I feel myself flush all over again. “That wasn’t a very subtle slip, was it?”
“No,” he says. “But I like it.” A slow grin spreads across his mouth, the kind that looks carved from confidence and heat, all wolfish edges and quiet possession.
The tension in the room shifts—still hot, still charged, but threaded now with something softer.
He eases his hands back to my waist, gently guiding my movements into stillness. We sit here for a moment, breathing hard, pressed together but no longer chasing the edge.
Slowly, I lean back enough to see his face.
“We can… still do some things,” I say, cheeks burning. “Just… not all the things.”
Understanding flickers in his eyes.
“We can kiss,” he says. “And hold. And you can fall asleep on me and drool on my chest. This is also allowed.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me. “I do not drool.”
“We will see,” he says solemnly.
I swat his shoulder, then realize I’m still topless and very much in his lap.
“Um,” I say intelligently, glancing at my discarded shirt and camisole on the floor. “I should… put something on.”
“Only if you want,” he says. “But yes. If we are stopping, better to help my self-control.”
I slide off his lap, legs trembling a little, and grab the softest T-shirt I own—a faded cotton thing that smells like laundry soap.
I pull it on braless, the fabric skimming over sensitized skin.
When I turn back, he’s watching me with that same reverent focus, now tempered with something like pride.
My gaze drops.
He’s still hard. Very obviously hard. The outline of him strains against his jeans, and there’s no hiding it.
“Um,” I say, heat flooding my face. “Are you… I mean, do you need—” I gesture vaguely at his lap, then immediately want to die of embarrassment.
His mouth quirks. “Do not worry about me.”
“But you’re—” I swallow. “That has to be uncomfortable.”
“It will pass,” he says simply. “I am fine.”
I cross my arms, considering. My brain does what it always does—calculates, analyzes, looks for the fair solution.
“I stopped for me,” I say slowly. “But I didn’t stop for you.”
His eyes darken. “Sophia—”
“I want to,” I interrupt. “If you want me to. I just… don’t know how to… I’ve never done this for someone…”
I gesture again, more specifically this time, and watch his jaw clench.
“You do not have to—”
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I want to.”
The distinction matters to both of us.
