Lupo is standing in the hallway, waiting. His shirt is still off, the bandage I applied white against his tanned skin. He looks at me with eyes that are dark and hungry and full of question.
And something else.
Fear? Anxiety?
I hold out my hand and he takes it, his grip almost tentative.
I lead him to my bedroom and close the door behind us. The lamp on the nightstand casts everything in warm, golden light. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
He stands there, just inside the door, his chest rising and falling with careful breaths. Like he's restraining himself. Like he's afraid of what he might do if he lets go.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough. "We don't have to do this now. We shouldn't. I don't know who I am. What I'm capable of. What if I..."
"Stop." I step closer, close enough to touch his chest, to feel the heat radiating from his skin. "I trust you."
"You shouldn't." His hands flex at his sides, like he wants to reach for me but won't let himself. "I could be anyone. A criminal. A violent man. What if I hurt you?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that. I don't know that." His jaw is tight, every muscle in his body tense. "When I look at you, I want... God, Isabella, I want you so much it scares me. And I don't know if that want is normal or if it's something dangerous."
I take his hand and place it over my heart, letting him feel how it's racing. "Feel that? That's what you do to me. Not fear. Want. Need. The same thing you're feeling."
"Isabella."
I kiss him, pouring every ounce of want and need and trust into it. When I pull back, I'm breathless. "I'm sure. I want you."
Something in his expression breaks. The careful control slipping just slightly. "If I do something, if I'm too rough, if I hurt you... tell me. Promise me you'll tell me. You’ll stop me."
"I promise." I take his hand and bring it to the hem of my shirt. "Now touch me. Please."
His fingers curl in the fabric, trembling slightly. Then he pulls the shirt up slowly, so slowly, his eyes tracking every inch of skin he reveals. When it's off, he drops it to the floor and just stares.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "You're so beautiful it hurts to look at you."
Then his hands are on me, sliding up my ribcage, his touch feather-light. Like he's afraid I'll break. Like he's memorizing every curve, every line.
"You can touch me harder than that," I whisper. "I won't break. You won’t hurt me."
"But I might." His voice is strained. "I might lose control and then..."
I grab his hand and press it firmly against my breast, showing him. "I want you to touch me. Really touch me. Stop being so careful."
He makes a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a growl. His hand tightens, finally, and I gasp at the sensation.
"Like that?" His eyes are searching mine, watching for any sign of fear or pain.
"Yes. Exactly like that."
His other hand comes up, cupping my other breast, his thumbs brushing over my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra. I arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping before I can stop it.
"You like that."
It's not a question. He can see it in my face, feel it in the way my body responds to him.
"Yes."
His mouth finds my neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin there. One hand slides around my back, finding the clasp of my bra. He fumbles with it, his fingers less steady than his actions suggest, and I reach back to help him.
