His jaw hardens.
“I don’t want that to be the thing I remember when I think about being touched,” I say, my voice steady even though my heart is racing. “I don’t want them attached to it.”
The air tightens between us.
“I want this to be mine.”
My voice doesn’t shake.
“I want to decide what happens next.”
His breathing changes.
“Carly—”
“I’m not asking you to fix anything,” I say softly. “I’m asking you to let me choose.”
I close the distance until I can feel the heat of him through his shirt.
“Touch me.”
He doesn’t move.
“Carly.”
“I’m asking,” I say. “I need you to hear this part. I’m the one asking.”
His hands rise slowly, stopping just short of my waist.
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
No tremor. No hesitation.
His hands settle at my hips, firm but careful.
It feels nothing like being cornered.
It feels like gravity.
His forehead lowers to mine.
“I’m going to take care of you first,” he says quietly. “You tell me if anything feels wrong. You tell me if you want to stop.”
I nod.
“I won’t,” I whisper.
His mouth finds mine again.
Deeper this time.
Slower.
There’s heat in it, yes, but there’s also patience. His hands slide up my back like he’s mapping me, not claiming me. Every touch waiting for my reaction before it moves further.
And when I lean into him instead of away, when my fingers curl into his shirt and pull him closer, something inside me settles.
