My breath caught as his fingertips brushed the curve of my collarbone—barely a touch, so soft it was almost imagined. But it lit something wild under my skin. Heat bloomed everywhere he wasn’t touching, and I leaned in, helpless against the pull.
I wanted more.
Every inch of wet fabric between us felt wrong now. Heavy. In the way. A barrier that had no business still existing.
He reached for the hem of my shirt, eyes never leaving mine. And when he pulled it up—slow, reverent—I let him. The fabric clung stubbornly for a moment before peeling away from my skin, falling to the floor with a wet slap.
The cool air rushed in, stealing my breath for a second.
But the look in his eyes?
It made me forget the cold.
He looked at me like I was something sacred. Like I was a truth he’d waited too long to touch.
“Do you want this?” he asked, voice low, rough, his words trembling with something more than lust.
My heart skipped.
Not from nerves.
From knowing.
“I want you,” I breathed. Honest. Desperate. Certain.
That was all it took.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against mine—so soft, so slow. A kiss full of everything we hadn’t said. A kiss that asked instead of took.
There was no rush now.
No panic. No performance.
Just the two of us unraveling each other.
His hands slid down my sides, mapping me like a memory he refused to forget. When they reached my waist, he paused—just for a second—before unhooking my bra with a tenderness that made my chest ache.
Every motion was careful. Earned.
I didn’t feel stripped.
I felt seen.
The storm outside still raged, wind rattling the windows, thunder echoing across the sky. But in here? In his arms?
Everything was still.
And as I stood there—drenched, breathless, trembling—I realized I wasn’t afraid.
Not of him.
Not of this.
Because somehow, in the wreckage of everything we’d survived…
We’d found something worth falling into.
I didn’t fight him when he swept me into his arms.
