In the bedroom, I set her on her feet by the bed. “Turn around.”
She does. I find the zipper of her dress and draw it down—inch by inch, vertebra by vertebra—watching skin appear beneath midnight silk. The dress slides off her shoulders, catches at her hips momentarily, then pools at her feet.
She’s wearing lace underneath. Navy, almost black. My mouth goes dry.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
She shivers. Goosebumps spread across her bare back.
I strip off my jacket, bow tie, and shirt.Her eyes move over me—muscle, scars, the body of a man who fights to survive.
I lay her on the bed. Kiss her deep and thoroughly while my hands caress what the dress hid—the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, the weight of her breasts in my palms when I unclip her bra.
“We go at your pace,” I tell her. “You’re in charge.”
“I don’t know how?—”
“You don’t need to know how. Tell me what you want.”
“You. I want you.”
I worship her. No other word fits. When I take one nipple into my mouth, she arches off the mattress, her fingers knotting in my hair, and a sound tears from her that will live in my head until I die.
I work lower. Kiss her stomach, her hip, and drag her panties down her legs.
She tenses. “What are you?—”
“Trust me.”
The first stroke of my tongue and she cries out—raw, shocked, the sound wrenched from a body discovering pleasure it didn’t know existed. I take my time. Tasting her sweet arousal. Learning her rhythm. I work on building her higher and higher until she’s shaking, thighs clamped around my shoulders, my name a broken chant on her lips.
When, finally, she climaxes against my mouth. I bring her down with soft, unhurried strokes of my tongue before pressing my lips to the inside of her thigh.
When I look up, her eyes are blown wide. Her chest heaves.
“We’re not done yet.”
I shed the rest of my clothes. She watches, and I catch the nervous flicker—my size, my scars, the reality of what comesnext.
“We’ll take it slow.” I settle between her thighs, bracing my weight on my forearms. “And if you want to stop?—”
“I won’t want to stop.”
I reach between us, work her open with my fingers. She’s wet, soaked, but I take the time anyway, reading her face for anything less than sheer hunger.
“Look at me, Nora.”
Her eyes lock on mine—hazel, luminous, full of a trust I haven’t earned and probably don’t deserve.
I continue to hold her open as I push the head of my cock inside her. Her eyes go wide. I enter her slowly, controlled and agonizing, inch by inch. She gasps at the intrusion, the stretch, and I freeze—every nerve in my body screaming at me to move.
“Okay?”
“Don’t stop.”
I push deeper. She grips my shoulders, her nails scoring my skin, and the bite of pain grounds me. I bottom out and hold—both of us breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
“You’re mine now,” I murmur. “Every part of you.”
