"Maybe we could..." I started, then lost my nerve. Tried again. "The bedroom. If you—I mean, we don't have to, but I want?—"
I was fumbling. Ava Rothwell, who ran trauma codes without flinching, couldn't string a sentence together.
Brian's expression shifted. He cupped my face in his hands and made me look at him.
"Hey." His voice was gentle. "We don't have to do anything. We can stay right here. Watch Watson judge us from across the room."
"I want to." The words came out steadier this time. "I'm just... I've never..."
"I remember." He kissed my forehead, soft and unhurried. "I'll be gentle, Ava. I swear."
I'd told him once, that there had never been time, never been anyone I trusted enough. He'd remembered. Of course, he'd remembered.
He kissed me again—slower this time, deliberate, like he was savoring every second. His hands slid down my back, gripped my thighs, and then he was lifting me from the couch in one fluid motion. I gasped against his mouth, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, but he didn't break the kiss. Just held me tighter, carried me like I weighed nothing.
The hallway passed in a blur of warmth and want and his lips on mine. I was laughing into the kiss because this was ridiculous and perfect and something I'd been too afraid to want.
Brian kicked the bedroom door shut behind us. Watson's indignant meow was cut off mid-protest.
Then he was lowering me onto the bed, so gently it made my heart ache. He hovered over me, weight braced on his forearms, and pulled back just enough to look at me.
"You're shaking," he whispered.
"Nervous," I admitted.
"Me too." He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. "We go slow," he said against my skin. "As slow as you need. And if you want to stop—at any point, for any reason—we stop. No questions. No pressure. Ever.” He pulled back to meet my eyes. "I've waited four years, Ava. I can wait longer. I can wait forever if that's what you need."
Something cracked open. This man. This impossibly patient, impossibly good man.
"I don't want to wait," I whispered. "I want this. I want you." I reached up, traced the line of his jaw. "I'm just... nervous."
"I know." He turned his head and pressed a kiss to my palm. “But I've got you. I promise.”
I believed him completely.
He kissed me again—slower this time, savoring. His hands traced paths along my arms, my shoulders, giving me time to adjust to each new sensation.
Every touch felt like a question. Every sigh, an answer.
My shirt was gone, then his followed. And then his mouth was on my collarbone, and I was discovering that the hollow beneath my throat was sensitive in ways I'd never known. That the scrape of his stubble against my skin sent shivers down my spine. That the weight of him above me felt like safety, not confinement.
So this is what it feels like, I thought dizzily. This is what my body had been waiting for.
"Still okay?" he murmured against my shoulder.
"More than okay."
His hands found the clasp of my bra, and he paused, waiting. I nodded. The fabric fell away, and cool air hit my skin, and then his mouth was?—
Oh.
I gasped, my fingers threading through his hair, and he made a sound against my breast that I felt everywhere. No one had ever touched me like this. No one had ever made me feel like this—wanted, treasured,known.
"Brian." His name came out broken. Desperate. "Please."
"I've got you," he murmured. "I've got you."
The rest of our clothes disappeared—I wasn't sure when or how, just that suddenly there was nothing between us but heat and skin and four years of longing finally finding its release. His hand slid between my thighs, and I tensed, then melted, then discovered sensations I'd only ever given myself.
