Then I stand and hold it open for her like a man starved for excuses to touch.
She licks her lips—don’t look at her mouth, don’t look at her mouth—and then she decides, and it’s a wonderful thing to watch.
I’m so fucking proud of her when she moves.
Slides out from under the covers.
Turns her back to me.
And it’s not just the trust in that moment that levels me—it’s the choice.
She lets me wrap her in something of mine.
My shirt.
My scent surrounding her.
I really like the idea of that.
Like it even better in real life.
I slide her arms through the sleeves and button the top few closures, fingertips grazing warm skin as I go.
I don’t rush.
I can’t.
I squeeze her arms gently, then press a kiss to the top of her head.
“There,” I murmur. “Better?”
She nods, eyes flicking up.
“Thank you.”
I can’t help it—I kiss her again.
Slower this time. Softer. No heat behind it, just the quiet kind of reverence that speaks louder than any words I’d fumble.
And the biggest miracle of all?
She kisses me back.
I stand there and watch while she disappears into the bathroom.
And when I see the door close, I jog to the kitchen and grab two bottles of water.
It gives me something to do, something to ground me when the air in the house still smells like her skin and her moans are etched into the fucking walls.
I’m back in the bedroom when she steps out of the bathroom.
And holy hell.
It’s not fair.
The sight of her—bare thighs, thick and gorgeous, her curves wrapped up in my shirt, the swell of her breasts pulling at the buttons like a damn temptation incarnate—I actually forget how to breathe for a second.
She’s radiant.
