“Hi,” I reply, and then we’re kissing again, slower this time, like we’re trying to memorize the technique. He tastes like the chocolate from dessert, and I absorb every detail—the soft drag of his lips, the way his fingers curl into my hair, the small sound he makes when I change the angle.
He eventually draws back, breathing heavily.
“Nice place,” he says, though he’s not looking at anything except me.
“You haven’t seen it yet.”
“I’ve seen enough.” His smile is wicked. “But maybe you should show me around? Start with the important rooms?”
“The kitchen?” I suggest innocently.
“Travis.” The way he says my name makes my brain short-circuit. “Unless your kitchen has a bed in it, I’m not particularly interested right now.”
“A bed in the kitchen would be unhygienic. And a terrible use of space.”
“Oh my god, you’re analyzing my sexy talk.” But he’s smiling, stretching up for another kiss.
This. This is what gets me. The way he laughs at my weird brain instead of being put off by it.
He nips at my bottom lip, and every logical thought I’ve ever had exits my brain in an orderly single-file line. This kiss deepens so fast it makes my head spin.
I almost can’t breathe from the weight of anticipation bearing down on me.
I pull back, panting.
“Bedroom,” I say. “Now.”
But when we make it to my bedroom, everything shifts from frantic to intentional.
It’s like we both know this moment is significant. Like we’re about to run an experiment that will change all our baseline measurements forever.
I watch Devin take in my bedroom with its precisely made bed and geometric duvet cover, the stack of engineering journals on the nightstand, the single framed photo of the Golden Gate Bridge that I took myself. Suddenly, I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the clothes we’re about to remove.
“I like your room,” he says softly, like he can read my sudden uncertainty. “It’s very you.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, but the way he’s looking at me makes it feel like one.
When Devin touches me again, the urgency is still there, but now it’s focused, deliberate.
He undoes the buttons of my shirt, his hands shaking slightly. This confident, bright, impossible man is also nervous.
Something in me settles. If he’s anxious, then my own racing pulse isn’t a weakness. It’s just proof that this matters. To both of us.
I cover his hands with mine for a moment, steadying them, and he looks up at me with an expression so open it makes my chest ache.
He slides the fabric off my shoulders with a reverence that makes my throat tight, letting it fall to the floor. I’d normally pick it up, but I’m too busy watching his expression change as he takes in my body.
“Okay, this is just unfair. You can’t be smart and have a chest like this. Pick a lane.”
I chuckle and pull him closer by his belt loops. “I’m an overachiever. It’s a character flaw.”
My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, and I’m grateful to discover my fine motor skills have returned. Each button reveals another inch of warm skin.
He gives me a slightly bashful smile as he steps out of his pants. I let my gaze travel over him slowly, taking in every detail like I’m committing him to memory. Which I am.
The slope of his shoulders. The trail of hair below his navel. The goosebumps rising on his skin from my attention alone.
He’s lean, all long lines and soft skin, and I want to touch every single part of him.
