Oh God.
My heart hammers in my chest, the thrum of it filling my ears.My hand trembles slightly as I lift my arms above my head, and he helps me pull the shirt off, slow and careful, like unwrapping something precious.
I’m bare to him.
Almost.
His eyes never leave mine, not even for a second, and it kills me.I can’t hide.I am vulnerable, every bit of skin burning under his stare.My breath comes shallow as his fingers trail up to the clasp of my bra.
Nerves twist sharp in my belly.
Regret claws at the edges.
I should’ve worn something else.Something lace.Something black.Anything that said I knew what the fuck I was doing.Not this—plain white cotton.The kind you buy in a multipack.The kind that makes you feel twelve.Functional.Safe.The kind no one dreams about.
Panic prickles in the back of my throat.
This is where it ends.This is where he realizes the truth: I’m not the girl he thinks I am.I’m not sexy, dangerous, or mysterious.I’m boring.I play it safe.Even my damn underwear screams it.
But—
He looks.
And not with disappointment.Not even curiosity.
He looks at the plain white bra as if it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen, like it’s lace or silk.It’s as if what’s underneath is a gift he longs to worship.
His eyes drop to it, and something flashes across his face—dark, hungry, reverent.
My breath catches because, even though it’s simple and nothing special, he looks at me like I’m the most beautiful thing in the world.
He unclips the bra with one hand, smooth and confident, as if he’s done this a thousand times before.Which I am sure he has.I lift slightly, heart pounding, as he pulls it from my body and tosses it somewhere across the room.I don’t see where it lands because I’m too busy staring at the ceiling, trying to swallow the sudden rush of humiliation crawling up my spine.
My cheeks burn.
I know what he sees.
Flat chest.Small breasts.The body you hope he doesn’t notice, or worse—pretends to like out of politeness.I’ve hated it forever—the way clothes hang, the way bras gape, the way I never fill out the space I’m supposed to.
I want to push him away.I want to pull the blanket over my chest and mutter some excuse about needing to stop.My hands twitch at the thought.
But before I can move, his mouth is on me.
He closes his lips around my nipple, and the sound that tears out of me is helpless.Humiliating in how desperate it is.A strangled gasp that betrays everything I was trying to hide.
He groans softly in response, a husky rumble that echoes against my skin.
“I had a feeling you’d like that,” he says, his voice rough enough to send shivers down my spine.
Next, his tongue flicks over the peak again, repeating the motion as if he wants to study every reaction he draws from me.The suction intensifies, with long, deep pulls that drag heat straight to my core.
And when his free hand moves to my other breast, cupping it gently—his palm rough against the sensitive skin—I almost whimper.It’s too much and not enough.His touch brands me.His mouth owns me.My brain is scrambling, and my body is gone.
I should be thinking.But everything I experience is his mouth, his hand, his breath against my skin, and the sick, undeniable truth that no one has ever made me feel this wanted.
Not until him.Not like this.
His growl cuts through me, a deep, animalistic sound that races straight between my legs.Heat floods my lower belly.I squirm beneath him, gasping when his mouth moves to my other nipple, sucking hard until he pulls away with an obscene, wet pop that leaves me trembling.
