"I need you to know this isn't just?—"
"I know what it isn't."
She swallowed roughly. A shaky breath left her. “And I need you to know I'm scared."
I stopped. Lifted my head. Met her eyes. "Of what?"
"Of how much I want this." Her voice was barely there. "Of how much it's going to hurt when it ends."
"Who says it ends?"
"Everything ends, Jack. Everything I've ever—" She caught herself. Closed her eyes. And I saw it—likely the ghost of a man who said something that broke her heart and had calcified into gospel somewhere deep inside her.
"Look at me, Maggie."
She opened her eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until you look me in the eyes and tell me to go." I held her gaze, letting her see every word land. "And even then, I'd probably argue."
The laugh that broke out of her was wet and real and startled, like it had escaped from somewhere she'd been keeping it locked.
"There she is," I murmured.
I kissed her. Soft. Slow. Felt her melt into it—not collapse, not surrender, but a conscious releasing. A woman choosing to stop bracing for impact.
I eased her shorts down her hips. Let them fall. When she was bare, I guided her onto the bed—not laid her out, not positioned her. She sat on the edge and looked up at me.
I knelt.
Her breath caught. "What are you?—"
“Giving you what you want." I put my hands on her knees. Eased them apart. "Lie back, beautiful, I’m gonna make you feel all of it.”
She leaned back on her elbows, watching me. Not closing her eyes, not looking away. Present, the way she'd asked to be.
I kissed my way up her inner thigh, slow enough that she could feel each point of contact. Her breathing went ragged. When I reached the crease where her thigh met her hip, I paused. Let my breath ghost across her skin.
"Jack. Please."
I peered up at her through my brows, hoping she could see that being at her feet was now my favorite place I’d ever been. "Please what?"
She bit her lip, a flush creeping up her chest. “You know what."
"I want to hear you say it."
Her head fell back. Her throat worked. And then, with the voice of a woman who'd spent her whole life never asking anyone for anything: "I want your mouth on me."
I gave her what she asked for.
I took my time. Learned the rhythm of her, the pressure that made her gasp, the pace that made her shake. Built her up slowly, brought her to the edge and held her there, until she was trembling from head to toe and her voice had gone hoarse from saying my name.
I slid two fingers inside her and curled, and she came apart with a cry that sounded like it had been ripped from somewhere she'd been keeping sealed for years. I worked her through it, gentled my mouth as the tremors eased, pressing soft kisses to her inner thigh, her hip.
When her breathing slowed, I looked up.
She was staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, one arm thrown across her forehead. Wrecked.
"Come here," she said. Her voice was sandpaper.
