I crouch on the cold tile; arms wrapped around my knees. The water flows over my back. I scrub my skin, as if I can wash away his touch.
But it’s not just the touch. It’s the feeling. The damn feeling.
Hemade me feel again.
The memory crashes over me, shattering, like a wave that hits with full weight.
* * *
It was that early spring night when we met, and talked, and danced—bodies pressed close, Latin beats pulsing between us, sweat, laughter, and something that felt like forever.
That night, we made love for the first time. That night, I gave myself to him fully, without hesitation.
I was twenty-one and still a virgin. Not because I was saving myself for some promise or ideal. But because no one had ever truly seen me.
Until him.
And when Dorian looked at me, I just knew.
He wasn’t a stranger. He was the man who would save me, protect me, love me. My man.
There was no fear, no doubt. Only the sure, quiet knowing that he was mine—and I was his.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the city skyline and the flicker of candlelight dancing on the walls. My red shirt slid off one shoulder. His hands caught it mid-fall—with reverence, with care—his fingertips brushing my skin like worship.
Then his mouth. Everywhere. My throat, my collarbone, the soft underside of my breast.
He learned me. Slowly.
His tongue left heat in its wake, tracing the outline of a body I barely recognized as mine.
When he cupped my breast and kissed it, I arched toward him, breath caught. And when his fingers slipped between my thighs, finding the ache, the want—
I gasped.
His touch was gentle but sure. His pace unhurried.
I opened for him.
And when he finally slid inside me, inch by inch—a soft, aching stretch—filled with pressure and wonder, I moaned his name like it was the only word I’d ever known.
Tears blurred my vision—not from pain, but from the overwhelming knowing.
That this was it. That he was the one.
His body—hot, strong, impossibly real—pressed against mine, and I wrapped around him like I’d waited a lifetime to be held.
I still remember the scent of him—dark, male, entirely Dorian. The heat of his skin. The solid weight of him above me.
And his dark, intense, consuming eyes… They locked onto mine as he moved inside me—eyes that didn’t just look at me, but into me. As if he could see every breath, every tremble, every truth I tried to hide.
He made love to me like a man discovering a temple—equal parts reverence and hunger. Every thrust deeper, slower, then faster—never rushed, always knowing.
After, when our fingers intertwined above my head, he leaned in close and whispered, cracked and breathless:
“Mine. You are mine.”
Not a claim or possession. But a vow. To love me and protect me. Always.
