I pull back just enough to look at her face, flushed and beautiful in the dim light. Without breaking eye contact, I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, letting it drop to the floor. Her gaze travels over my chest, taking in the tattoos that map out my past, the scars that tell stories I wish I could forget.
But when she looks back at my face, there's no judgment there. Only want.
I reach for her shirt next, my movements slow and deliberate. She raises her arms to help me, and the fabric slides away to reveal smooth skin and the black lace of her bra. She's perfect — all curves and strength, the kind of beauty that makes my chest tight knowing that I don't deserve this, don't deserve her.
I trace my fingers along her collarbone, watching goosebumps rise on her skin. Then I lean down to press my lips to that same spot, kissing a path down to the hollow of her throat. She tastes like vanilla and something uniquely her, something that makes me want to memorize every inch of her skin with my mouth.
Her hands find my shoulders, nails digging in slightly as I work my way lower, kissing the swell of her breasts above the lace. When I look up at her, her head is thrown back, lips parted, lost in the sensation.
I guide her back onto the bed. My lips, my hands, my heart — they all want to explore her, to feel her, to consume her.
My hands find the clasp of her bra, working it free with steady fingers despite the tremor running through me. The black lace falls away, and I drink in the sight of her, perfect and vulnerable beneath me. I lean down to capture her lips again, the kiss slow and deep, tasting her sighs as my hands map the curves of her waist, the soft skin of her ribs.
"You're beautiful," I murmur against her mouth, meaning every word. "So damn beautiful."
Her response is lost in another kiss, her hands roaming over my chest, tracing the lines of ink that spiral across my shoulders and down my arms. Each touch sends electricity through me, but I force myself to go slow, to savor this. Tomorrow we might be dead. Tonight, I want to worship her.
I trail my lips down her throat, feeling her pulse flutter against my tongue. Her skin is warm and soft, tasting faintly of sweat and something indefinably her. I take my time exploring the hollow at the base of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone, the sensitive spot where her shoulder meets her throat that makes her gasp and arch beneath me.
When I reach her breasts, I pause to look up at her face. Her eyes are closed, lips parted, lost in sensation. The sight of her like this — trusting, open, mine — makes something fierce and protective surge through my chest.
I lower my head and take one peaked nipple into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the sensitive flesh. She cries out, her back arching off the silk sheets, hands fisting in my hair. The sound goes straight to my core, and I moan as my cock hardens even more, pulsing, aching, but I keep my focus on her, on learning what makes her breath hitch, what makes her moan my name.
My hands work at the button of her jeans, sliding them down her long legs along with the underwear underneath. She's naked beneath me now, all golden skin and soft curves in the flickering lantern light, and I have to pause just to take her in, to memorize this moment.
"Reaper," she whispers, reaching for me, and I go willingly, covering her body with mine as our mouths meet again in a kiss that tastes like forever and goodbye all at once.
The kiss deepens, our mouths moving together with an urgency that makes my chest burn. Her tongue slides against mine, and I can taste her need, her desperation that mirrorsmy own. My hands frame her face as we kiss, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, and I pour everything I can't say into the connection between us.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils dilated with desire.
"Close your eyes," I whisper against her lips.
She hesitates for just a moment, studying my face in the flickering lantern light. Then her lashes flutter closed, dark crescents against her flushed cheeks. The trust in that simple gesture makes my throat tight.
I reach for one of the silk pillows beside her head, carefully sliding the pillowcase free. The fabric is cool and smooth between my fingers as I fold it into a makeshift blindfold.
"What are you — " she starts, but I silence her with a gentle kiss.
"Trust me," I say, and she nods after a momentary hesitation, her lips parting slightly.
I slip the silk over her eyes, tying it gently at the back of her head. Her dark hair spills over the burgundy fabric, and she looks like some beautiful offering laid out for me on the rich sheets. My hands are shaking slightly as I brush her hair away from her face.
"Can you see anything?" I ask.
"No," she breathes, and I can hear the anticipation in her voice, the way it trembles with want.
Without her sight, every other sense seems heightened. I watch as she tilts her head, listening to my movements, her body tense with expectation. When I trail just my fingertips along her collarbone, she gasps and arches toward the touch.
"You're so sensitive," I whisper, tracing lower, between her breasts, watching her skin flush pink in the wake of my touch. "I want to taste every inch of you."
I start with her lips, kissing her slowly, thoroughly, until she's panting beneath me. Then I work my way down her throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her pulse point, feeling her heartbeat race against my tongue. She tastes like salt and heat and something uniquely her that makes me want to devour her whole.
Her hands reach for me blindly, fingers tangling in my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp in a way that sends electricity straight down my spine. But I catch her wrists gently, pinning them beside her head.
"Just feel," I tell her, my voice rough with need. "Let me take care of you."
I continue kissing down her body, taking my time with each breast, circling my tongue around her nipples until she's writhing beneath me. Her breath comes in quick gasps, and every sound she makes feeds the fire burning in my chest. When I trail my lips lower, across her ribs, down to her flat stomach, she trembles under my mouth.
