She giggles, breathless, her skin still flushed from the heat we burned through. There’s a spark in her eyes I’d kill to keep, a glow I’d lock away if I could.
“I have to admit,” she says, voice husky, lips swollen from my mouth, “you kept your birthday orgasm promise. I feel like I blacked out in the best way.”
I grin. “I never break my promises.”
Her hum is a content sound that settles somewhere deep in my chest. She nudges her foot against mine under the blanket, her body curling closer until her head rests against my shoulder.
It’s ridiculous how right this feels—her weight against me, her laugh brushing the air, her fingers sketching meaningless shapes across my chest. I’m not used to being this soft. Or this…seen.
I brush her hair back from her cheek. “So,” I say, letting my thumb trail along her temple, “what’s your favorite color?”
She blinks up at me, brows lifting. “Seriously? You’re pulling the ‘what’s your favorite color’ card right now?”
“Obviously.” My mouth quirks, but my tone stays firm. “I just had my dick in two of your gorgeous holes. Pretty sure that buys me at least one personal fact.”
Her laugh is sudden and unrestrained, a snort she tries and fails to swallow. “God, you’re—” she shakes her head, still smiling, “—fine. It’s forest green.”
I arch a brow. “Why?”
She lifts one shoulder, thoughtful. “It’s the color of new beginnings. Trees. Moss. That soft part of nature that makes you feel small…but safe at the same time.”
I watch her, caught off guard. “Not the answer I was expecting.”
Her mouth tilts. “What were you expecting?”
“Pink. Maybe red. Something loud.”
She laughs quietly. “You’re thinking of my nails. Or the shoes.”
“Maybe.”
Her grin lingers, then she tilts her head. “Your turn. Favorite color?”
“Black.”
Her eyes roll, fond and exasperated. “Of course it is.”
I smirk, leaning in. “But—” I trace her bottom lip with my thumb, “I’ve developed a new fondness for red. This shade right here?” My voice drops. “Might be the most beautiful color I’ve ever seen.”
Her flush gives her away, and she tries to bury her face in the pillow. I tug her back and kiss the corner of her mouth.
“You’re dangerous,” she whispers.
“You’re not wrong.” My gaze holds hers. “But don’t pretend you’re safe either.”
The air softens after that. No rush. No pressure. Just her pressed against me, fingertips brushing lazy patterns along my ribs. Every time I twitch, she laughs quietly, the sound threading through the quiet until it feels like we’ve been here before.
Her hair spills over my chest as she shifts closer, her lipsbrushing lightly against my skin like she can’t help herself. The room is quiet, heavy with the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling, but she speaks anyway.
“I didn’t think I’d want this,” she whispers.
My hand moves through her hair. “Want what?”
“This—being held after. Letting someone see me when the rush is over.” Her words are tentative, almost shy, but she doesn’t pull away.
A heat settles in my chest that has nothing to do with lust. “You don’t have to hide with me.”
Her eyes search mine, the weight of them soft but sharp at once. “Do you always say things like that?”
