“Definitely,” I agreed against his mouth, pulling him closer.
His hand slid under my shirt, warm against bare skin, and I arched into the touch. He groaned and rolled us so I was beneath him, his weight braced on his forearms.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice rough. “Tell me this is a bad idea.”
“It’s probably a terrible idea.”
“Probably?” His mouth moved to my neck. “Just probably?”
“Definitely terrible.” My hands found his hair.
“Then tell me to stop.” His hand traced up my side, slow. “Use your words, Gianna.”
I pulled him back up to kiss me properly instead of answering, and that was apparently all the permission he needed.
“God, you’re going to kill me,” he breathed against my lips. “You know that?”
“You started this.”
“I definitely did not. You turned around and looked at me with those eyes and I was done for.”
“My eyes didn’t do anything.”
“Your eyes did everything.” He kissed me again, slower this time. “You have no idea what you do to me. None at all.”
His hands moved with purpose now, sliding under my shirt and tracing patterns that made me forget how to think. When he pulled back to look at me, his expression was serious.
“Last chance,” he said. “Tell me no and I’ll stop. We can go back to just lying here.”
“I don’t want just lying here.”
Relief flooded his expression.
Clothes disappeared gradually this time. Not rushed or desperate like yesterday, but deliberate. He kissed my shoulder when my shirt came off, traced patterns on my collarbone that made me shiver. His hands moved with careful attention, learning the shape of me like he had all the time in the world.
There was something different about tonight. Yesterday had been fire and urgency, two people crashing into each other before doubt could catch up. But this—this was intentional. This was him choosing me with every unhurried touch, and something about that distinction made my chest ache in ways I wasn't prepared for.
When we were finally skin to skin, he paused to just look at me, his hand tracing from my shoulder down my arm to my hand, threading our fingers together.
I'd been looked at before. I'd been wanted before. But not like this. Not with this kind of quiet intensity that made me feel like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing. It terrified me. It made me want to hide and be seen all at once.
"What?" I asked when the silence stretched.
"Just thinking about how lucky I am." His voice was quiet, sincere. "That you're here. That you want this."
Lucky. The word landed somewhere soft inside me. I'd spent so long feeling like wanting was dangerous, like needing someone was just handing them the tools to hurt you. But the way he said it—likehewas the one who'd been given something precious—turned everything I thought I knew inside out.
"I do want this."
He leaned down and kissed me softly. "I want you more than I've wanted anything in my life."
I felt those words in my bloodstream, in the spaces between my ribs. Part of me wanted to deflect, to make a joke, to do anything to release the pressure building in my chest. But I couldn't. I didn't want to. For once, I wanted to sit in this feeling and let it be real.
When he moved over me, his eyes never left mine, watching my face with tenderness in his eyes.
"Look at me," he said when I started to close my eyes. "I need to see you."
I opened my eyes and found him watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
