No frantic hands.
No messy need to swallow each other's breath.
His bottom lip brushes mine again. Slow enough, I feel the shape of it. He lingers at the corner before sliding fully against my mouth again.
My hands find his bare shoulder. Warm skin. Solid muscle under my palms. I don’t pull him closer. Just hold his muscles.
He tilts his head the smallest amount, and the kiss deepens.
Still gentle.
Still soft.
A slow give-and-take, like we’re learning from each other instead of devouring. He noses along my cheek between kisses. His lashes brush my skin. He breathes me in slowly, like he’s memorizing me.
It feels like being chosen—being seen.
When he finally breaks the kiss, he doesn’t pull away completely. His mouth lingers near mine. His breath is warm, and our noses bump.
His thumb strokes my jaw, featherlight.
My voice barely works when I whisper, “How are you so good at that?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, lips brushing my cheek. “I could ask you the same thing.”
My insides melt to mush.
“Don’t move.”
Move?
I’m not sure I remember how to.
I watch as he turns to the cabinets and pulls out a bag of sugar. There’s an edge to his movements, tight and controlled, like he’s barely holding himself together. And the way his muscles move when he reaches for the heavy cream has my fingers itching to touch him.
But I don’t.
I stay still.
Very, very still.
He moves differently when he cooks. Calm and precise. No wasted motion. Like his body knows exactly what to do without consulting his brain.
I’m not like that in a kitchen. I check the recipe a hundred times and still manage to start things on fire.
He sets a whisk on the counter beside me, and his hip brushes my knee. “We’ll be using a whisk instead of a beater.”
I shift to watch him. “Why’s that?”
“A beater is loud, and we don’t want to wake the house, do we?” He pours the cream into the bowl.
I shake my head as he starts whisking the cream.
Quick.
Hard.
The metal scrapes the bowl in sharp, fast circles.
