We lie together in the quiet as the early light turns everything soft—the edges of the room, the space between our breaths, the weight of what we shared last night.
She shifts against me, and I feel the change in her body—awareness settling in. Not nervous. Just… present. Her fingers trace a slow line down my chest, tentative at first, then bolder.
Silence settles over us—warm, charged, alive with something neither of us pretends not to feel.
Her gaze flickers to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Flavius… about the line.”
My body tenses—not with fear. Withwant.
“The line we agreed on,” she says. “About after the fight. We still have it.” A small breath. “I still want it to mean something — to be a choice we make when we’re not running from anything. But last night changed something.” She draws a breath, steadying herself. “I don’t want what you shared about Marcellus to make you feel like you should guard yourself from me this morning. I want… I want to be close to you.”
Her words hit something still raw, still learning how to trust softness.
“I do not want distance,” I say. “Not from you. Not anymore.”
That earns another breath of relief—real, unguarded.
She rises onto her knees, straddling my hips in one slow, unhurried motion that steals the air from my lungs. Her hands slide up my chest, cautious at first, then firmer, as if confirming that yes, I am real, and yes, I am hers to touch right now.
“Flavius…” Her voice trembles for a different reason now. “I want to… give you something. I want to make you feel good. Because last night—because of the way my heart feels right now—I need…” She shakes her head, frustrated with the limits of language. “I need you to feel how much you matter to me.”
Goddess.
My hands rise to her thighs, fingertips tracing slow, reverent lines up toward her hips. Her skin is warm from sleep, soft in a way that unravels every thread of restraint I have left.
“Sophia,” I say quietly, “you do not have to give me anything.”
“I know.” Her voice is soft but certain. “That’s exactly why I want to.”
Those words should not have the power to undo a man. But they do.
She leans down, kisses me—slow, deep, full of a tenderness that is somehow more devastating than hunger. Her fingers slip beneath my shirt—slow, tentative at first—then higher, exploring the lines of my stomach, the curve of my ribs, like she’s tracing meaning into my skin one touch at a time.
I breathe hard, control slipping, wanting her so badly my bones ache.
Her hand trails down, brushing the line of my waistband, then lower… Her palm cups me through my pants.
Heat slams through me. I choke on a guttural sound that isn’t civilized.
She kisses the edge of my jaw. “I want to make you feel good,” she murmurs. “Let me?”
I nod—because words aren’t possible, because my body is already answering for me, because her wanting is a kind of worship I never thought would be mine.
She strokes me slowly, gently, watching my face with this fierce quiet focus that could tear me apart. She is learning me. Taking me in. Seeing every reaction I try and fail to contain.
“Sophia…” My voice cracks. “I am close already.”
“Mmm,” she whispers. “It’s okay.” She presses a soft kiss at the corner of my mouth. “We don’t have to go slow every second.”
Goddess, what she does to me.
I catch her wrist—not stopping her, just needing to touch her. “Another stroke like that,” I manage, “and I won’t last another heartbeat.”
“Then fall apart,” she says simply. “Just… stay with me while you do.”
She pushes my pants down my hips. She sees me and stills—eyes widening, pupils darkening, lips parting in quiet surprise.
“Oh…” she whispers. “You’re… beautiful.”
