"No," I whispered. "But I want it anyway."
His lips curved into a small smile. "That's honest."
He guided me to the nest, sitting me down on the edge. Then he knelt in front of me, his hands on my knees.
"We go at your pace," he said. "You say stop, we stop. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Good." His hands slid up my thighs, and I shivered. "Have you ever been touched here?"
"No."
"Here?" His fingers grazed higher, brushing the apex of my thighs through my jeans.
My breath caught. "No."
"Then we start slow."
He undressed me carefully, piece by piece. The jumper. The jeans. The underwear that was already soaked through.
I should have been embarrassed. I should have wanted to hide.
But the way he looked at me, like I was something precious, something worth savoring, made me feel powerful instead of vulnerable.
"Princesse," he breathed. "You're perfect."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His hands skimmed up my sides, over my ribs, cupping my breasts. His thumbs brushed my nipples, and I gasped.
"Sensitive?" he asked, his voice amused.
"Apparently."
He smiled against my skin, his mouth replacing his hands. I arched into him, my fingers tangling in his damp hair.
"Etienne—"
"You’re beautiful," he murmured against my breast.
"I am?"
"Yes. Do you need me to touch you?"
"Yes."
"Where can I touch you?"
My face burned, but I forced the words out. "Between my legs."
His hand slid down my stomach, over my hip, settling between my thighs. His fingers found slick heat, and he groaned.
"You're so wet, Princesse."
"Is that—is that normal?"
"It's perfect." He circled my clit, slow and gentle, and my hips bucked. "Easy. I've got you."
