"Still okay?" he asked, hovering over me.
"Yes." My voice was steadier than I expected. "I just... I haven't done this much. With anyone."
"We can go slow."
"I don't want slow." I reached up, curled my fingers around the back of his neck, and pulled him down. "I want you. I've wanted you since that night on the terrace, and I'm tired of not having what I want."
Something broke open in his expression. He kissed me again, and this time, when his weight settled over me, I arched up to meet him, letting him feel how much I wanted this. How much I wanted him.
"Too many clothes," I gasped against his mouth.
He sat back and stripped off his shirt in one efficient motion. I'd seen his body before. Glimpses in the bathroom, the morning after the blackout. But never like this. Never with permission to look, to touch, to trace the scars that mapped his history.
My fingers found the puckered skin below his ribs and the thin white line across his shoulder.
"Someday," he said, covering my hands with his. "Not now."
"Not now," I agreed, pulling him back down.
He undressed me slowly, peeling away layers as if unwrapping something precious. Every inch of skin he revealed, he mapped with his mouth. My collarbone. My sternum. The sensitive spot below my ribs that made me gasp and arch off the bed.
When his tongue circled my nipple, my whole body jerked.
"Sensitive," he murmured against my skin.
"I didn't know." I swallowed hard. "I didn't know that about myself."
"We'll find all of them." He did it again, slower, and I fell apart beneath him. "Every spot. Every sound. I want to know everything."
By the time he worked my pants off, I was shaking. My cock was hard and leaking, and when he wrapped his hand around me and stroked, I nearly came.
"Vance." His name came out broken. "I'm not going to last."
"You don't have to last." Another slow, deliberate stroke. "We have all night."
"But I want..." I forced the words out through the pleasure haze. "I want to feel you. Inside me."
His hand stilled. His eyes met mine, dark with desire.
"Are you sure?"
"I've thought about it every night for two weeks." I held his gaze. "I'm sure."
He retrieved supplies from the nightstand. I watched him move, appreciating the flex of muscle, the controlled power in every motion. When he settled back between my thighs, I had to remind myself to breathe.
"We'll go slow," he said. "Tell me if anything doesn't feel right."
I nodded.
The first press of his finger against me made me tense. He waited, patient, until I deliberately relaxed. Then he was inside me, just barely, and the sensation was strange but welcome. Different. New.
"Okay?"
"Okay." I breathed out slowly. "More."
He added a second finger, stretching carefully. It burned slightly, an unfamiliar fullness that made me squirm. But beneath the burn was something else. A building pressure that felt almost like pleasure.
When he curved his fingers and found something inside me, the world went white.
