"Thank you," I say. Into his jacket.
"You're welcome." Low. Certain.
We stay like that for a moment. Then I pull back and look at the sets laid out on the bed and look at him and the wanting is there — the simple want of being seen, and wanting him back. Nothing complicated about it.
"Will you—" I start.
"Yes," he says. Before I finish.
I put on the coral set. It fits like it was measured — which it wasn't, which means he paid attention. The fabric against my skin is exactly what he said it would be. Soft. Like being touched already.
Dalton looks at me.
"Good?" I say.
"Come here," he says.
I go.
He undresses me slowly. Not because he's being careful — his hands moving over the fabric before he removes it, like he wants to feel it first. His mouth on my collarbone, my shoulder, the curve of my neck. He works his way down unhurried, finding the places that make me catch my breath, learning them — and coming back to them. Each touch deliberate. Nothing wasted.
"I, I love you," he says against my skin.
"I love you too," I say.
He lays me back on the bed and takes his time. His mouth on my stomach, my hip, moving down while his hands hold me exactly where he wants me. His fingers between my thighs, working me open with that same focused precision, his eyes lifting to read what works — what makes me break.
"There," he says, when he finds it — and keeps going.
"Yes—" I grab his wrist. "Don't stop—"
He doesn't stop.
He makes me come the first time with his hand, his mouth at my throat and the soft coral fabric somewhere on the floor, my nails in the sheets, his name breaking out of me before I can catch it.
He moves over me.
He pushes inside me slowly. Both of us breathing. His forehead against mine.
"Alex," he says.
Just my name.
I know what he means by it — the thank you and the wanting and the feeling of a man who came here with one purpose and found the purpose was bigger than he knew.
We move together. Not rushed — deliberate, every touch placed like it matters, his hands on my hips, adjusting, his voice low in my ear saying things that make me gasp.
I come the second time harder than the first, his thumb working my clit while he's inside me, my face in his neck, the bond blazing.
He follows me over with my name in his throat.
***
Him on his back. Me against his side, the new blue pajama top silky against my skin. His hand moves slowly along my arm — the way he touches things when he's thinking and doesn't realize it.
"Orange House," he says. "Soon."
"Cal thinks another week."
