Not for permission spoken.
For permission felt.
I nodded.
His touch was deliberate. Grounding. Not possessive, yet. Just present. The kind of contact that asked nothing and promised everything.
“You’re not a guest here,” he said quietly. “You’re a participant.”
His fingers drifted from my shoulder to the collar of my coat, unbuttoning it with slow, deliberate movements. Each snap of the fastener felt like a small surrender I was choosing, not enduring.
When the coat fell open, he slid it off my shoulders and laid it carefully across the back of the only chair in the room—like he was handling something valuable that still belonged to me, at least for now.
The air inside the shelter was warm from the fire, but my skin still prickled when the coat was gone. He stepped behind me then, close enough that I could feel the solid wall of his chest without him pressing against me. His hands settled at my hips, thumbs brushing the waistband of my jeans through the thin sweater I wore underneath.
“Breathe,” he murmured against my ear. Not an order exactly. More like instruction for something delicate and dangerous.
I did. In. Out. The rhythm felt obscene in how conscious it made me of every inch of space between our bodies.
His palms slid upward, slow enough to let anticipation coil in my stomach. When he reached the hem of my sweater, he paused, fingers curling under the edge, knuckles grazing bare skin just above my jeans. The contact was so light it almost tickled—except nothing about this felt playful.
“Arms up,” he said.
I lifted them without hesitation.
He peeled the sweater over my head in one smooth motion, careful not to snag my hair. When it was off, he dropped it beside the coat. Then his hands returned—warm, broad, settling over my ribs just beneath my bra. He didn’t cup my breasts. He simply held me there, letting me feel the span of his palms, the heat of him seeping through lace.
My nipples were already tight, aching points beneath the delicate cups. Every shallow breath pushed them against the fabric, and I knew he could see the outline, the way they strained.
He made a low sound in his throat—not quite a growl, more like approval given physical shape.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” he said. Not a question.
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you imagined.”
My face burned. “Your hands. Like this. But … more.”
“More how?”
I swallowed. “Lower. Harder. Inside me.”
His thumbs stroked once along the underside of my breasts—barely a touch, more suggestion than contact. My back arched instinctively, offering more of myself.
He didn’t me what I wanted.
Instead, one hand slid down my stomach, fingers splaying wide. He stopped at the button of my jeans.
“Look at me.”
I turned my head. His face was close—close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the faint scar that curved along his left cheekbone like a signature.
His other hand came up to cup the back of my neck. Controlling the angle so I couldn’t look away.
“You don’t get to hide,” he said. “Not from this. Not from me.”
Then he popped the button of my jeans.
