I turn to face him.He's standing by the door, hands at his sides, giving me space.Waiting for me to decide.
Always waiting.Always careful.
I cross the room, closing the distance between us, and reach up to touch his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble under my palm.
His eyes close.His breath shudders out.
"Say my name," I whisper.
"Enya."
"Again."
"Enya."Rough now.Raw.
I rise up on my toes and kiss him.
He goes still for a heartbeat, surprised maybe, or giving me one last chance to back out—then his hands come up to frame my face and he kisses me back.
Slow.Gentle.Nothing like that first night when everything was hunger and heat and hurry.
This is different.
This is careful.
His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head just so, and he kisses me like he's memorizing the shape of my mouth.Like he's got all the time in the world and nowhere else he'd rather be.
I make a sound, something between a sigh and a whimper, and press closer.My hands fist in his shirt, dragging him down, needing more from him.
"Enya," he breathes against my mouth."Christ, Enya."
My name.He keeps saying my name.
Proving something.Showing me.
His hands move to my waist, steadying me, and he walks me backward toward the bed.Slow steps.Giving me time to change my mind.
I don't change my mind.
The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I sit, looking up at him.He's backlit by the single lamp, all shadows and sharp edges, and for a moment I just stare.
He's beautiful.Rough and scarred and real, but beautiful.
"Take off your shirt," I say.
He does.He pulls it over his head in one smooth motion and drops it on the floor.Ink covers his chest and arms, tribal patterns and a prayer on his ribs.Scars too.Old ones.I can’t help but wonder what happened to him; how he got each and every single one of them.
I reach out and trace a line across his collarbone.He shivers under my touch.
"Your turn," he says quietly.
I hesitate.Not because I don't want this, but because letting him see me—really see me—feels more intimate than anything we did that first night.
But I pull my top over my head anyway.Let it fall.
His eyes track over me, taking in the ink on my arms, the scars I try to hide.His expression doesn't change.No judgment.No pity.Just want.
"You're fucking gorgeous," he says, and the reverence in his voice nearly undoes me.
