I nod, throat too tight to speak.
He lets go of me hesitantly, then crosses the room in three long strides, hits a button on the console, and soft golden light floods the studio.
Warm.Dim.Intimate.
Then he comes back to me—slowly, like he’s memorizing each step.
His hand cups my cheek.
“Sparky,” he murmurs, “last chance to tell me no.If I touch you right now, I’m not stopping.”
A shiver races down my spine.
“I don’t want you to stop, Nathan.”
He doesn’t kiss me right away.
No—Nathan leans his forehead against mine, breathing me in, grounding us both in the moment like it matters.
Like I matter.
Then he lifts me—just lifts me as if I weigh nothing, as if carrying me is instinct carved into his bones—and I gasp, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as he walks us to the wide leather couch along the studio wall.
He lowers me with such care, such quiet devotion, that my throat tightens.
We sink into the cushions together, tangled and hungry, but everything about the way he touches me is slow.
So.
Goddamn.
Slow.
His mouth brushes mine, barely a whisper of a kiss at first.
Then again—deeper, warmer—like he’s relearning me piece by piece, breath by breath, memory by memory.
I kiss him back like I’ve been waiting sixteen years to breathe again.
Because I have.
A flood of moisture rushes between my thighs, and I clench them together to give me some relief.But it doesn’t work.
His hands roam my body not in a rush, not greedy, but reverent.
Almost shaking.
As if I’m something precious he’s afraid might vanish if he holds too tight.
And his voice—God, his voice—he whispers against my skin, the words hot and aching.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I never should’ve left.”
“I love you.Fuck, Sparky, I love you.I love you.”
