The room was warm.
Dim.
Familiar now in a way that felt dangerous.
He set me down slowly, his hands lingering just long enough to make my breath catch again.
And then he stepped back.
Just enough.
Space.
Choice.
It was intentional.
I saw it now.
Felt it.
Understood it.
He wasn’t taking that from me.
He was giving me the moment to decide.
Again.
My heart pounded.
I didn’t hesitate.
I closed the distance myself.
His hands came back to me immediately, stronger now, firmer, the restraint shifting into something that felt like permission had been granted.
The tension that had been building since the moment I stepped into his world finally broke.
Not in chaos.
Not in loss.
In something sharper.
More controlled.
More consuming.
His hands found the hem of my sweater, lifting it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing against my skin in a way that sent sparks skittering through me. I raised my arms, letting him pull it over my head, the cool air of the room contrasting with the heat building between us.
His gaze traced over me, taking in every inch with that same focused awareness that had undone me from the start.
I reached for him then, my fingers working the buttons of his shirt, one by one, revealing the hard planes of his chest. He shrugged out of it, his body close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, the steady rise and fall of his breath mirroring my own.
We undressed each other like that—slow, intentional, each piece of clothing falling away until there was nothing left between us but skin and the weight of what we were choosing.
His hands skimmed over my hips, my waist, drawing me closer until I was pressed against him, the hard length of him against my thigh making my pulse thunder.
