His grip tightens fractionally. "You have me."
"I want more."
"More how?"
I roll my hips experimentally, watching his jaw clench as he hardens underneath me. "More touching. More?—"
"Holly." My name is a warning. "Be specific. I need words."
"I want..." I falter, heat flooding my cheeks. Even after last night, asking feels impossible.
"What did I tell you about hiding?" His voice is firm but gentle. "Tell me what you want, baby."
The endearment breaks something loose. "I want you to touch me. Everywhere. I want to feel what it's like when you stop holding back."
His eyes search mine. "You sure?"
"Yes."
"Safe word?"
"Mistletoe."
"Good girl." He stands, lifting me with him, my legs wrapping around his waist automatically. "Then let's move this somewhere more comfortable."
He carries me to the bedroom, sets me on the bed with a gentleness that contrasts with the heat in his eyes. The room is warm, lit by the last rays of sunlight through the window.
"Ground rules," he says, standing over me. "You tell me if something doesn't feel good. You use your words. And you trust me to know what you need even when you don't."
I nod, mouth dry.
"Say it."
"I trust you."
"Good." He sits beside me, cups my face. "I'm going to take my time with you. I'm going to learn every sound you make, every place that makes you gasp. And you're going to let me, because this—" He traces my bottom lip with his thumb. "—is what you asked for."
"Yes."
He kisses me slow and deep, one hand fisting in my hair with just enough pressure to make me melt. His other hand maps my body over my clothes. He trails his large hands across my ribs, down my waist, and over to my hips, like he's memorizing the geography of me.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"Tell me what you liked last night," he says. "What made you feel good."
My face flames. "Um. All of it?"
"Specific, Holly."
I squirm. "When you... when you held my wrists. Above my head."
"You liked feeling restrained?"
"Yes."
"What else?"
"When you told me I was being good. The praise."
