I pull it over my head.
He takes his time looking. I feel it in my skin, that look — thorough and unhurried, like he's taking inventory of something that belongs to him now and he intends to know it completely.
"Good girl," he says. The words land somewhere low in my stomach.
His hands find my sides and he traces up slowly, both palms flat against my ribs, and I shiver and he stops exactly where he is and does it again. Slower. Watching my face while he does it.
"You respond to this," he says.
"Yes."
"Hmm," he says, and his mouth finds my throat.
He works his way down with the systematic attention of a man who intends to learn every part of me before he's done — collarbone, breast, stomach. His hands hold my hips still when I try to move and he doesn't acknowledge my noise of frustration except to press his thumbs slightly harder.
"Stay still," he says against my skin.
I stay still. It costs me something. He knows it costs me and that's precisely why he asked.
He pulls my underwear off and his jaw tightens once — the tell, the thing he can't fully control — and then his mouth is between my thighs and my hands fist the sheets.
He takes his time. His tongue finds what works within the first two minutes, then stays there, relentless, while his hands keep my hips exactly where he wants them. I'm already close — I was close before he knocked — and the bond amplifying everything makes the climb fast and steep.
"Please," I say. "Dalton—"
He lifts his head. Keeps his hands exactly where they are.
"Please what," he says.
"Don't stop—"
"I wasn't going to stop," he says. "That wasn't the question."
I understand. "Please," I say again, properly this time. "Please make me come."
He goes back to work.
He brings me over the edge and keeps going, patient and unhurried, until I'm shaking and my hands are in his hair and he finally moves up my body.
I get his shirt open. Get my hands on his chest, smooth warm skin — and he catches my wrists. Holds them.
"Not yet," he says.
He pins my wrists above my head with one hand. His other hand traces down my stomach and I arch up and he presses his palm flat to hold me down.
"Stay," he says.
I stay. My whole body is shaking with the effort of it.
His hand slides between my thighs and he works me back up with his fingers while I hold still under him because he asked me to and because I want to give him that and because the wanting to give him that is its own specific thing I didn't know I was capable of until right now.
"Christ," he says quietly, feeling how wet I am.
"Language," I manage.
He laughs — actually laughs, low and startled, the least managed sound I've ever heard from him — and releases my wrists.
He sits back and looks at me — spread out under him, two orgasms in, shaking. His jaw is tight. His eyes are dark. The control he's been wielding all night is still there but he’s losing it.
