Chapter 881: Sarah~

I stood. The stool scraped against marble—the loudest sound in the universe.

My hands found her waist. Her breath caught. Her eyes—those deep, luminous eyes that held galaxies of thought and feeling and Sarah—locked onto mine.

I lifted her.

She came up easily—light in my arms despite the weight of what we were carrying between us. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her arms

circled

my neck. Her forehead pressed against mine, and for a moment we just

breathed each other in

.

Shared air. Shared heartbeat. Shared understanding of what came next.

"

I love you,

" she said. Not a whisper. Not a declaration. Just a fact, stated with the same quiet certainty she brought to everything. "

I love you, Peter

. I’ve loved you since before I understood what that word meant when a sister says it to a brother and

means something the world says she shouldn’t

."

"I love you too, Sarah. The real way. The forever way. The way that makes me want to build worlds just so you have somewhere beautiful to stand."

She smiled. Pressed her lips to mine—soft, slow, a promise sealed in the gentlest kiss we’d ever shared.

"

Take me to your room

," she breathed against my mouth.

And I did.

I turned us away from the island, away from the cooling stove and the half-finished plates, and stepped into the hallway.

The ground floor stretched before us in amber hush. Golden hour had bled into early evening; the last slanted rectangles of sunlight had faded from the hardwood, leaving only the dim, warm glow of recessed lights—soft amber pools that barely reached the walls.

ARIA had gone dark. No voice in my head. No gentle ping of status. Privacy mode absolute. The house had emptied itself for us.

My bare feet met polished oak. Cool at first, then warming with each slow step.

Sarah’s thighs rested heavy in my forearms, the thin cotton of her sleep shorts doing nothing to hide the living heat of her skin beneath.

Every tiny shift of my grip sent a faint tremor through her muscles—soft, involuntary—and her breath hitched against my neck, warm and uneven, not from fear but from the raw newness of being held like this, carried like this, claimed like this.

Her arms stayed looped around my neck. Her fingers found the nape, not gripping, not pulling—just resting there, fingertips tracing slow, reverent circles through the short hairs at the base of my skull.

Memorizing the texture.

The warmth.

The way my skin prickled under her touch.

Her chest pressed flush to mine.

Through two thin layers of cotton—

my t-shirt, her tank top

—I could feel her heartbeat. Not just hear it. Feel it. A steady, accelerated thump that traveled straight into my sternum like Morse code written in living rhythm. Fast. Purposeful. Alive.

Her damp hair brushed my cheek with every gentle sway of our bodies. The ends still carried the faint moisture of her shower; tiny cool droplets transferred to my skin when a strand dragged across my jaw. Vanilla. Clean cotton.

The warm, private scent that lived in the hollow of her throat.

Her lips came to rest against the side of my neck

—not a kiss, not yet.

Just pressure. Soft mouth

open slightly, breathing me in

. I felt her lips

part

against my pulse point, felt the faint flutter of her exhale as she registered the quickening thud beneath her mouth.

My heartbeat answered hers—deeper, heavier, but perfectly synced.

The hallway was silent.

Deafeningly

so.

The entire estate had gone quiet, as though every room, every beam, every breath had stepped back to give us this corridor. This moment.

This slow,

sacred procession

.

I adjusted my hold—only slightly, one hand sliding an inch higher on the underside of her thigh to steady her. The cotton shifted under my palm, warm and slightly damp now from shared body heat.

Her breath caught sharp against my neck—a tiny, involuntary sound that vibrated straight down my spine.

Her thighs

flexed

once around my waist, reflexive, then relaxed again into trust.

We were maybe halfway.

The door to my room still felt impossibly far and heartbreakingly close.

She whispered into the skin beneath her lips. Not words at first. Just my name.

"Peter."

So soft it barely disturbed the air. A breath shaped like prayer. Like she’d been holding it inside her chest for weeks—months—and could finally let it out here, against my throat, where only I could hear.

I didn’t answer with words.

I answered with another step. Slow. Deliberate.

Her fingers tightened—just a fraction—in my hair. Not pulling. Anchoring. Like she needed to feel the reality of me moving beneath her touch.

Another step.

The amber light caught the damp ends of her hair again, turning them briefly to molten gold before they fell back against my shoulder.

