Because we don’t need to.
His fingers find mine under the blanket, lacing them together before his other hand drifts to rest on my waist. His thumb strokes gently over the thin cotton, over skin that feels far too sensitive for something so innocent.
“You warm enough?” he asks, voice low, almost a whisper.
I nod. “You’re a furnace.”
He chuckles, leaning in just enough to kiss the corner of my mouth.
It’s soft.
Barely there.
But it lights something up inside me.
My hand drifts up to the collar of his flannel, fingers toying with the open edge. I feel the heat of his chest beneath, the slow, steady beat of his heart. And when I inch closer, the movement is inevitable.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, but still slow. Still careful. Like he’s memorizing me. His hand slides up beneath the sweatshirt, fingertips brushing bare skin at my waist, my ribs, up the slope of my back.
I shiver.
Not from cold.
From how seen I feel.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his forehead resting against mine. “This okay?”
“More than okay,” I whisper, voice unsteady.
My hand slips beneath the edge of his shirt now, palm flattening against his chest. He’s warm, solid. The heat between us curls tighter as our breathing syncs, both of us trying not to get carried away and both of us failing.
His lips return to mine, and this kiss is deeper. More open. My tongue brushes his, and he groans low in his throat like it undoes him. His hand slips higher under my shirt, tracing the underside of my breast, but never quite touching it fully.
I arch into him. Just a little.
He breaks the kiss with a shaky breath, eyes dark and heavy. “Charlie…”
“I know,” I whisper, thumb brushing his cheek. “I feel it too.”
We stay wrapped in each other, breath mingling, hands wandering just enough to tease but not enough to break the spell.
And when he kisses my neck, slowly, carefully, I let out the softest sound and hold him closer.
Because this?
This is the kind of foreplay that ruins you from everything else.
His mouth is at my neck, lips trailing slow kisses along the curve of my throat, and I feel the shift. That barely there moment where everything changes.
His breath hitches, his hand stills beneath the sweatshirt.
“Charlie,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, like gravel soaked in honey. “If we keep going…”
I nod before he finishes.
“I want to.”
His eyes search mine for the briefest moment, and whatever he sees there, it undoes him. He kisses me again, slower than before, deeper, his hand cupping the back of my neck like I’m something precious. When he pulls away, his voice is wrecked.
