“You are exquisite,” he breathes, meeting my eyes. “And I have nowhere else I’d rather be.”
The patience in his voice undoes something inside me. No rush. No agenda. Only me. That’s the problem—I can feel myself slipping, losing boundaries I swore I’d hold.
But Quintus looks at me like we have all the time in the world.
“I haven’t done this in a while,” I admit, then immediately wish I hadn’t. Too much information, too revealing.
“Neither have I,” he says simply, and something in his voice makes me believe him.
His hands find the hem of my sweater, warm fingers brushing my skin underneath. “May I?”
The asking again. Like my consent matters more than his desire.
When I nod, he moves with unhurried certainty, slipping the sweater over my head and letting his fingertips trail heat along my ribs as the fabric lifts away. The cool air hits my skin, and I fight the urge to cover myself. But Quintus’s gray eyes are gazing at me like I’m a goddess.
“Incredible,” he breathes, his hands skimming my shoulders, my arms, charting me like precious territory.
The vulnerability in my posture must be obvious, because his touch becomes even gentler, almost worshipful. Every stroke feels like he’s carefully rewriting the story etched into my skin.
“Look at me,” he says softly when I turn away.
I force my gaze to meet his, expecting to see disappointment or criticism. Instead, I find wonder.
“Beautiful,” he repeats, letting his hands speak the words as they trace the soft curve of my waist, the line of my collarbone, the place where my pulse flutters rapidly at the base of my throat.
I’m trembling, but not from cold. When he leans down to press his lips to that racing pulse, I gasp and arch into him.
“I want to worship every part of you,” he murmurs against my neck. “Will you let me?” The question, the way he waits for my nod, makes everything clear.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Just like that,” he murmurs, his voice low and worshipful, as though every sound I make is a gift.
His mouth on my throat sends electricity shooting straight to my core. When did I become this responsive? When did my body learn to sing under someone else’s touch?
His hands are everywhere, teasing fire along my skin but never quite giving enough, like he knows how close I am to begging. My knees weaken; my body betrays me. His warm hand follows along the fabric of my bra and lingers at the clasp. One patientbreath, then steady fingers find the hooks and free them like he was born knowing how.
The fabric falls away, and for a moment, I feel exposed, vulnerable. But then he’s looking at me with such devotion, such genuine appreciation, that shame can’t find purchase.
“Perfect,” he says again, and this time I almost believe him.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He helps when I get tangled, is patient with my nervousness, and when the fabric finally hits the floor, I release a soft gasp.
Scars scatter across his chest and shoulders, telling stories I can’t read, but his skin is warm and solid under my palms. Real muscle, real strength, offered to me without demand or expectation.
When he guides me backward toward the bed, I go willingly, trust overriding anxiety. Or maybe it’s lust overriding common sense. Either way, I don’t for a moment consider stopping him.
I sink back against the pillows, suddenly aware of how I must look—chestnut hair fanned around my head, wearing nothing but my jeans, breathing hard with want. He follows me down slowly, settling beside me rather than over me. No caging, no trapping. Just offering himself as my equal partner in this exploration.
“Tell me what feels good,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to my shoulder, my collarbone, the soft swell of my breast.
My back arches when he takes my nipple into his mouth, a gasp escaping my lips that sounds almost surprised. Like I’d forgotten my body was capable of this kind of pleasure.
“Oh,” I breathe, fingers threading through his hair. “Oh, that’s…”
He takes his time, alternating attention between my breasts until I’m squirming beneath him, soft sounds of pleasure falling from my lips like music. Every sensation feels magnified, likemy nerve endings have been sleeping for years and are finally waking up.
Too much. Too good. I’m drowning in sensation, caught between losing myself if I let go and breaking apart if I don’t. His mouth is patient and skilled, finding places that make me gasp and arch and lose track of coherent thought. His teeth scrape lightly, and he soothes the sting with his tongue, causing heat to pool low and urgent.
