We stumbled down the hall together, laughing once when I bumped into the edge of a table. He kissed it off my lips before I could second-guess it.
In my bedroom, the air felt charged, every careful corner of my orderly space now foreign with him in it. The bedspread I’d smoothed that morning looked too neat. Before I could think, Dane reached down and rumpled it with one sweep of his hand, a grin tugging at his mouth.
“That’s better,” he murmured.
I laughed again. Then his lips met mine, and the world narrowed to heat and breath and the soft thud of us tumbling onto the bed.
His hands were everywhere and nowhere, never rushing, never taking more than I offered. He traced the slope of my shoulders, the curve of my waist, the length of my arm until I shivered with goosebumps. When I tugged at his shirt, he pulled it over his head in one easy motion, his muscles flexing in the light from my bedside lamp. I ran my fingers across warm skin and felt him shudder beneath my touch.
“You drive me crazy,” he said, his voice gruff.
“I know the feeling,” I whispered.
He kissed me again—slower this time, more deliberate—like he wanted to taste every second of this moment and memorize it before it slipped away. His mouth lingered on mine until I felt dizzy from the softness of it, from the way his lips coaxed mine to respond instead of just taking what he wanted.
Then he guided me back, his hands bracing my hips, easing me down until my shoulders met the mattress and my head hit the pillow. His gaze swept over me, and for once, I didn’t feel studied, I felt seen.
The world narrowed to the sensation of his weight settling over me, solid and warm, grounding me in a way nothing else ever had. I arched into him, needing more, wanting everything. He gave me what I asked for, his lips charting a trail across my jaw, down my neck, along the dip between my collarbones.
The rasp of his beard scraped lightly across my skin, a teasing contrast to the gentle drag of his mouth. Every place he kissed felt marked, maybe even claimed.
When he found a spot just beneath my ribcage that made me gasp, he murmured my name against it. “Rowan.”
Just that. My name, low and rough and shaking slightly like it had cost him something to say it out loud.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice thick with restraint. “If you want me to stop, you need to say it now.”
“Don’t stop.” I dug my fingers into his shoulders, desperate and trembling. “Please don’t ever stop.”
That undid him.
I felt it in the way his breath stuttered, the way his control teetered on the edge. But somehow, he held on. His body rocked gently against mine, an exquisite kind of torment, every movement a study in patience I never would’ve expected from a man like him.
He kissed me with reverence, as if he wasn’t just touching my skin but learning all the pieces of me I kept hidden.
And he waited. Waited for me to tell him it was okay to keep going. Waited until I pulled him closer, my hips rising to meet his in a rhythm that felt like a plea. Every time my nerves threatened to spike, he paused—let me breathe—then gave me space to lead.
He let me choose him. Again and again and again.
He kissed me slower, like he wanted to burn it into memory. His lips lingered on mine, coaxing rather than taking.
Then he eased me back, bracing one hand behind my shoulders and the other at my hip, guiding me down until my head hit the pillow. His gaze swept over me like I was something rare, and I didn’t feel like a problem to be solved. I felt wanted.
“Rowan.” Just that—low and ragged, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to say it.
He sucked in a breath and pressed his forehead to mine, trying to hold on. But somehow, he did. He moved like a man who knew how to go slow, who understood how to touch without taking.
He kissed me like I mattered. Like this wasn’t just about release—it was about trust.
And when I tugged him closer, when I rolled my hips in invitation, he paused.
“You sure?” he asked, voice rough, breath shallow.
I nodded, too breathless to speak. He reached for his wallet, fished out a condom, and handled it with quiet efficiency that only made me want him more.
And then, finally, he was there. Solid, real, and mine.
Every thrust was patient. Every touch, deliberate. He let me set the pace, let me shift and adjust until it felt right. Until I stopped thinking and just felt.
