Chapter 77
Sapphire’s POV
Sparks erupt across my skin, making me shudder. His lips, smooth and soft as always, are enough to make me wish I could stay pressed against them forever. Drix freezes for a few seconds, but soon our mouths find their rhythm, slow and steady, moving in perfect sync. He doesn’t try to deepen the kiss, though I can feel the restraint trembling in him. Every so often his tongue brushes teasingly against my lips, only to retreat, leaving behind the faint sweetness of champagne and the deeper taste that is purely him.
His fists, once clenched on the sofa, loosen and rise, trembling slightly as if the decision costs him. He cups my cheeks with the gentleness of someone holding something porcelain-delicate and slowly nudges my face away.
My lips tingle, aching with leftover sparks. Giddy and reckless, I lean forward again, desperate, stealing another kiss before he can stop me. He pulls me back, but I keep trying, landing feather-light pecks against his mouth, each one fanning the fire already raging in my chest. The more I taste him, the more I crave.
“Sapphire, wait,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine. My breath stutters against his lips, lashes fluttering as if I can will him back to me. His midnight-blue eyes burn darker than I’ve ever seen, heat sparking from their depths. “If you keep kissing me, I won’t be able to hold back.” His voice dips lower, husky and intoxicating, and my body trembles in response, as though his words alone touch me.
A whimper escapes before I realize it. I shove his hands away, take his face in mine, and rise to my knees so I can tower over him. Then I crush my lips to his with a needy moan. The sparks return in a rush, flooding me as if I’ve thrown myself into a storm. He hesitates—just for a breath—but then surrenders, kissing me back with a hunger that makes my pulse hammer in my ears.
His tongue parts my lips, slipping inside to find mine, and the collision is electric. Flavors and heat explode between us, ripping louder moans from my throat. The sparks don’t just ripple through me this time—they dive deep, surging lower, coiling in a place that aches for more.
Our tongues battle, urgent and wild, until my mind feels dizzy, unmoored. My body trembles, knees weakening beneath me, yet I can’t pull away. He still won’t touch me—his hands hover, tense in the air as though one touch would break every wall of restraint he’s fighting to keep.
But I can’t hold back. My fingers trace soothing circles at the back of his neck, and he shivers under my touch, low sounds slipping from his throat—half growls, half moans. His every reaction feeds my fire, pulling me deeper into the storm of him, until there’s nothing left but heat, sparks, and the desperate pull of his mouth on mine.
Then, almost as abruptly as it began, I feel a strange, insistent itch in my throat. It’s a physical need to make sound, and it grows until I can’t ignore it. I pull back, breath coming in ragged bursts, and cup his cheeks with both hands. He looks up at me, eyes wide, and for a second there is only him and the steady rise and fall of his chest.
From somewhere beyond the room—or from inside the screened world that’s still playing—a thin, feminine voice, cuts through the partial silence: “Thank you, Hendrix, for everything.” It’s faint, almost swallowed by the hum of the credits, but my wolf hears it clear as a bell.
Hendrix’s eyebrows shoot up and disbelief flashes across his face. He turns to the screen, backward to the rolling credits as I do, searching for the source of the voice. There’s nothing but names and titles scrolling beneath the light. He looks back at me slowly, and the expression he wears has something like awe in it.
“You said it,” he breathes. “Sapphire, you spoke.” His tone is a mix of shock and delight. “You spoke, Sweetness… you spoke!” He lifts his voice on the last word like he’s reminding himself this is real.
My mouth opens to try again—to say the thousand things I have rehearsed in silence—but the sound won’t find me. Panic nudges up at my chest, a tightness of dread that makes my throat close.
Hendrix’s arms fold around me and the panic dissolves into heat. Everything that stubbornly crowed inside—the insecurity, the fear, the old habit of shrinking—drains away under the warmth of his body. He sweeps his palm through my hair and pats my back in a comforting rhythm, murmuring words that are mostly nonsense but all meant to keep me breathing. He says it’s okay; he says he’s glad; he says he’s here.
Tears leak down my face as he steadies me, quieting the storm with the ordinary miracle of his presence. Each small, encouraging touch sets a splinter of courage free. I close my eyes and force myself to try again.
I open and close my mouth a handful of times, tasting soundless words, feeling foolish and desperate. But like a miracle, the words tumble out finally . “I—I r-really like being with y-you, and I l-like your cars,” I stutter, my hands trembling against him.
Hendrix freezes like I’ve struck a chord inside him. Tears of joy spill down his face at the same time mine do. A soft laugh bubbles up from him. “I love your hair and your smile, and I think your beauty is out of this world,” I add, surprising myself by speaking twice in a row. The second sentence rushes out with more steadiness; the rhythm of speaking finds me and I ride it.
Zinnia snarks in the back of my mind, smug as ever. “See? You’re not dead now, are you?” The smirk in her voice makes me giggle, the sound small and bright in the dim room.
Hendrix’s laugh joins mine and he pulls me closer until there’s no space between our bodies. “I really like being with you too,” he tells me, voice shaky with laughter and joy. “And I love your voice.” His hands are everywhere now—one cradling my face, the other curled at the small of my back.
“Am I… am I pretty?” The question slips out like a child testing the air. Vulnerability tastes saltier than tears, but I don’t care. I need to hear him say it.
He looks at me like I am everything. “You’re the most beautiful, loveliest, gorgeous and cutest girl in the whole world,” he says, piling syllables on like a man trying to build a safe place around me.
I pout and pull back a little to look at his face properly, fingers still gripping his shoulders because I am shaking. “You f-forgot to add sexiest,” I murmur, teasing because the world needs humour and because I need to feel brave enough to joke.
“You’re the sexiest, most voluptuous woman on the planet,” he replies without missing a beat, voice low and reverent. “To me, you’ll forever reign supreme over beauty and charm.” He says it like he means every ridiculous, endearing word.
I can’t help the high, trembling laugh that bursts out of me high, and I snuggle against him, burying my face into his chest. My body still trembles, but it’s a different kind of shake now. Tears keep running, but they’re softer, mixed with a ridiculous, light-headed delight that makes the room seem new. Even if I know some of what he says is exaggerated, even if some small rational part of me whispers caution, the moment is real and I allow myself to float in it.
For a while we just hold each other, the screen blank and the galaxy ceiling twinkling above. The sexual heat that lit the room a short while ago already eased into something warmer, a quiet delight that sits in my chest.
His hands keep moving through my hair, my back, slow and steady. Every now and then he presses his lips to my temple or the side of my mouth, a physical assurance to the promises he’s been making with his hands and his words.
I rest my cheek on his collarbone and breathe him in. Speaking once doesn’t solve everything, but it has opened a door. The fear of what’s ahead hasn’t gone away, but for now the sound of my own voice mingling with his laughter is enough to make the room spin in the best possible way.