

'I know.' He kissed her throat. 'I want you too. More than I've ever wanted anything.'

His hand slid down her stomach, over the waistband of her underwear, and then lower.

His fingers found her through the damp cotton, and she gasped, and her hips bucked up against his hand.

'That's it,' he murmured. 'Let me feel you.'

He pushed the fabric aside, and then his fingers were on her, bare skin on bare skin, and she was so wet, so ready, and he made a sound like he was in pain.

'God, Yara.'

He slid one finger inside her, and she cried out. It was too much. It wasn't enough. She wanted more, she wanted everything, she wanted him.

'More,' she gasped. 'Please, Bram. More.'

He gave her another finger, and then another, and he worked her slowly, deliberately, his thumb circling that spot at the top of her sex, and she was climbing, climbing, and she could feel the edge coming, and she didn't want to fall alone.

'Wait,' she said. 'Wait. I want you to... I want you inside me.'

He went still. His fingers stopped moving, and he looked at her with those dark eyes, and there was something in them that made her breath catch.

'Not tonight,' he said.

'Why not?'

'Because when I have you, I want it to be somewhere safe. Somewhere I don't have to listen for footsteps. Somewhere I can take my time with you.'

He kissed her forehead. It was almost unbearably gentle.

'Tonight,' he said, 'I just want to make you feel good. Let me make you feel good.'

She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that she didn't care about safe, that she didn't care about footsteps, that she just wanted him.

But his fingers started moving again, and the words dissolved on her tongue.

He brought her to the edge and held her there. His thumb circled and circled, and his fingers curled inside her, and she was shaking, and she was gasping, and she was so close, so close.

'Come for me,' he said, low and rough against her ear. 'Come for me, Yara.'

She did.

It broke over her in waves, and she arched up off the chaise, and his name tore out of her throat, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing her through it, holding her through it.

When it was over, she lay there trembling, and he gathered her against his chest, and she could feel his heart pounding against her cheek.

'I've got you,' he said. 'I've got you.'

She believed him.

She didn't know why. She had no reason to believe anyone. But she believed him.

His hand moved under her shirt, which she hadn't even realized he had pulled back down, and found the bare skin of her waist.

His fingers spread over her ribs, warm and solid, and she turned her face into his chest and breathed him in.

'Bram,' she said.

His hand went still.

He waited.

She opened her mouth to answer him.

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