I reached for his hand before fear could stop me. “You are with me.”
“That’s not?—”
“I’m not saying you’re fixed,” I interrupted gently. “I’m saying you don’t have to run from me.”
Something broke then. Not loudly. Quietly. Like a seam giving way.
“I don’t know how to be the man you need,” he whispered.
“I’m not asking you to,” I said. “Just this one. Right now.”
I leaned in, resting my forehead against his. Grounding. Present.
“You’re allowed to hurt,” I murmured. “You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to want and still feel unworthy.”
His breath shuddered.
“And you’re safe with me,” I said, voice steady despite the ache in my chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The kiss came slowly.
I kissed him because I wanted him to feel anchored. Because I wanted him to feel wanted without expectation.
My hands slid to his shoulders. His to my waist.
The world narrowed.
We didn’t rush. We didn’t speak much.
When we finally moved together, it was with intention—not hunger, but connection. I led him, this time. Showed him with touch and presence what my words had promised.
That he wasn’t alone.
That he was held.
His mouth lingered on mine, soft at first, tasting of salt from the air and the faint bitterness of whatever storm raged inside him. But as my fingers threaded through his short hair, pulling him closer, the kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my stomach flutter with that now-familiar heat.
It was sweet that he'd been my first, teaching my body things I'd only ever imagined in secret. I was still sore in places, a tender ache between my thighs that reminded me of how he'd stretched me, filled me, made me come apart under him. And yet, here I was, wanting more, my inexperience making every touch feel new and overwhelming.
Micah's hands tightened on my waist, lifting me gently until I straddled his lap right there on the edge of the pier, my knees pressing into the rough wooden planks on either side of his hips.
The wind whipped my hair around us, carrying the briny scent of the marsh, and the distant lap of water below felt like a heartbeat syncing with ours.
"Joy," he murmured against my lips, his voice rough, hesitant, like he was afraid he'd break me—or himself.
"I'm here," I whispered back, my hands sliding down his chest, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath his shirt, the same powerful body that had loomed over me in my bedroom.
I tugged at the hem, and he helped me pull it off, exposing his broad, sculpted torso to the cool night air. Goosebumps rose on his skin, but his eyes burned dark and intense as they met mine. He was beautiful in a brutal way, and the sight of him still made me shy, even after everything.
He kissed me again, harder this time, his palms skimming up my thighs under my skirt, pushing the fabric higher until his thumbs brushed the edge of my panties. I gasped into his mouth, already wet for him, embarrassed by how quickly my body responded.
"You're sure? Here?” he asked, voice low, fingers pausing as if giving me an out.
I nodded, rocking against him instinctively, feeling the hard length of him straining through his jeans. "Yes. I want to feel you. All of you."
With careful hands, he eased my panties aside, his fingers gliding through my slick folds, teasing my clit in slow circles that made my hips buck. I was still learning what felt good, but his touch was patient, guiding.
"Like this?" he asked, dipping one thick finger inside me, then two, stretching me gently as I clung to his shoulders.