Her heartbeat thumped harder against mine—once, twice—like a promise being sealed with every shared pulse.

We weren’t rushing.

We weren’t speaking.

We were walking.

And the hallway—forty feet of polished oak and quiet light—had become the longest, shortest, holiest distance either of us had ever crossed.

The hallway felt like it was breathing with us—slow, deep inhalations of amber light and quiet wood.

Halfway. Maybe less. Maybe more. Distance had stopped making sense.

I stopped.

Not because I had to. Because I needed to.

I turned us gently,

pressing

her back against the smooth, cool wall—not hard, not pinning, just... holding her there with the weight of my body so I could see her.

Her thighs flexed instinctively around my waist as her back met the wall; the thin cotton of her shorts

slid higher,

exposing more warm skin to my forearms. I felt the heat of her through the fabric

—soft, living, radiating—

and my grip tightened just enough to keep her secure.

I shifted her weight to one arm. Freed the other.

My hand came up slow.

Cupped

her face—palm against her cheek, fingers threading into the damp hair at her temple. Her skin was

fever-warm,

flushed, the faintest tremor running under my touch like she was holding something enormous inside her chest.

I looked at her.

Her eyes—dark now, pupils blown wide in the low light—held mine without flinching. Breath shallow. Lips parted. Damp strands of hair clinging to her neck and collarbones.

I leaned in.

The

kiss was slow

. Open-mouthed from the start. No rush. Just tasting—her lower lip first, then the soft inside of her mouth, the faint sweetness of dinner still lingering on her tongue, the clean warmth that was only Sarah.

She

melted

into it. Her whole body s

oftened against mine

—thighs loosening then tightening again, chest pressing harder to my chest so her heartbeat slammed into mine like twin drums. Her fingers tightened in the hair at my nape—not pulling, just holding on, nails grazing scalp in slow, reverent scratches that sent sparks down my spine.

The kiss turned wet. Thorough. Unhurried. Tongues sliding, lips catching, small sounds escaping into each other’s mouths—soft exhales, tiny hums of need.

My free hand slid from her face.

Down the elegant line of her neck. Thumb tracing the delicate ridge of her collarbone—slow, deliberate circles over the bone, then dipping into the shallow hollow above it.

She

shivered

hard—full-body, visible—and a quiet whimper vibrated against my lips, the whimper of my virgin sister, under my touch on the way to deflower her.

She broke the kiss first. Just enough to breathe.

Her forehead rested against mine again. Lips brushing mine with every word.

"Don’t stop walking," she whispered—half laughing, half desperate, voice wrecked and raw. "Please. I need... I need to get there with you carrying me."

I exhaled against her mouth—shaky, almost a laugh myself.

"Almost there."

She nodded once. Small. Certain.

I eased her away from the wall. Adjusted my grip again—both hands firm under her thighs now, thumbs brushing the sensitive crease where leg met hip through cotton. She gasped softly at the contact—tiny, involuntary—and her

thighs squeezed

once around me in answer.

The carry resumed.

Slower now. Deeper now.

She shifted her grip—arms sliding tighter around my shoulders, forearms locking behind my neck like she was anchoring herself to me forever. Her

breasts pressed fuller

against my chest through the thin tank top;

I could feel the

hard peaks of her nipples

dragging with every step, every breath.

She began pressing small kisses along my jaw.

Deliberate. Mapping.

First the hinge—soft, open-mouthed, lingering. Then higher, along the line of my ear—warm breath fanning the shell, making the fine hairs stand up. Then the corner of my mouth—teasing, not quite catching my lips, just brushing.

"Mmm~ Sarah..."

Each kiss sent a low current through me.

I groaned—quiet, deep in my chest—and she felt it. The vibration traveled straight into her body; her thighs clenched again, her breath hitching sharp against my skin.

She smiled—I felt the curve of it against my jaw—then her teeth grazed my earlobe.

Gentle. Testing.

Just the lightest scrape. Enough to make my knees want to buckle. I almost stumbled—caught myself on the next step, bare feet pressing harder into the oak. A rough sound escaped my throat, involuntary.

She laughed against my neck—soft, breathless, triumphant—and pressed one more open-mouthed kiss right below my ear, tongue flicking once against the pulse there.