“Hey.” His voice is thick with need, rough and gasping. “We’ve got time.”
Something in my chest pinches, like he reminded me I deserve to be unrushed.
So I slow down.
We undress each other the way people do when it means something. When the fabric is less an obstacle and more a ceremony. When every layer removed feels like revealing a story.
I hesitate as he peels the green wrap dress from around mybody, every muscle tight with the instinct to cover up. The light feels too honest, too unforgiving. I’ve spent years learning how to dress around my body, how to flatter, distract, conceal. I never learned how to simplybein it.
But then he looks at me.
Really looks.
When he sees me, there’s no flinch, no pause. Just reverence. His mouth trails kisses over my stretch marks like they’re constellations, his hands mapping all the soft parts I’ve spent years trying to fix with pilates or hide beneath PTA-appropriate blouses. He kisses my stomach like it’s sacred. He touches the hollow beneath my ribs like it’s a secret only he’s allowed to know.
My breath hitches.
“You’re killing me,” I whisper.
He looks up and murmurs, “Good.”
When he peels off my bra, he stares before taking a breath, like the sight of me undoes him in some fundamental way.
“God, you’re beautiful, B.”
His voice is husky, low, and under his gaze, I feel seen. And not the kind of seen where someone says you're pretty to be polite, but the kind where their voice catches and their eyes darken and you feel worshipped, a little.
We fall into bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter, our kisses growing deeper, hungrier, until there’s nothing left between us but skin and heat. His hands move over me, memorizing me, knowing every inch of me before he claims it.
Then he slides one hand between my thighs, his touch slow and deliberate, coaxing my body open with gentle strokes that make my breath catch. He watches me the whole time, his gaze dark, focused, reverent. My pleasure is a prayer he’s committed to answering.
Each movement builds on the last, and soon I’m arching into him, my thighs trembling, my fingers curled into the sheets. My voice breaks on a plea, low, desperate,honest.
“Please. I need you.”
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make me wait.
Instead, he leans in close, brushing his mouth against my jaw as he murmurs, “You have me.”
And then he pushes inside, slow and steady, filling me completely.
As he enters me, he exhales my name like it’s been lodged in his throat for years.
And when I finally let go, of the fear, of the past, of everything that’s kept me frozen, his name is the first thing I say too. Not because I’m thinking. But because it’s true.
My hands are on his back, tracing the shape of him, relishing in the rise and fall of muscle. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the soft dip of skin between my ribs and hip.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod, throat too thick for words. “More than okay.”
He moves slow. Anchored. Like he wants me to feel every second of this.
And I do.
It’s not fireworks and moans and drama. It’s breath and sweat and skin and knowing. It’s me whispering his name like a secret I’ve remembered. It’s him telling me I’m beautiful with his mouth on my jaw and his hands on my hips until I’m tightening around him and he’s pulsing inside me.
Later, when the air is thick with sleep and we’re a mess of limbs and tangled sheets, he runs his hand lazily over my side, his fingers whispering along the curve of me.
