James swore softly, holding me through it, his hand still moving—slower now, coaxing, grounding me as the aftershocks rippled through my body.
When I could breathe again, I lifted my head.
He was wrecked.
Eyes dark. Jaw tight. Every line of his body drawn taut with restraint he was barely holding onto.
“Your turn,” I said hoarsely.
Something flickered in his expression—surprise, then heat. He didn’t argue.
I hesitated only a second before sliding my hand down between us. The feel of him startled me—solid and warm and impossibly alive beneath my fingers. I froze, unsure, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.
James exhaled sharply.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
He covered my hand with his, bigger, warmer—guiding without taking over. Showing me the pressure. The rhythm. How to move without rushing.
“Like this,” he said softly.
I followed.
His breath stuttered. His head tipped back, a quiet sound breaking from his throat that sent a rush of heat straight through me. Confidence sparked where uncertainty had been a moment before.
I watched his reactions—the tightening of his grip, the way his body responded to my touch—and adjusted, learning him the way he’d learned me.
“Lumi,” he breathed, his voice rough. “You feel incredible.”
The hum pulsed low and deep, no longer demanding—anchoring. Every movement felt amplified, intimate, like we were locked into the same rhythm whether we wanted to be or not.
I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to his, moving with more certainty now. The storm outside faded to nothing. There was only breath and heat and the quiet, devastating awareness of how much power we were giving each other.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered.
I didn’t.
I kept moving—until his breath broke, until his body went taut beneath me, every muscle pulling tight as a sharp, helpless sound tore from his throat. My name left his mouth like a confession as he shuddered hard, fingers digging into my hips while the release rolled through him, uncontained and real.
Only then did I still, feeling the tremor beneath my palms, the way his forehead dropped against mine as he caught his breath.
“I’m past careful,” he said quietly.
His voice wasn’t reckless now. It was clear.
“I spent my whole life making smart choices. Playing it safe.” A breath. A beat. “And then I met you, and everything realigned. I would’ve followed you off a cliff if that’s where you were going.”
“That’s not romantic,” I murmured. “That’s suicidal.”
“Maybe.” His mouth curved against mine. “But it’s honest.”
I closed my eyes and let myself feel it—the weight of him beneath me, the warmth of him around me, the steady pulse of the hum that had become as natural as breathing.
“There’s so much I need to tell you,” I said. “Things that will change how you see me. How you see everything.”
“I’m ready.”
“Not yet.” I kissed him once more—soft, lingering. “But I will tell you everything. I’m just not ready, yet.”
