“You’re so perfect,” I whisper against her skin, the words a truth I’ve carried with me for years.
My lips trail slow, reverent kisses over every inch of her I can reach. My heart pounds, my cock throbbing almost painfully against her thigh, but I don’t move. I don’t rush. Because this isn’t just about me. It never was.
Right now, all that matters is her—seeing her like this, undone, knowing I did that, and she’s letting me.
Her tremors subside, her breath warm and erratic against my neck as she melts into me. I stroke her back in slow, soothing circles, kissing her temple as she clings to my shoulders.
And I don’t mind one bit.
She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, and fuck, she’s wrecked—flushed cheeks, lips swollen and kiss-stung, green eyes dark with lingering heat. I swear I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
“Take off your sweats.” Her voice is soft but sure, edged with something like anticipation. But there’s a flicker of hesitation, too, like she’s offering, not demanding as if she needs me to meet her halfway.
A fresh wave of desire slams into me, but it wars with the hesitation lodged deep in my ribs. I sit up, muscles coiled tight, and she shifts with me.
She rests a hand on my chest, the heat of her palm sinking into my skin. Then, slowly—so fucking slowly—she drags it lower over my ribs and stomach until her fingers catch on my sweats’ waistband.
My breath locks in my throat.
I should help her. I should shove the damn things off like I want this as bad as I do. But the moment she hooks her fingers into the fabric, my pulse jackhammers, and I realize?—
She’s the first person to touch me like this in almost a decade.
She must sense it, the hesitation I can’t mask, because she doesn’t rush. Instead, she traces a featherlight touch over the waistband, like she’s letting me make the final move. Like she’s saying,It’s okay. Take your time.
Something in my chest pulls tight.
But I don’t want time.
Not anymore.
I exhale sharply and lift my hips, shoving the waistband down in one swift motion, freeing myself.
The cool air is nothing compared to the heat of her gaze.
Her lips part slightly, her breath hitching as her eyes lower, taking in every inch of me. My cock is thick, hard, aching, the tip flushed and leaking against my stomach. And she just watches.
She drags her fingers along my thigh first, skimming higher, not touching my cock yet. Her hesitation is deliberate, like she’s savoring this—like she’s making sure I want it.
Fuck, I want it.
“Yes?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
I swallow, my body wound so fucking tight I feel like I might snap. My hands fist in the sheets, trying to hold on to the last shred of control.
She doesn’t press. She waits.
“Yes,” I rasp, the word breaking free on a strangled breath.
Her fingers wrap around the base of my cock, soft, tentative, and my entire body shudders.
Holy shit.
She tilts her head, watching me like she’s fascinated by every tiny reaction. Then, keeping her grip light, she glides the head of my cock through her wetness, coating me in her heat, letting me feel just how ready she is.
A strangled groan rips from my throat, and my hips jerk instinctively, chasing the sensation. My hands fly to her waist, holding her steady.
She licks her lips like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, savoring every damn second of my unraveling.
