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Teague brings me a plate filled with fresh fruit and eggs and toast and…

“Is this b-bacon?” I hold my breath, afraid of the answer.

He plops down beside me, bouncing on the sofa cushion. “Turkey bacon, hummingbird. I wouldn’t dream of making real bacon.”

The smell alone would have sent me running from the house—unless the memories it evoked had me frozen in full-blown panic attack—if it were the real stuff. It clung to the clothes of the men who hurt me. The quantity they consumed surely should have killed them, but instead, it seemed to fuel them.

“Thank you.” I pick at my food, taking small bites when Teague stares at me for too long, but truth be told, the fresh, sweet red berries are all I really want. The gesture is kind and so thoughtful, but anxiety is my constant companion, and food is almost always a crap shoot.

Teague cleans his plate in the time it takes me to finish my berries, so I hand him the rest of mine. He leans forward to set the empty plates on the coffee table and the pale gray t-shirt shifts, stretching as his muscles flex.

Without thinking, I reach out and trace the bumps and divots that make up the landscape of his back. Thick muscle frames his spine and expands out, wrapping his ribs and shoulders in strength.

Cinnamon-colored freckles create a constellation that disappears beneath the hem of his shirt.

He lets me trace a path from one to the next and the next and the one after that, his skin pebbling in tight goosebumps. I scrape my nail down his back, reversing the path, and a low groan rumbles from his lungs.

“Christ, don’t stop. Feels so good.”

I pause at the waistband of his lounge pants, then follow it around as he leans back, fully slouched into the plush cushions. His lids are heavy, his eyes dark with desire.

A warm palm lands on my knee and stays there. He makes no move other than the gentle pressure as he fully gives in to whatever this is.

He lets me explore, touch, and discover more of the ticklish spots that have him squirming out of my touch and the sensual ones that have him trying to get closer. And all of that happens with no complaints. He simply watches me.

“Hummingbird, I love letting you have free reign of my body, feeling your touch getting more confident, but you keep teasing me like this, I’m gonna be tempted to put you on your back and fuck you good.” There’s no venom, just heat and a delicious promise. “You think you’re ready for that?”

Am I? I have no idea. Trauma is a fickle bitch, but I am so damned tired of being a slave to her. If I don’t test my limits, I’ll never know if I’m free from the cage, and there is no one else I’m more comfortable with than Teague.

So, I drag the tip of my finger along the deep groove of muscle that wraps around his hip pointing to his groin, my touch feather light. I trail along his inner thigh, almost touching him, but not quite.

I’m in control. I’m in control. I’m…

In a blink of an eye, I’m on my back, bracketed by Teague’s arms as he hovers over me. I’m okay. I didn’t panic. I haven’t shut down. No dark thoughts push their way in, and there isn’t a single tremor that’s based in fear. My body heats, desire pooling low in my belly.

“You good?”

I dip my chin keeping my eyes locked on his.

“If that changes, you tell me. I want your words, though. Can you do that?”

“Yes” barely tumbles from my lips, and he’s on me. Devouring my mouth, licking a path down my body, clothes piling up on the ground around us.

He settles between my legs, his shoulders too broad for the tight space on the couch. He pushes at the back of my thigh, lifting my leg until it’s propped on the back of the couch, giving himself more space to maneuver.

He licks my pussy and sucks my clit into his mouth, humming. He worships my body.

I feel one finger enter me, then two. He curls his fingers, rubbing gently at a spot inside me that I thought was nothing more than a myth. When he sucks hard on my clit, I tremble through the explosion of my orgasm. Each one is somehow better than the last. I want to live in this moment forever.

Gentle kisses wind in a trail up my body as Teague crawls over me. When he reaches my mouth, he asks, “You ready?”

It takes a handful of breaths for me to find my words. “Yes?”

“That a question?”

I shake my head and he grunts out, “Good,” as his hips snap forward. He fills me with a single thrust, bottoming out. He drops his forehead to mine and mumbles, “Fuck.”

I cling to Teague’s shoulders, twine my fingers through his auburn waves and fist them tight as he moves his body in wild and only faintly controlled chaos. He moves like a man consumed, hitting a spot deep inside me that makes me see stars. I come again, and again, and when his skin is sweat slicked and damp curls cling to his forehead, he presses his thumb to my clit. I shake my head. I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I have it in me to come again.