My mouth brushes hers slowly.
This time there’s no rush. No edge of panic. No fear of crossing a line.
We already crossed it.
Her lips soften under mine, opening slightly when I deepen the kiss. Her hands grip my shirt like she’s anchoring herself, but she leans into me fully.
I move slowly.
Deliberately.
Mapping the feel of her without urgency.
She exhales against my mouth, a sound that travels straight through me.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur.
“You’re intense.”
“I warned you.”
She huffs a quiet laugh against my lips. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t.
My hands roam her back, her waist, her hips — not grabbing, not taking — just feeling. Learning. Letting the moment stretch instead of ignite too fast.
This isn’t about hunger.
It’s about arrival.
She pulls back slightly, searching my face.
“You’re here,” she says softly.
“Yeah.”
“You’re not pulling away.”
“No.”
Her hand slides to my jaw, thumb brushing the rough line of my beard. “You feel different.”
“How?”
“Like you’re not fighting yourself anymore.”
I press a kiss to her palm. “I’m not.”
Her breath trembles faintly.
“Good,” she whispers.
I guide her backward slowly until her hips meet the edge of the counter. My hands settle at her waist again, firm but steady.
“You sure?” I ask quietly.
“Yes.”
