The zipper of my dress is slow under his fingers, deliberate, reverent. He drags it down inch by inch, mouth never leaving mine. The velvet slackens, slipping over my shoulders, baring my skin to the chill. His hands follow, warm, steady, mapping every line like he’s reading a language only he understands.
“You knew what you were doing,” he whispers, lips brushing my collarbone. “Walking in red.”
“You think I wore it for you?”
“I know you did,” he says easily, and the way my stomach flips tells me he’s right.
I laugh against his mouth, shaky. “Cocky.”
“Confident,” he corrects, eyes burning. “There’s a difference.”
The dress puddles at my feet. I stand there in lace and nerves, but his gaze is so reverent, so hungry, I don’t think of shame. I think of power.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, like it’s the only word left in him.
My hands move to his tie, tugging it loose, sliding it free. He smirks. “Impatient?”
“Equal,” I remind him, tossing the tie onto the chair.
His chuckle vibrates through me. “God, I love you.”
I work the buttons of his shirt, one by one, slower than I mean to. My fingers lingers over scars, tracing the stories etched into his skin.
The shirt slides away, revealing muscle, strength, history. My hands explore, learning him in a way I never let myself before. His breath hitches, his eyes darkening, but he lets me. He lets me take my time.
The bed brushes the back of my legs. He pauses, eyes searching mine. “Still okay?”
My chest aches with the weight of the choice, but the answer is easy. “Better than okay.”
He exhales, like I’ve just pulled him back from a cliff. “Say it again.”
“I want this, Triston. I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
He lowers me onto the mattress with care that borders on reverence. His mouth follows mine—slow, deliberate—kisses trailing from lips to jaw to throat, each one pulling a sound from me I didn’t know I could make. His hands explore with patience, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world.
And maybe he does.
The night stretches. We tease between breaths—me daring him to stop being so careful, him laughing against my skin, reminding me he’s not rushing something he’s dreamed of too long. I challenge him not to hold back. He dares me to tell him what I want. I do. I tell him everything.
When it finally happens, it isn’t frantic. It’s slow. It’s devastating. He looks into my eyes the entire time, like he’s memorizing not just my body but my soul.
I whisper his name like a prayer and a curse at once.
Neither of us hides anymore.
Every look says it’s time. There’s no fear left, just the ache of knowing what’s about to happen. Our breathing finds the same rhythm; his kiss warms the skin at my throat; his whisper ignites it.
“No rules tonight.” A kiss. “Only truth.”
I’ve imagined this a hundred times, but nothing about it feels rehearsed. He’s gentler than I expected, rougher than I remembered. Each touch feels like he’s asking permission without words, and my answering breath gives him everything he needs.
“Tellme what you need,” he growls—command disguised as question.
Language deserts me. There’s only him. I pull him closer, my hands sliding up his shoulders, drawing him against me until his warmth fills every space I kept hidden.
The sound he makes when I move against him sends a shockwave through me. He pauses, meeting my eyes. “You sure?”
