"Bedroom," I manage.
He lifts me without warning, and my legs wrap around him instinctively, my hands finding his shoulders. I have never been carried like this. Like I weigh nothing. Like he could hold me here indefinitely and never tire. I feel every point of contact, his arms solid beneath me, his chest warm against mine, my heartbeat embarrassingly loud.
He carries me down the hall and into the bedroom, laying me back against the mattress with care. He looks at me for a moment before he does anything else, like he's committing the sight of me to memory.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says.
"Don't stop," I reply. "Please, God, don't stop."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He undresses me with unhurried attention, hands learning as they go. My shirt first, then the clasp of my bra, his fingers deft and careful. When the fabric falls away, he pauses. His fingers trace the line of my collarbone slowly, then lower, following the curve of my breast, the dip of my ribs, like he's reading me. Like I'm evidence he's taking his time with.
"Beautiful," he murmurs.
I reach for his shirt, tugging it over his head. He is all strength and restraint, muscle held in check by deliberate control, the body of a man who disciplines himself in every arena of his life. I press my palms flat against his chest and feel his heartbeat, faster than his composure lets on.
He's not as calm as he looks.That knowledge steadies me.
The world narrows to this. Us. The warmth of his skin under my hands. The way he watches me like I am the only thing in the world worth his focus.
I’m desperate to finish undressing him, but he leans onto me to kiss me again, swirling his tongue over mine and making my breath catch. Even through the remaining layers of clothes, his hard cock grinds against me, driving me wild.
God, I want that… now.
"Tell me what you want," he says, voice low.
"You. This."
"Be more specific."
Heat floods through me, pooling low. "I want you inside me."
His eyes darken. "Soon."
He slides my underwear down my legs, moving with deliberate slowness to heighten every sensation.He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Hs hands slowly trace the inside of my thighs until I'm trembling with the need of his touch. Andfinally,he’s cuppingmy pussy with his palm, watching my face as I write beneath him.
“Please, Gideon… oh, please…”
He lazily presses my clit with his thumb, letting his other fingers roam and explore, learning what makes my breath hitch and my hips lift to seek more pressure, more friction, more ofhim.When he finally slides two fingers deep inside, the sound I make is not dignified.
He doesn't seem to mind. If anything, it spurs him on.
He is patient and thorough, and when I finally break apart under his hand, I feel him watching me through it, steady, focused, like he wants to remember exactly what undoes me.
“You’re so wet, baby,” he says with a groat. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
What I’m doing to him?!
"Gideon," I manage when I can speak again. "Please."
"I've got you."
He removes the rest of his clothing and when he finally presses into me, it is slow and deep, giving me time to adjust, to feel every inch of the connection. There's a breathless, suspended moment where neither of us moves. Just the weight of his body on top of me. The fullness of it. The startling intimacy of being this close to someone I've known for days but somehow already trust completely.
