What matters for now is this: I’m not free of my doubts, but for the first time in a very long time, I’m not ruled by them either.
Alex’s hands roam slowly at first, as if he’s letting me guide the pace. My fingers slide through his hair again and he kisses me deeper, lingering, tasting, learning me. Heat unfurls low in my belly, spreading through every nerve. When he shifts his weight and settles half over me, my legs part instinctively, welcoming him closer.
His tongue strokes mine in a slow, deliberate rhythm that sends a tremor through my whole body. When his hand glides across my waist and up under my shirt, my breath catches. His touch is warm and certain, as if he’s known my shape for years rather than days. The duvet cocoons us, trapping all the heat and the scent of crushed grass and him.
He pauses, searching my eyes. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I won’t,” I whisper, surprising myself with how steady it sounds. “I want you.”
He exhales sharply, as if those words knock the wind out of him. His palm slides up my ribs, slow and reverent, and the edge of my shirt lifts with his hand. I feel exposed and wanted all at once. He kisses down the column of my throat, lingering at the place that makes my pulse stumble. My hips rise without my permission, brushing against the firm shape of his erection through his clothes.
A low groan escapes him. “You’re making this very difficult to take slowly.”
“Maybe I don’t want slow,” I say softly, surprising us both.
His head drops to my chest with a helpless laugh, warm breath fanning my skin. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
He sits up just long enough to tug my shirt over my head. The cool air skims my skin for a heartbeat before he bends again, kissing along the curve of my breast through my bra. My back arches, offering more, wanting more. When he finally takes the delicate fabric between his teeth and frees me, his breath stutters.
“Emma,” he murmurs, like a prayer he didn’t know he’d learned.
His mouth closes over my nipple, warm and soft and then lightly sucking. Pleasure spirals through me so fast I grip his shouldersto stay anchored. He shifts lower, trailing kisses down my stomach, each one sending a new spark racing through me.
I’m trembling, not from cold but from wanting him with a clarity that scares me in the best possible way. When he reaches the waistband of my jeans, he looks up again. A wordless question.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He unbuttons them slowly, as if savouring the feeling of undressing me. Every brush of his fingers is deliberate. Every movement feels like its own kind of worship. When he eases my jeans and knickers down and off, I feel bare and vulnerable beneath him, but not ashamed. Not hidden. Seen.
He settles between my thighs, kissing the inside of one knee, then the other, working his way up in torturous inch-long intervals. The anticipation is almost unbearable, and he knows it. His palms slide up my thighs, thumbs stroking patterns that make my breath stutter.
“A little impatient?” he teases, voice low.
“Alex,” I manage, and it sounds like begging.
He chuckles under his breath and finally leans in, his mouth brushing exactly where I need him. The first slow lick has me gasping, gripping the duvet. His hands hold me steady as he explores me with careful, devastating thoroughness, and when he draws my most sensitive spot into his mouth, the pleasure is so sharp and sudden that stars explode behind my eyes.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against me, and the gentle praise sends heat rushing through me so quickly I almost sob.
My hips lift, chasing more. His arm slides beneath me, anchoring me to his mouth, guiding me into an easy rhythm that builds and builds until I can barely breathe. When he presses two fingers inside me, curling them in slow deliberate strokes, the world narrows to the sound of his breath, the warmth of his mouth, the gathering heat inside me.
I break apart. Completely. The climax rips through me like lightning across the sky. My whole body arches and trembles and clings to him because I have no control left to pretend otherwise.
When the pleasure finally loosens its grip, I collapse back onto the mattress, boneless, shaking, utterly undone. He kisses his way back up my body, slow and warm and unbearably tender, as if he’s in no rush at all.
I pull him into a kiss, tasting myself on his lips, and a fresh wave of heat rolls through me. I slide my hands beneath his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. He breaks the kiss only long enough to strip his shirt off. His chest is warm beneath my palms, solid and surprisingly gentle in how he leans into my touch.
“I need you,” I whisper, surprising myself with the urgency in my voice. “I want you.”
He stills, eyes searching mine. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure.”
He swallows, visibly moved. “Then tell me what you need.”
“You,” I breathe. “All of you.”
Alex kisses me again, slower this time, as if tasting the moment rather than rushing it. His weight settles carefully over me, warm and solid and achingly welcome. I slide my hands down his back, feeling the tense line of muscle beneath my palms. When my fingers reach the waistband of his jeans, he makes a low sound that vibrates through both of us.
