“I want you to touch me,” he promises. “To taste me. But not now. There’s plenty of time for that.”
He kisses me softly. “And don’t you dare think, not for one second, that I didn’t enjoy every moment of this.”
His thumb swipes across my bottom lip, eyes dark and molten.
“You’re beautiful, Stormy. So fucking beautiful, and watching you come undone like that …”
He lets out a breathless laugh.
“Honestly? If you touched me right now …” He shakes his head, grinning. “I don’t think I’d last a second.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere soft and giddy inside me. He laughs too, forehead still pressed to mine, and for a moment we’re just tangled in the desire, affection, and joy.
His hand slides slowly up my inner thigh, fingers skimming the sensitive skin.
“Did you know you could do that?” he asks, voice low.
My brow furrows, confused, but then I feel the breeze. Cool air against damp skin. I gasp softly, cheeks flushing as the realisation crashes over me. My thighs are soaked.
Mortified, I bury my face in my hands. Embarrassment slaps me hard and fast. Did he not like it?
“I’m sorry,” I whine, voice muffled by my palms.
But he’s already pulling my hands away, laughing softly, tenderly.
“What are you apologising for?” he asks, eyes searching mine. “Stormy, that was one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced.”
He kneels again, and this time he peels off his shirt, slowly. The fabric lifts to reveal his sculpted abs, each muscle carved and glistening in the sunlight. His arms are strong, with veins tracing paths over sun-kissed skin. Dark tattoos snake up from his wrist, curling over his forearm, shoulder, and up the base of his neck like a whole story waiting to be read.
He leans in, eyes locked on mine and licks a slow line up my inner thigh.
I laugh and push his head away playfully. He laughs, and grabs his shirt, using it to gently clean the wetness from my skin.
His touch is adoring, almost worshipful, and the intimacy of it makes my chest ache in the best way. His shirt is soft against my skin, his touch even softer.
“Nobody’s ever taken care of me like this before,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can second guess them. His hand stills, and I place mine over his.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, voice quiet and unsure.
He looks up at me, eyes warm with affection.
“I want to.”
The way he says it—simple and certain—makes my throat tighten. It’s not about obligation. It’s about choice, it’s about care.
I watch him as he finishes up, leaning in to press a kiss to the inside of my knee, lingering just long enough to make my breath catch and then straightening down my dress.
But then he sighs, reluctantly straightening up. “
Okay,” he says, dragging the word out like it pains him. “I really do have to go now.”
I smile. The image of him feeding Sunshine tugs at something tender inside me.
He cups my cheek one last time.
“I’m looking forward to tonight.”
“Me too,” I say, fingers brushing his wrist.
