He doesn’t pull me in; he just waits.
“You shouldn’t have this effect on me,” I whisper.
“Then tell me to stop.”
I can’t. I could lie to myself for hours, but here—with him so close, with his breath brushing my skin—I can’t make the words form.
I know he feels it. The way something in me shifts, loosens, cracks.
His hand slides down to my waist, warm and firm, fingertips pressing just enough to ground me. My breath falters. My pulse races.
“Eden,” he says softly, “I’m not going to take what you don’t give.”
The air leaves my lungs in one shaky exhale.
Then I move.
I grab the front of his shirt and pull him to me. The kiss hits hard—messy, hungry, desperate in a way that steals both our breath. His hands tighten around my hips, dragging me flush against him. I feel every inch of him, every intention, every sharp shift in his breathing.
His mouth claims mine with the same intensity as the night before, but this time I’m the one losing control. My fingers slide into his hair. My body arches into his. Heat floods me as his hand slips under my shirt, palm flattening against my stomach before moving upward in one slow, devastating stroke.
“Eden,” he murmurs against my lips.”
The moment unravels fast—my shirt lifting, his mouth trailing down my neck, my breath breaking in small, needysounds I never knew I could make. His hands memorize me—slow at first, then firmer, hungrier, like he’s mapping every inch of my skin.
“You’re scared,” he whispers, kissing the edge of my jaw.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“You still want this.” His mouth brushes my collarbone. “You still want me.”
A soft, helpless sound escapes me—confirmation, confession, surrender all wrapped together. I grip his shoulders and pull him closer, burying the last of my hesitation in the warmth of his body.
Once I move, once I give in, there’s no gentleness left.
His hands grip my thighs and pull me into his lap as he sinks onto the couch. It’s my legs tightening around him, my head falling back as his mouth drags fire along my throat. It’s the way he groans into my skin when I roll my hips, the way his hands explore—firm, certain, claiming without trapping.
“You’re shaking again,” he mutters against my breast as his mouth closes over me.
His hands slide down my hips, guiding me, gripping me, pulling me against him with a rhythm that steals my breath. I cling to him, nails dragging down his back as pleasure builds sharp and fast, coiling in my stomach, tightening with each movement.
“I shouldn’t want this,” I gasp.
“But you do,” he says, lifting his head to look at me—really look at me—while his hands move with deliberate, devastating precision. “You want this so badly your whole body’s begging.”
His words break something inside me. I fall into him, into the heat, into the way he touches me like he already knowsexactly how I come apart. My climax hits fast, rough, ripping through me in a tremor that shakes my whole body.
When it’s over, I collapse against him—boneless, breathless, undone. His arms come around me automatically, steadying me. Holding me.
When I finally pull back, my legs wobble. I straighten my shirt with shaky hands, avoiding his eyes.
Simon watches me in unnerving silence. His gaze is softer than I’ve ever seen it—warm, reverent almost. It makes my stomach twist.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like you… care.”
