I nodded. "I'm here."
He exhaled and almost laughed. "Yeah. You are."
We moved slowly. It was an effort to build safety.
He kissed me until our breathing synced up, and the tightness in my chest loosened.
When his hand slid beneath my shirt, his palm warm against my skin, I closed my eyes and sank into the sensation: the slight roughness of his fingers.
I arched into his touch. His other hand cradled the back of my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive hollow behind my ear. My breath caught.
"Good?" he murmured against my mouth.
I opened my eyes. His face was close enough to see the darker ring around his iris.
"Yes," I said. Then, because I needed him to know: "Don't stop."
He swept his hand along my torso, the ladder of my ribs and the dip of my waist. Each touch deliberate.
I reached for the hem of his shirt. He let me tug it over his head, and he did the same for mine.
Griffin's chest was warm and solid under my palms. I traced his collarbone with a fingertip.
I kissed him harder, less carefully, and he met me there. His hand slid to my lower back, pulling me closer until our bodies pressed together, skin to skin. The friction made me gasp.
"Slow," he reminded me. "We have time."
Time. It was almost a foreign concept. I'd spent years living in measured minutes—schedules and performances—each moment calibrated for maximum efficiency.
Griffin's lips left mine and trailed along my jaw, down the line of my throat. When he found the spot where my neck met my shoulder, he paused and breathed against my skin.
I tilted my head, giving him access.
His teeth grazed lightly, followed by his tongue, and heat shot straight up my spine. I dug my fingers into his shoulders.
"Griffin—"
"I know. I've got you."
We shed the rest of our clothing without urgency. When he wrapped his hand around my cock with sure, confident pressure, I exhaled and then shuddered.
He stopped momentarily. "Too much?"
I shook my head, unable to form words. Not too much. Exactly right. Exactly what I needed.
I reached for him, mirroring his touch. His forehead dropped onto my shoulder.
"Yoon-jae," he breathed, and the sound of my real name in that moment was the most intimate thing I'd ever heard.
We slowly ground our bodies together, finding a rhythm that wasn't rushed or desperate. When the pressure built up too high, Griffin slowed us down. When I needed more, he gave it to me without making me beg.
This was what it felt like to be chosen instead of managed.
My orgasm, when it came, wasn't dramatic. It was quiet and inevitable, tension finally allowed to break.
Griffin came shortly after with a quiet gasp.
After briefly cleaning up, I lay on my side facing him, legs tangled together. He brushed a thumb over my lower lip.
