He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carries me to the bedroom like I’m breakable, like this is a moment he doesn’t want to rush or ruin.
When he sets me down, my fingers reach for the zipper of my dress, but his hand covers mine—warm, steady, sure.
“I got it,” he says, voice low.
He unzips me slowly, like every inch of revealed skin is something to be savored. The fabric slips down my body and pools at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties, heart pounding against bare ribs. I’ve never felt so exposed. Not just naked, but stripped open in every way that matters.
And he looks at me like I’m a miracle.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
I try to laugh, shaky and unsure. “You’re just saying that.”
He cups my face, grounding me with the quiet intensity in his eyes. “No. I’ve thought it for years. I should’ve said it every damn day.”
My breath catches. I nod toward the bed, the air between us charged, trembling. “Then come say it again.”
We fall into the sheets like we’re falling into each other—no walls, no pretending. Just skin and need and the kind of tension that’s been building for far too long. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breast, worshiping each inch with aching slowness. His hands explore me like he’s memorizing a sacred text.
I swallow hard, voice barely a whisper. “You’re going to have to tell me what to do. I’ve never…”
His gaze snaps to mine, and something in his expression softens, deepens. “I know, sugar.” He leans in, brushing his lips over mine. “I’ve got you.”
And then he kisses me. It’s slow, tender, and so full of feeling it splinters something deep inside me.
Everything that follows is deliberate. His hands. His voice. His body. He moves with patience and purpose, guiding me through every moment, every new sensation.
The stretch burns, but so does the wanting. And beneath it all is the weight of something bigger. Connection, devotion, the quiet awe of finally being seen and chosen.
I cling to him, breath hitching, body trembling, as he fills me in a way that goes far beyond physical. Every movement pulls me closer to something I didn’t know I needed until him.
He doesn’t stop touching me. Doesn’t stop murmuring my name like a promise. And when the tears come, unbidden and fierce, he kisses each one like it matters. Like they all do.
It’s not flawless. It’s not some perfect movie scene.
But it’s ours.
And when it’s over, he stays wrapped around me, arms tight, forehead pressed to mine, like he’s never letting go.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I nod.
“I don’t regret it,” I whisper back.
But what I don’t say is that I’ll only survive this if it means something.
Because if it doesn’t?
It’ll break me.
All over again.
20
Sunlight pours through the cracks in the blinds, warming the sheets tangled around our legs.
I’m the first to stir, but I don’t open my eyes right away.
