His hand slid along my side, up my back, fingers pressing just enough to guide, not force.
I followed.
Not because I had to.
Because I wanted to.
That realization hit harder than anything else.
He broke the kiss just long enough to look at me.
And in that look, something shifted again.
Not restraint.
Not distance.
Decision. Finally, blessed decision.
“You’re sure,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
But I answered, anyway.
“Yes.”
His gaze searched mine for a beat longer.
Then he moved.
He lifted me easily, my breath catching as my back met the wall, his body close, grounding, unyielding in a way that made everything inside me sharpen to a single point of awareness.
My legs wrapped around him instinctively, my hands finding his shoulders, his neck, pulling him closer as his mouth returned to mine.
The kiss changed.
Even deeper.
Less measured.
Still controlled—but there was something else threaded through it now.
Something darker.
More certain.
His hands moved—mapping, learning, claiming space without asking for it, and this time, I didn’t try to anticipate, didn’t try to direct.
I let myself feel it.
The shift.
The pull.
The way my body responded to his with a kind of clarity I had spent years avoiding.
He carried me toward the bedroom without breaking the connection, and something about that—the ease of it, the certainty—made my pulse spike.
