Better.
I let the word linger, watching the way it settles into him, the way it almost makes him stand taller despite the flush in his cheeks and the hunger in his eyes. He’s bare now. Not just naked, but exposed in a way that matters. Vulnerable. Willing.
And still holding my gaze like he’s daring me to do something about it.
I should take him to the couch.
That was the plan. Fast, simple, impersonal. Something easy to forget when the door shuts behind him. I’ve had enough reminders lately that distance matters, that lines are there for a reason, and my bedroom is not a space I share. Hell, my apartment isn’t a space I share, but here we are.
When I look at him—bare feet on my carpet, lips parted, breath shallow, waiting—I know I’m going to break that rule just like I broke the rule of bringing him here in the first place.
Fuck.
Itilt my head toward the hallway. “Come.”
He follows, no hesitation. I feel his presence behind me like gravity—pulling, steady, impossible to ignore. My bedroom door is open, and crossing that threshold with him at my heels tightens something in my chest I don’t want to name.
I flick on the bedside lamp. The soft light spills across the room—dark wood floors, charcoal sheets, everything in order. Too personal. Too close.
Still, I don’t stop.
He hovers near the door, uncertainty flickering in his expression, as though he can feel the shift, too. Like maybe he knows this space means something different.
I turn and hold his gaze. “Up on the bed. Center of the mattress.”
His breath hitches, but he moves—climbing up, settling in the middle just like I told him to, legs folding beneath him, hands resting lightly on his thighs.
Good.
Too good.
I step closer, circling the bed slowly, letting the moment stretch until his pulse visibly jumps in his throat. My fingers brush the edge of the mattress as I study him, taking in every angle, every flicker of tension he tries not to show.
One night. That’s all this is.
But the way he looks right now—waiting for me like he was made for it—makes something sharp and possessive dig under my ribs.
This is dangerous.
But I don’t stop.
I perch on the edge of the bed.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. He justwatches me with wide eyes and parted lips, the rise and fall of his chest giving away the storm under his skin.
“Lie back,” I say softly, letting my fingers brush his thigh on the way up.
He obeys instantly, body shifting until his spine kisses the mattress, arms loose at his sides, legs laying down the surface, eyes never leaving mine. He’s trying so hard to be still. To behave. And that obedience carves something deep into me.
I climb up beside him, slow and deliberate, bracing one hand beside his shoulder as I lean in. I can smell his skin, feel the way his body is already wound tight, his cock hard between us. He wants this as much as I do.
“Quieto,” I murmur again, watching his lips part around the word even though he doesn’t speak it.
Still.
My hand slides over his chest, fingers splayed across the curve of his ribs, then lower, over the line of his stomach. He shudders, muscles tensing, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for me. He waits.
I trace a slow circle around his navel, watching his hips twitch despite his effort.
