The corner of my mouth lifts without permission. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, and the word warms a place in me I thought the cold took a long time ago.
I thumb a curl behind her ear. “You’re still shaking.”
“I’ll stop,” she says, and then she breathes in, breathes out, and it’s true—some of the tremor leaves her. Not all. Enough.
“You want tea? Food?” I ask.
She bites her lip. “I just want you.”
The room shifts. Not loud—just undeniable. Heat rolls through me, clean and bright. Not because I earned anything. Because she offered it. Because she chose it. Because after a night like this, she’s looking straight at me and asking for closeness, not escape.
I cup her face, careful, and search her eyes. “You sure?”
“Yes.” Her voice is steady now. “I don’t want to be afraid in my own skin. Not with you.”
That’s all it takes.
I kiss her like I mean it—which is to say, slow at first, patient, letting her set the pace. She tastes like diner coffee and peppermint lip balm and the kind of sweetness I don’t deserve and can’t walk away from. Her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders; her sigh ghosts across my mouth. When she rises onto her toes and presses closer, asking, I answer.
Heat builds, a low thrum under my ribs that turns greedy the second she opens for me. Our kiss deepens. I angle us until her back meets the edge of the kitchen island, her hips slotting against mine in a way that makes my grip tighten. She makes asmall, helpless sound—my new favorite thing—and the control I’ve been clinging to frays.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur against her mouth. It’s not a dare. It’s a safety line. “Anytime.”
She shakes her head, breathless. “Don’t.”
My hands find her waist, then slide up, mapping the lines I’ve only let myself memorize in quick glances. She’s soft under my palms, warm, alive. I lift her onto the island; she gasps, legs falling open to bracket my hips, and the contact blanks my thoughts to white for a second.
“Greta,” I say, because her name is the only prayer I know.
“Nate,” she answers, and somehow the way she says mine is both permission and need.
We take our time and somehow not at all. Clothes loosen, edges blur. I trail my mouth along her jaw, down the line of her throat; she tips her head to give me more, fingers buried in my hair now, pulling just enough to make me groan. I slide my hands under the hem of her sweater; she lifts her arms and I peel it away, reverent, grinning when she mutters something about the thermostat and I murmur, “I’ll keep you warm.”
I do.
She’s gorgeous in my hands—curves and confidence, strength and softness—and when I mouth along the curve of her shoulder and feel her shiver, something tender and dangerous kicks hard in my chest. I want to be careful. I want to be ruinous. I choose both: steady hands, hungry mouth, a pace that saysI’m hereeven while it saysI want.
“Bed,” she breathes against my ear.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough, and lift her like she weighs nothing.
I carry her across the room, and set her down on the edge of the bed. She pulls me with her, laughing a little, the sound breathless and brave, and the laugh kills me more than anything.
We slow again, because I want to remember all of it. Every inch. Every sound. The way her hands learn me back, finding the scar on my shoulder, the tired muscles at the base of my spine, the places that make me forget my own name. I ask twice more if she’s sure, not because I doubt her, but because I like hearing her sayyes.She gives me more than yes—she gives mepleaseanddon’t stopand my name the way a woman says it when she’s not going anywhere.
“I,... uh…” she stutters, and I stop.
I gaze into her eyes. “What is it?” My heart is pounding in my ears.
“I’m scared.”
My heart stalls. “What do you mean?” I say, carefully.
Her cheeks tinge pink. “The last time I was with someone, he hurt me.”
My chest cracks wide open at her admission. “I’m the type of man who lives for missions. I have a mission and then I execute it. And tonight… that mission is to make you feel good. To cherish you. To worship at the fucking ground you walk on, Greta.”
