chapter 173

chapter 173
Grace's POV:
I plucked the cigarette from between his fingers before he could protest, examining the smoldering end with academic interest.
Then, holding his gaze, I lifted it to my own lips and inhaled.
The smoke filled my lungs with practiced ease, and I saw the exact moment when comprehension dawned in his eyes.
His pupils contracted sharply, and something dangerous shifted in the set of his jaw.
"Who taught you that?" The question emerged low and cold, edged with a possessive fury that might have frightened me once. Now it simply made my heart ache for all the ways we had both learned to cope in each other's absence.
I exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl between us like a phantom barrier.
"No one taught me. I learned on my own."
I took another drag, feeling the familiar burn in my throat.
"After you left—after I forgot—there were nights when I felt like I was drowning. Like there was a hole in my chest that nothing could fill, and I didn't even know why."
The words came easier than I expected, perhaps because the worst of the wounds had already been exposed. "Alcohol helped, sometimes. And this." I gestured with the cigarette. "It wasn't healthy, but it was... numbness. A way to get through the hours until morning."
Maverick's eyes had gone red-rimmed, and I could see the struggle playing out across his features—rage at himself for leaving, at the circumstances that had forced his hand, at the universe that had conspired to hurt me in his absence.
I took one final drag, deep and slow, then reached up to cup his face with my free hand.
His skin was warm beneath my palm, stubbled with the day's growth, achingly familiar. I guided his chin down toward me, and when our lips were barely a breath apart, I closed the distance.
The kiss was soft at first, a gentle brush of contact—and then I parted my lips and exhaled, sending the smoke curling from my mouth into his. His eyes flew open in surprise, watching me from inches away as I breathed the evidence of my pain into him, sharing it in the most intimate way I knew how.
For a long moment, he simply stared at me, his expression raw with an emotion I couldn't quite name.
Then his hand came up to cup the back of my skull, fingers tangling in my damp hair, and he swallowed the smoke down before crushing his mouth against mine with desperate intensity.
The kiss turned fierce, consuming.
He poured two years of guilt and longing into it, and I answered with everything I had—all the hollow nights, the tears I'd cried without knowing why, the phantom ache of reaching for someone who wasn't there.
His free hand found my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I felt the cigarette slip from my nerveless fingers only to be caught and crushed out against the balcony railing.
When he finally released me, we were both gasping for breath, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air.
"I'm here now." His voice was hoarse, wrecked. "I'm not going anywhere, do you understand? Whatever you needed to get through before—you don't need it anymore. You have me. You'll always have me."
"I know." I traced the line of his jaw with trembling fingers. "I know."
"No more cigarettes." It wasn't quite a command, but it carried the weight of a vow. "No more drowning alone. If you're hurting, you come to me. If you're lost, you come to me. Promise me."
"I promise."
He studied my face for a long moment, as if searching for any hint of deception. Whatever he found must have satisfied him, because his expression softened, the hard edges smoothing into something tender and achingly vulnerable.
Then he bent and swept me up into his arms, lifting me as easily as if I weighed nothing at all.
I gasped, my arms winding automatically around his neck, and he carried me back through the sliding door into the warmth of the penthouse.
"Maverick—"
He didn't let me finish.
With a low growl that vibrated through his chest, he strode straight to the bedroom and tossed me onto the king-sized bed, the mattress dipping under my weight as I bounced once, my breath catching in surprise.
The sheets were crisp and cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him as he loomed over me, shrugging off his jacket in one fluid motion, his shirt straining across the broad planes of his shoulders.
"The doctor says my physical recovery's going great," he said, his voice roughened by restraint, eyes darkening as they raked over me. "If we don't get back to sex soon, my mental state's going to start unraveling no matter what. "
His words hung in the air, laced with that raw honesty he wielded like a weapon, and I felt the truth of them echo in my own chest—a hollow ache I'd been ignoring for weeks, the nights I'd lain awake craving the weight of him, the way he filled every shadowed corner of my mind.
He was right; we both were fraying at the edges, our bodies screaming for what our silences had denied.
He lowered himself over me then, caging me in with his forearms on either side of my head, his mouth crashing down to claim mine in a kiss that was all hunger and pent-up storm.
When his tongue swept past my lips, I arched up to meet him.
I reached up, fingers hooking around his neck, pulling him closer until our bodies aligned, heat bleeding through our clothes.
I want you, the thought pulsed through me, unfiltered and fierce, and I poured it into the kiss, nipping at his lower lip, drawing a guttural sound from deep in his throat.