“Mmm,” I say, kissing her jaw, then her mouth, slower this time, deeper. “And you like it.”
Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer.
The kiss turns hungry, controlled, but barely. My hands slide up her back, feeling the tension there, the strength, the softness. I lift her just enough to make her gasp, her legs instinctively tightening around me before I set her down on the island.
“I want to be there,” I tell her, forehead pressed to hers. “Not just for the appointment. For all of it.”
She looks at me then, really looks, and whatever she sees or feels makes her swallow hard. “Okay.”
I follow her into the bedroom, our hands entwined. The lamp by the bed is the only illumination, and it casts a golden ellipse across her cheekbones and arms. I watch her—really watch her—as she scans the room, as she unfastens her hair and shoulders off her cardigan, as she glances back at me over her shoulder with a look that complicates every earlier memory I have of her. There’s a sort of gravity at work between us, maybe always had been, but this time it isn’t theoretical, isn’t something I file away as interesting and ignore for the sake of decorum. This time I’m allowed to.
She closes the door behind me and leans against it, as if considering whether to flee or pull me closer. I already know the answer, and so does she. I cross the distance, step by step—deliberate, so she can stop me if she wants. Letting her feel the power she has over me because it’s obvious she doesn’t see it yet, but she will. I’ll make sure of it.
Her chin is tilted up, green eyes bright and tired and skeptical and open, all at once. I put my hands on her jaw, gently, and I kiss her. It’s not cautious, but it’s not frantic either. It’s the kind of kiss you remember, so you can make it a normal part of every day.
We begin to undress in increments, not in the way people desperate to get to the finish would, but as if undressing itself is the point. I undo the buttons of her shirt one by one, not becauseI’m savoring the anticipation, but… yeah, I kind of am. After the fourth, she gets impatient and shrugs the shirt off, and I do the same with mine. Her hands are steady as she unbuckles my belt, but her breath stutters, and I hear it because we’re close enough now for nothing to go unheard.I love it.
She tugs me down to kiss her again, and her fingers are in my hair, then at my chest, mapping the bone and muscle as she learns my body in more detail. I let my hands do the same, roam her shoulders, the wings of her back, her waist. I hesitate at the hem of her bra, and she rolls her eyes and reaches behind to unclasp it, flicking it to the floor. I’m taller than her by nearly a foot, but she’s the one directing the choreography, pushing me back onto the edge of the bed and joining me, thighs bracketing my hips.
It’s not until she pulls my mouth to her breast that I realize how long it’s been since someone wanted me, not for the sake of a story or a conquest, but just for wanting. I realize it’s never been anyone but her. Fucking ever. Something cracks open in me, raw and humbling. I bury my face in her and try not to let it show.
Her skin is warm and flushed, the curve of her breasts pressed against my palms as I knead them, slowly, reverently, like I need to memorize the shape that will be changing. She arches into my hands, a wordless sigh escaping her as my mouth closes over her nipple. I suck gently, then harder, feeling it pebble against my tongue; she shudders under the attention, her fingers winding through my hair, tightening as if she’s afraid I might stop. I can’t imagine stopping. I lavish the other breast with the same care, tongue swirling, then drawing her in with a greedy pull, tasting salt and warmth and something almost like sunlight. I didn’t realize how much I missed this, not just the mechanics but the giving of pleasure, the luxury of being wanted not for a headline or a family name but for the body I own, thehunger I bring, the person I am. I realize it’s never been anyone but her. Fucking ever.
She rolls us so she’s on her back, and I brace above her, gazing down, memorizing her as she is—naked, hair loose on the pillow, a few freckles on her ribs, the faintest scar stretching alongside her hip. I kiss them all, taste them.
I hover above her, caging her between my arms and the mattress, my chest shuddering with the effort to hold back everything I want. There’s a tenderness gnawing at the inside of my ribs, a need to see her, not just see but know her boundaries and her wants, like a map only she can draw. With every slow breath she takes, every subtle shift of her hips under mine, I can’t help but believe this is the luckiest I have ever been—the gravity of her, the shamelessness of desire, the way she allows herself to be seen and wanted.
