“New is okay,” he says. “We can stop any time.”
I nod, though stopping feels like an abstract concept at this point.
I shift closer instead. His hands remain on my hips, strong and warm, not pushing, just holding me there.
His desire is unmistakable. Heat flares low and sharp in response. The force of his desire is impossible to miss.
My body wants; my mind evaluates. The light is soft, the room is quiet, his touch is firm but not overwhelming. A sudden sweep of texture-awareness hits me—even my linen shirt feels wrong now, prickly where it touches my skin. I tug at the neckline in irritation.
He notices immediately. “Bad feel?” he asks.
I exhale a shaky laugh. “You notice everything.”
“Only you,” he says simply.
“Can I…?” I gesture awkwardly at my shirt.
“Whatever you want,” he says.
I pull it off, revealing the camisole beneath. The cool night air against my arms feels like a blessing.
His gaze flicks down, then back up to my face. He doesn’t stare. He doesn’t ogle. He just looks at me like I’m something he’s very, very grateful for.
Some of the tension in my shoulders melts.
“Your turn,” I say. “That shirt looks terrible.”
“It is fine shirt,” he protests.
“It’s in my way,” I counter.
His pupils darken. “Ah. Then is terrible.”
He grips the hem and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion.
And now I can stop pretending I haven’t imagined this.
His chest is broad and scarred, muscle layered over muscle. Old marks run across his ribs and shoulders, pale lines that speak of blades and chains and every cruelty his old life and the arena offered.
I reach out, tracing one of the long scars with my fingertips.
He goes very still.
“Okay?” I ask softly.
“Yes,” he says, breath a little unsteady. “You can touch. Anywhere. Just… tell me if seeing them is too much.”
“It isn’t,” I say. “It’s… proof. That you survived.”
His throat works.
He cups the back of my neck and pulls me into a kiss, and this one doesn’t feel careful.
It feels hungry.
I make another one of those small, embarrassing sounds, and his grip tightens on my hip. My body rocks forward instinctively, friction hitting me in a place that makes my vision go a little blurry.
“Sophia,” he groans against my mouth, and hearing my name like that nearly undoes me.
