“I have a sense of humor.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He pinches my hip. I yelp, squirming, and somehow that turns into kissing, which turns into his hand between my thighs, which turns into him rolling me onto my back and sliding inside me again.
He braces himself above me, forearms on either side of my head, and moves in long, deep strokes that make me arch into him. Not conquered. Cherished.
“I could do this forever,” he murmurs. “Just this. Just you.”
I could let him
The realization is terrifying. But I don’t push it away. Don’t pretend it’s not true. Instead, I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper, giving him everything he’s asking for.
The day blurs.
We doze. Wake tangled in each other. Start touching and can’t stop.
He takes me from behind, spooned against his chest, his cock filling me so deep I can barely breathe. His hand cups my breast,thumb circling my nipple, while his other hand works my clit in slow, maddening circles.
“I can feel your heartbeat,” he says against my ear. “Right here.” His fingers press against the pulse point in my throat. “It speeds up every time I move.”
“Smug bastard.”
“Observant bastard.” He thrusts deeper. “There—it jumped again.”
I would tell him to shut up, but he angles his hips and hits that spot, and all that comes out is a moan.
Later, I sprawl across his chest while he’s still inside me, both of us too lazy to separate. We move in small increments, a rock of my hips, a subtle thrust from him, chasing pleasure without urgency.
“This is decadent,” I say. “We’re being decadent.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“An observation.” I shift. The movement makes us both groan. “I’ve never spent a whole day in bed before.”
“Never?”
“I’ve always had things to do. Work. Deadlines. Cathedrals falling apart.” I follow the lines of his chest tattoo. Some kind of family crest, I think. Haven’t asked yet. “This feels... indulgent.”
“You deserve indulgence.”
“Do I?”
His hand cups my jaw. Tilts my face up until I’m looking at him. “Yes.”
That flicker of vulnerability he tries so hard to hide passes his face. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve, a problem without a clear solution.
I kiss him instead of asking what he’s thinking.
We talk, too. In the spaces between.
I tell him about the first cathedral I ever restored. A tiny church in rural New Mexico, more adobe than stone, the kind of place that felt held together by faith.
“The roof had partially collapsed,” I say, tracing idle patterns on his skin. “The congregation had been meeting under a tarp for two years. They couldn’t afford a real restoration team, so they put out a call for volunteers.”
“And you went.”
“I was twenty-two and stupid, thought I could fix everything.” I smile at the memory. The dust. The heat. The way the light fell through the remaining windows like a blessing. “It took six months. I lived in my car half the time, showered at the local gym. But when we finished—” I shake my head. “The look on their faces. Like we’d given them back something sacred.”
