"It's a promise."
He kisses me then, deep and thorough, and I melt into him the way I always do.
Later, in the bedroom, I take my time.
I undress him slowly, piece by piece, pressing kisses to each inch of skin I reveal. He lets me, standing patient and still, his hands gentle on my shoulders.
"We don't have to," he says. "If you're tired—"
"I want to." I look up at him, fingers paused on the button of his pants. "I want you. Not because I need to forget something, or prove something, or reclaim something. Just because I want to be close to you."
His breath catches. It's a small sound, barely a rasp against his lips, but I've learned to hear the things he doesn't say.
"Okay," he murmurs. "Whatever you want."
I finish undressing him, then let him do the same to me. We stand together in the lamplight, bare and vulnerable, and it doesn't feel scary anymore. It just feels right.
We move to the bed.
He lays me down like I'm precious, something worth being careful with. His mouth traces a path from my jaw to my collarbone, slow and deliberate, tasting each inch of skin like he's memorizing me all over again. I arch into his touch, fingers threading through his hair.
"I love you," I tell him. I've said it a hundred times now, but it still feels new every time.
"I love you too." He lifts his head, meets my eyes.
I pull him down and kiss him.
His hands explore my body with familiar confidence, touching all the places he's learned make me gasp and shiver. My nipples, rolled between his fingers until I'm squirming. The sensitive skin of my inner thighs, stroked until I'm spreading my legs wider, wordlessly begging.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against my throat.
"You. Inside me. I want to feel you."
He reaches for the giant bottle of lube we keep in the nightstand now—another marker of domesticity, of building a life together.His fingers are slick and warm as they press inside me, one, then two, stretching me open with patient care.
"More," I breathe.
He adds a third finger, curling them just right, and I cry out as pleasure sparks through me. He knows my body so well now. Knows exactly how to take me apart.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yes. Please."
He withdraws his fingers, slicks himself, and positions between my thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist as he pushes inside, slow and steady, filling me inch by inch until he's buried completely.
We both still, breathing together, adjusting to the sensation.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Perfect."
He starts to move, and the pleasure builds in slow waves. Not the desperate, frantic need of our earlier encounters—this is something softer. Something that takes its time.
His thrusts are deep and measured, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Each stroke brushes my prostate,sending ripples of pleasure through my entire body. I cling to him, nails raking down his back, lost in the rhythm we've built.
"You feel so good," he groans against my ear. "So perfect. You’re taking me so good. Such a good job for me.”
"Fuuuuck," I manage. "Stop or I’m going to cum."
