The word settles over me like a blanket. I’ve been alone for so long, I forgot what it feels like to have someone close.
“I’m still scared,” I whisper.
“Me too.”
“You don’t look scared.”
“I’m good at hiding it.” He leans in and presses his forehead to mine. “But you scare the hell out of me, Sasha. You walk into my life in a ridiculous costume with cookies and Christmas carols, and suddenly everything I thought I wanted—the silence, the solitude, the safety of being alone—none of it means anything compared to this.”
My breath catches. “Red?—”
“I’m not good at this, you know, at talking, or letting people in.” His hand slides to the back of my neck. “But I’m trying. For you, I’m trying.”
I close the distance and kiss him, softly at first, just a press of lips. Then his mouth opens, and he deepens it into something that tastes like coffee and promise and the terrifying hope that maybe this could be real.
When we break apart, I’m breathless.
“I need you to know something,” I say against his mouth.
“Tell me.”
“Last night wasn’t just sex for me. It was—” I search for the right words. “It was the first time I felt like someone saw all of me and didn’t flinch. You didn’t try to change me. You let me be.”
Red’s grip tightens on my neck, possessive and protective all at once. “I don’t want you smaller. I want you like this—loud and messy and taking up space in my life.”
A tear slips down my cheek. He catches it with his thumb.
“I’m going to ruin your reputation as a grumpy hermit if I keep crying on you.”
“Good.” His mouth curves, just barely. “I never liked that reputation, anyway.”
Oh God!
I laugh, and he kisses me again. This time it’s slower, deeper, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. His hand slides down my spine under the shirt, and I shift closer.
“Sasha,” he murmurs against my lips.
Hearing my real name in his voice creates new memories for me. I love it. “Yeah?”
“Can I have you again? Slowly this time. I want to take my time with you.”
The manners on this man. Asking me politely if he can ruin me.
It’s the rawness in his voice, the vulnerability—it’s not about sex. It’s about intimacy. Connection. The terrifying act of letting someone in when every instinct says to protect yourself.
“Yes,” I whisper. “You never have to ask.”
He kisses me softly, like we have all the time in the world. His mouth moves against mine with just enough pressure to remind me how good he is at this. I sink into it, my toes curling.
His palm strokes down my spine, dragging the shirt up inch by inch. Every brush of his skin makes my breath catch. The kiss deepens—not rushed or greedy, though. It’s like he’s tasting and learning and taking his time. I shift without thinking, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle him. His hands settle on my thighs, wide and patient.
“You’re really going to let me have my way with you in your own shirt.”
His eyes darken. “I’m hoping you do.”
I grind against him, slow and deliberate, and the way his hands tighten tells me he feels every inch.
“I want to go slow this time,” he says. “There’s no rush.”
