My lungs did a strange, grateful thing. “My head could use a break.”
His mouth tipped. He moved then—unhurried, deliberate—closing the distance until he stood between my knees. His fingers came to the nape of my neck, the way they had on the porch, gathering the escaped curls like silk rope. Not a hold. A promise.
“Breathe with me,” he said.
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath tight and high until I followed him. The room widened. The bed steadied. The ocean slid in through the cracked window, a hush I could use.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl.”
The praise hit like warmth poured into a hollow I hadn’t known needed filling. My body softened, jaw loosening.
“Tell me what scares you,” he said.
God, where to start? “I’ll do it wrong,” I said, the words tasting like humiliation and relief. “I’ll be … awkward. I’ll think too much. I’ll ruin it.”
“You can’t ruin what we want,” he said. “But I’ll make this simple.”
He let my hair slip from his hand. Both palms came up to frame my face, thumbs resting light at the hinge of my jaw. “You say stop, I stop.” His gaze didn’t flicker. “Say it.”
“Stop,” I repeated, absurdly breathless.
“And you say yes when you want me to keep going.” He held there, waiting.
“Yes,” I said, and heard how hungry the word sounded.
He dipped, finally, and kissed me. Not the porch-kiss, all lightning-strike and inevitability. This one was slow, patient, the kind of kiss that insisted on presence and burned hotter for it. His mouth shaped mine, changed angle, pressed, retreated, returned like he was mapping a coast and choosing harbors. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, an ask. I opened to him, and the permission lit him up—his hand slid to cup the back of my head, the other falling to my waist, pulling me flush.
Desire surged, bright and bright and then brighter, and with it the old voice:do it right, do it pretty, do it perfect?—
He felt it. Of course, he did. He eased back before I could derail myself, bowing his forehead to mine.
“Stop thinking,” he murmured. “Feel.”
“I’m trying,” I whispered, frustrated with myself.
“I know.” He kissed the corner of my mouth, then the other. “Let me help.”
He knelt.
The bed creaked as he slid his hands to my ankles, that simple touch unraveling me. He untied my sneakers with a competence that made my chest ache, tugged them off, set them side by side like he respected what carried me. Socks next. The air against my bare feet felt indecent. He stroked a thumb along the arch of one, lazy, appreciative, and I shivered so hard I was glad the mattress had me.
“Sensitive,” he said, sounding like he’d found treasure.
“Apparently.”
His hands skimmed up my calves, over the dusty denim, to the button of my jeans. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t make me ask. He looked up instead, drawing the moment tight. “Yes?”
“Yes.” The word came out low and certain. I wanted my skin under his hands. I wanted it like oxygen.
He popped the button, drew the zipper inch by inch, the sound as loud as a decision. He slid the denim down my thighs, the backs of his fingers grazing my skin until goosebumps chased heat. I lifted my hips because instinct had outrun propriety. He peeled the jeans away, folded them, set them on the chair.
My underwear was plain, pink cotton gone thin with wear. I flushed—because habit—and his eyes, roving and rapt, softened and sharpened at once.
“Beautiful,” he said, and made it sound like a diagnosis, not a courtesy.
He kissed the inside of my knee. A press of mouth. A pause. Another, higher. Heat strobed under my skin. He kissed the tender place where thigh met thigh, and my breath stuttered.
“Gideon.” A plea. A warning. I didn’t know.
