"I think you are," I say. "You just don’t let most people see it."
His breath comes harder now, like he’s fighting himself. "You deserve soft."
"Then be soft with me," I whisper. "Tonight. Just me and you."
He doesn’t speak. He just moves.
Lifts me off the floor like I weigh nothing. Carries me to his bed.
The towel slips from my body as he lays me down, and I feel his gaze drag over me. Slow, reverent, hungry.
"You’re beautiful," he says. "God, Willa. You’re so damn beautiful."
Heat blooms in my chest. I reach for him, and he comes down over me, bracing himself on his elbows, careful not to crush me. Our lips meet again, this time slower. Like he’s memorizing me.
"You’ll tell me if something doesn’t feel good," he murmurs, kissing down my neck.
I nod, breath catching. "I will."
He touches me like I’m made of silk. Like he’s unwrapping something rare. His hand trails down, learning every curve, every inch of bare skin with a kind of restraint that nearly unravels me more than anything else.
"Breathe," he whispers when I tense. "We have all night."
And we do.
He takes his time. Starts slow. Reverent.
His mouth brushes the tips of my fingers, one by one, like he’s memorizing the shape of them. Then he trails kisses up theinside of my wrist, along the bend of my elbow, down the curve of my waist. Each touch is unhurried. Like he wants me to feel every second of it.
His lips find the hollow of my throat. I tilt my head, offering more, and he lingers there, breathing me in.
Then lower. Between my breasts. Along the valley of them. He takes his time with each, pampering them with a care that makes my breath catch. Slow kisses, the graze of his tongue, the press of his palm.
He keeps going, mouth moving down to my stomach. His hands slide along the insides of my thighs, coaxing them open, spreading me wide with a gentleness that feels almost reverent.
“Sebastian…” I whisper, arching toward him, already trembling.
“Shhh.” His breath is hot against my skin. “Let me. You are so beautiful, Willa.”
I close my eyes.
And let go.
The world blurs at the edges. Nothing exists but the heat of his tongue, the grip of his hands anchoring me, the slow, dizzying build of something bright and consuming rising from deep inside me.
My fingers twist in the sheets. My hips lift, chasing every flick of his mouth. My thighs tremble, muscles drawn tight like a bowstring.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, voice ragged. “Please. Don’t stop.”
His name escapes me like a prayer.
He works me like he’s learning me for the first time. Worshipping every inch with care. The slow strokes of his tongue grow more focused.
My breath shortens. My back arches. The world tilts.
“Good girl,” he whispers against me. “Come for me.”
And I do.
