"I mean," she said dryly, "that most men treat foreplay like a formality, and actual sex like a sprint. This? This feels like you're trying to learn my body, not just get off."
I sat back slightly, one hand still resting on her hip. "I am."
Her breath caught.
"Izzy, I want towreckyou," I said, voice low and reverent. "But only in ways you want. I'm not in a rush. I've got all night. You're not a race."
She pulled me back down to her with a ferocity that made my blood roar. "Then shut up and keep going."
I obeyed, slowly dragging my mouth down the column of her throat, lingering at the sensitive spot just below her ear. Her breath hitched.
I kissed my way across her chest, teasing, savoring. When my hand slid between her thighs, she gasped and arched into me like she couldn’t help it.
“God,” she murmured, her hands threading into my hair. “Why does that feel so good?”
“Because I’m not in a hurry,” I said, lips brushing against her hip. “Because you deserve this. Every second of it.”
She didn’t respond with words — just a low, hungry sound that made me want to worship her for hours. And I did.
I teased her until she was shaking. I mapped every inch of her skin with my hands and mouth, catalogued every sound she made, every way she responded to my touch. She was strong and soft and fierce and vulnerable all at once, and when she finally came apart in my arms, her back arching off the bed and my name falling from her lips like a prayer, I thought I might die from the sheer privilege of witnessing it.
Her breath was still stuttering when I curled around her, pressing a kiss to the sweat-damp skin at the back of her neck. She reached for my hand and laced our fingers together without a word.
We lay like that for a while, skin to skin, heartbeats finding the same rhythm. I couldn’t remember the last time sex had felt like this — like a promise instead of a transaction.
"That was..." she started, then trailed off.
"Yeah," I agreed, pressing a series of feather-lite kisses to the top of her head. "It was."
We dozed for a while, but by ten p.m., my stomach was making demands that couldn't be ignored. I started to disentangle myself from her warm limbs.
"Where are you going?" she asked, catching my wrist.
"To make you dinner," I said. "Or breakfast. Whatever meal this counts as when you work nights."
She smiled, lazy and satisfied. "You don't have to — "
"I want to." I leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Stay right there."
I pulled on my boxer shorts and padded to the kitchen, flipping on the light and taking stock of what I had available. Mysourdough starter sat in its usual place on the counter, ready for its nightly feeding. Perfect.
I was in the process of stirring flour and water into the jar when Izzy appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of my t-shirts and nothing else. The sight of her — hair mussed, lips still swollen from kissing, my shirt hanging loose on her frame — made me forget what I was doing entirely.
"Is that sourdough?" she asked, hopping up to sit on the counter beside me.
"Mmhmm." I tried to focus on the starter, but she was sitting close enough that I could smell her shampoo, could see the faint marks my mouth had left on her neck. "Daily feeding ritual. You have to keep the culture alive, or it dies."
She watched me seal the jar and return it to its spot. "How long have you had it?"
"Two years. Started it from scratch when I moved into this place." I pulled a covered bowl from the refrigerator. "But the fun part is what I made yesterday."
Inside was a round of dough that had been cold-fermenting overnight, properly risen and ready for the final steps. I turned it out onto my floured work surface and grabbed my lame — a small blade designed specifically for scoring bread.
"What's that for?" Izzy asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
"Watch." I made quick, confident cuts across the top of the loaf in a pattern I'd perfected over hundreds of loaves. "The scoring lets the bread expand in the oven without tearing randomly. Plus it looks cool."
She laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. "You're such a nerd about this."
