“New lotion?” I murmur against her throat, my hand gliding along the inside seam of her thigh.
She nods.
Her pulse flutters beneath my mouth. She swallows and shifts subtly, as if she can’t help drawing her knees closer.
“Is me touching you here okay?”
Another nod.
“I need words, Rules.”
“Yes.” Barely there. “It’s…good.”
“I can feel that it’s good,” I say, a breath of a laugh. My palm climbs a few inches higher, slow and deliberate. “If you want me to stop, say so, and I stop.”
“Oh…okay. But…don’t stop.”
I rest my forehead against her temple and breathe, reining myself in. Every part of me wants to pull her fully onto me, to drag that hoodie up, to keep kissing until thought dissolves.
But this girl hasn’t dated. No one has touched her this way.
“Wren.” Her name comes out rough. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while.”
She stills in my arms. “You have?”
“Yeah.” I ease back enough to see her eyes. “Tell me you want me to.” Her eyes search mine—wide, uncertain, trusting in a way that aches in my chest.
“I’ve never—” she starts, then swallows.
“I guessed as much.” My thumb traces the line of her jaw. “I want to kiss you, sweetheart.”
I press my mouth to hers carefully, asking rather than taking. Her lips are soft and tentative. I slow the rhythm, let her find me, guide her with gentle pressure and patience.
She answers with a quiet sound at the back of her throat, fingers sliding to my jaw. I deepen the kiss by degrees—unhurried, matching her pace, letting her set the distance and then following. Coaxing, not pushing. Heat climbs rung by rung. When I tug lightly at her hair, she breathes my name and leans in. My restraint thins.
Her first kiss.
With me.
Guilt surges even as I hold her, even as she is warm and open in my arms, even as this feels more real than anything has in years.
She drags her nails through my hair and pulls me closer—closer to her, closer to the edge I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist—and I go willingly. The kiss turns urgent. I part her lips with my tongue and taste her, a low sound breaking loose from my chest. She answers with a breathy whimper and shifts against me, the pressure sparking through every muscle I’m trying to control.
I tear my mouth from hers, dragging air into my lungs. She stays where she is—eyes wide, lips parted—firelight throwing small gold flickers across her face.
“That was—” she whispers.
“Yeah.” My voice is in shreds. “It was. Perfect.”
We don’t move right away. The fire ticks behind us. Her breath evens out against my chest.
“There was something you said earlier,” I murmur.
She tilts her head. “Earlier?”
“At dinner.” I hesitate, then go on. “About your mom. Transylvania.”
Her shoulders soften, not guarded, not tense. Just…quiet.
