His hands slide up my sides, slow and reverent, until they cup my breasts through the thin lace of my bra. His thumbs graze my nipples, sending a shiver down my spine, and I arch involuntarily, my breath hitching. With a soft tug, he works the clasp loose, sliding the bra away. His mouth trails kisses across my collarbone before claiming one newly bared peak with his tongue, the sensation drawing a low moan from me.
“Dorian…” My voice is already breaking apart.
He lifts his head, his gaze searing into mine as his fingers hook under the band of my underwear. With a single, unhurried motion, he slides it down my hips, his touch whisper-light, and I feel stripped of more than just fabric.
And then it happens.
The instinct. My chest tightens. My gaze drifts to the side, away from him, searching for the distance that’s always been my shield. My mind begins to float, to withdraw, the way I learned to in those moments when feeling was too dangerous. My body stiffens, retreating somewhere safe, somewhere silent.
But he feels it instantly.
“Della,” he whispers, his hand finding my cheek, warm and grounding. He tips my chin up gently until my eyes lock with his. “Stay with me.”
My lips part on a shaky breath, but he doesn’t rush me. He leans close enough that I feel his breath on my skin, his voice low and husky, laced with something that’s both command and plea.
He presses his forehead to mine, his breath warm against my skin.
“You don’t have to hide anymore,” he says, every word a vow. “It’s me, Love.”
Something in me cracks. A tear slips down my cheek as I nod, barely.
His thumb wipes it away
“Look at me,” he says softly. “I need you here. With me.”
His eyes hold mine as his mouth trails lower, reverent, adoring. He kisses each inch of my skin as though replacing every scar, every shadow, with something sacred. My breast. My stomach. My hips. Each kiss feels like a vow:you’re safe, you’re mine, you’re loved.
“Dorian…” My voice wavers, but it’s no longer from fear.
“Let me love you,” he murmurs, voice threaded with devotion.
His hand glides up over my abdomen, fingers tracing the soft curve of my ribs.
He doesn’t rush. His mouth follows, warm and insistent, lingering just long enough to tease each sensitive peak with the flick of his tongue before moving lower.
He brands every inch of me with soft, deliberate kisses—like he’s rewriting every touch that hurt, every moment I was made to feel anything less than cherished.
The other hand finds mine, our fingers threading together tightly, holding me there—anchored—like he’s afraid I might slip away.
“You feel incredible,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving mine.
His mouth finds me slowly, tenderly, like he’s memorizing every reaction.
The first touch of his tongue between my legs makes me cry out, my hips jerking helplessly, and his hand presses lightly at my waist, guiding me, steadying me.
His mouth worships me with a skillful patience that has my pulse racing, his lips and tongue unleashing waves of pleasure I can’t contain.
Pleasure builds like a tide I can’t control, rising higher and higher until it swallows everything else.
For the first time in five years, I don’t fight it.
I let myself feel.
His fingers stroke me slowly at first, teasing, circling, making my breath hitch with every pass. Then one finger slides inside me, curling just right, and another follows—stretching me, filling me.
My hips arch instinctively, chasing the sensation as his tongue continues its slow, deliberate caress against my clit, each flick sending shivers through me while his thumb brushes over the sensitive bundle of nerves above.
I’m shaking, clutching at his hand, my nails biting into his skin like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this world. And then—
