He exhales slowly, eyes searching my face. “You are certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then come here.”
I move back to the bed, suddenly nervous in a completely different way.
He reaches for my hand and brings it to rest on his thigh. “You can touch me. Or not. Your choice. No expectations.”
The permission steadies me.
My hand slides higher, tentative, until my palm rests over the hard length of him through denim.
He makes a sound low in his throat.
“Like this?” I ask.
“Yes,” he grits out. “Exactly like that.”
I stroke him through the fabric, learning the shape of him, the heat, the way his hips shift when I press just right.
His hand covers mine, not to stop me, but to guide me . “Firmer,” he murmurs. “You will not hurt me.”
I adjust my grip, and his head falls back against the headboard.
“Dea,” he breathes. “Yes. Like that.”
Watching him lose control is its own kind of revelation.
His breathing roughens. His jaw clenches. The controlled, careful man dissolves into someone raw and wanting.
“Sophia,” he warns. “Close.”
“Good,” I say, and mean it.
His hand tightens over mine, guiding the rhythm faster, and then he’s there—body going rigid, a harsh sound torn from his throat as he pulses beneath my palm.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then he catches my wrist gently, stilling my hand. His chest heaves.
“Should I—” I start.
“No,” he says. “Just… stay.”
I curl into his side, my hand still resting on his thigh, and he wraps his arm around me.
“Thank you,” he says eventually, voice rough.
“For what?”
“For choosing that. For me.”
“I wanted to,” I say simply.
He presses his lips to my hair. “I know. That is why it matters.”
We sit like this for a moment, breathing together, my hand still resting on his thigh.