Still, I don’t let myself assume anything. Not after the last time I failed to ask, to clarify, to draw the lines with both our hands together. So, I force myself to pause, even as my blood pounds in my ears, and cup her face between my hands. I angle her chin so I can read her eyes, bright as cut glass and full of every contradiction that makes her who she is.
“Do you want this?” I ask, and my voice is hoarse with not just lust but something heavier, something close to reverence. “All of it?”
Her lips part, almost in surprise, but then she’s nodding even before the words tumble out. “Yes,” she says, the syllable fracturing on her tongue. “Jesus, yes.”
And then she’s pulling me down so our mouths collide, so her hands can tug at my hair and drag me further into her. I let her lead, let her show me how much she wants it just as much as I do, and the permission of it turns me inside out.
I kiss a path down her neck and collarbone, pausing at the hollow of her throat to feel the flutter of her pulse with my lips.Every inch I travel, her breath stutters, her hands flex against my shoulders, urging me onward and deeper. I find the seam of her jeans, pop the button with careful fingers, and slide them down her legs, my knuckles grazing the soft curve of her calf, the pale line of scar she wears like a secret. She helps, kicking them off with a gracelessness that is somehow more intimate than anything else I’ve seen her do. It makes me want to laugh, a low rumble in my chest, but I bite it down because she’s already reaching for me, already greedy for more.
I slide a hand between her thighs, slow at first, wanting to catalog every twitch and gasp, every moan she doesn’t try to muffle. She’s soft and hot and wet, her hips arching into my hand, her head thrown back against the pillow. I draw it out, not because I want to torture her—god, the opposite. I want to give her the space to feel everything at her own pace, to build pleasure like a slow-burning fire, none of the hurry or desperation I once thought was required. Her thighs tremble and then clamp around my wrist, trapping my hand where she wants it most, and when I circle my thumb over her clit, her whole body studders, a sharp electric current running through her.
“Lenzin,” she gasps, and the sound of her saying my name like that—urgent, pleading, equal parts command and surrender—nearly undoes me. “Please, don’t stop.”
The rest is lost in a strangled moan as I do exactly as she asks, never letting up, pressing her higher and higher, until her nails are digging crescents into my biceps and her breath is coming out in ragged, desperate bursts.
I want her so badly, I think I might split open. But I let her finish first—let her take what she needs, let her tremble and break against my hand, and only after she’s boneless and dazed do I lean over her, pressing my lips to her temple in silent awe.She turns into me, arms winding around my neck, and kisses me with a gratitude that feels like absolution.
After a moment, she flips us, rolling me beneath her, and straddles my hips with a confidence I remember from that first night. She rakes her hands over my chest, more exploratory than seductive, like she’s memorizing the feel of my body beneath hers. Then she leans down and bites my lower lip, not hard but with enough intent to make me smile against her mouth. I let her grind against me, let her take control, let her show me what she wants.
She teases me then, lining me up and sinking down inch by inch, slow and ruthless, and it completely undoes me.
I let her ride me, let her pace it, let her decide when, how, and where. It’s a revelation. And when she finally lets herself go again, clenching tight around me, I follow her over—blind, wordless,wrecked.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweat-damp and grinning. I stroke her hair, her back, her thigh, unable to stop touching her, needing the physical proof that this is going to be my life, that this is finally fucking real.
I realize, I’m not done.
I press my mouth to the sharp line of her hip, feeling the muscle twitch beneath my lips, then follow the pale line of her scar, one that I want to learn all about, with my tongue. She makes a sound, a tiny exhale mixed with laughter and disbelief, and her hand finds the back of my head, fingers flexing as if to anchor me in place. I savor the taste of her skin, salt and warmth, and the faint metallic trace of sweat, each inch a new territory she lets me claim. I let my teeth scrape gently over bone, then dip lower, nosing into the crease of her thigh, inhaling her impatience. There’s something primal in the way her legs part for me, unapologetic and hungry.
“You came inside of —”
