"Can I lay you back?"
"On the bed?"
"On the bed. But you stay in control. If you want to stop, we stop. If you want to change positions, we change. This is yours."
"Mine." I tasted the word as he guided me back against pillows that smelled like sleepless nights and careful isolation. "I've never had a mine in this context."
"You do now."
He stretched out beside me, not covering me with his weight, not caging me in. Just present, patient, tracing patterns on my stomach that made muscles jump and flutter.
"Can I go lower?"
"I—" Panic fluttered. "What if I do it wrong?"
"There's no wrong. There's just what feels good for you."
"But Gabriel said—"
"Gabriel lied." Simple, certain. "Can I show you?"
I nodded, not trusting words. His hand slipped beneath cotton, finding me already wet—my body responding even as my mind struggled to catch up.
"So responsive," he murmured. "Is this okay?"
"Yes. But—slow. Please. I need slow."
"Whatever you need."
His fingers learned me like a new language, patient with my stuttering responses. Gabriel had touched me to prove points, to punish or reward or train. This was different. This was just because I felt good, because I deserved to feel good, because my pleasure mattered for its own sake.
"There?" he asked when I gasped.
"There. God, there."
"Tell me what you need."
"I don't know. I've never—it was always about what he needed."
"Not him. You. What do you need?"
"More. Less. Both." I laughed, edged with tears. "I don't have words for this."
"Then we'll find them together."
He circled that spot that made light bloom behind my eyelids, building something I'd felt before but never like this. Never chosen, never mine, never without the weight of performance.
"Can I use my mouth?"
The question broke something in me. "People don't—not for me—that's what I do for them to make them—"
"Can I use my mouth?" he repeated, patient as sunrise.
"Yes. God, yes. Please."
He shifted down the bed, removing the last barrier between us with careful hands. I wanted to close my legs, hide, perform the modesty that had been beaten into me. But his hands on my thighs were gentle, encouraging but not forcing.
"Beautiful," he said again. "Can I taste you?"
