“Forget it,” she blurts. “That’s ridiculous. God, listen to me.”
“Eve—”
“I’m standing here in my pyjamas, saying things like that, and it’s pathetic.” Her voice breaks on the word. “Who does that? Who comes into someone’s room in the middle of the night to… to beg a guy to sleep with her?”
I move towards her, slow and careful, the way you’d approach something fragile. “Hey,” I say gently, “stop.”
She keeps going, words tumbling out faster, like she’s trying to outrun them. “You don’t have to say anything. I know what this looks like. I just—I thought—I don’t even know what I thought.”
“Eve,” I say again, a little firmer this time.
That pulls her up short.
“Why would you think that’s pathetic?” I ask.
She blinks, thrown off by the question.
“Because,” she says finally, her voice small now. “It’s me.”
And somehow that hurts more than anything else she could have said.
She stands there, small and uncertain, her shoulders tight, as if she’s bracing for the worst.
I take a slow breath, keeping my voice low. “Eve, look at me.”
She does, reluctantly, her eyes glassy and full of doubt.
“I want you,” I say. “More than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.”
Her lips part slightly, like she doesn’t believe me.
“I should’ve said it sooner,” I go on. “But I didn’t want to spook you. You have boundaries and I respect that.”
She shakes her head, still half hiding behind her hair. “You didn’t spook me. I just… didn’t think someone like you would even notice someone like me.”
“I noticed,” I say softly. “From the first day.”
That finally makes her look up.
“I’ve wanted you every single day since our first hike,” I admit. “But wanting you and rushing you are two verydifferent things. You matter to me, Eve. I wasn’t about to risk what we have by saying it the wrong way.”
Something in her expression shifts—disbelief melting into something raw and fragile and real.
I reach for her hand and hold it, just enough for her to feel it, not enough to trap her.
“You don’t need to be anything other than who you are,” I tell her. “You don’t have to perform, or pretend, or prove anything. I already want you exactly as you are.”
Her breath catches, and in that small, shaking sound, I can hear everything she’s been holding back.
I step closer, slow, like I’m approaching a skittish deer. My fingers brush against hers, her knuckles cool under my thumb. I don’t grab. I don’t pull. I just let my touch linger there, giving her time to step back if she wants to. She doesn’t.
“You’re trembling,”I murmur, my voice rougher than I intend. Not from nerves—fuck, I haven’t been nervous with a woman in decades—but from the effort of holding myself back. Because Iwanther. My cock is throbbing at the thought that I might finally be able to explore her body. But it is not just physical lust. It’s the way she looks at me, like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing. Like she’s been starving and I’m the first meal she’s been offered in years.
“I—I don’t know what I’m doing,” she reminds me again, her voice so quiet I have to lean in to catch it. Her cheeks flush pink, and fuck, that does something to me. This woman is forty-three years old, but right now, she might as well be twenty-one, all wide-eyed and uncertain, like she’s never been touched before.
“You don’t have to know,” I say, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “That’s why I’m here.”
Her breath shudders out. I take her hand properly this time, my fingers threading through hers, and lead her toward the bed. It’s a sturdy wood-framed thing, the sheets crisp and white, turned down just enough to invite us in. The light from the small bedside lamp casts long shadows that dance over her skin as she stands there, her free hand clutching the neckline of her pyjama top like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
