Her.
Mine.
I couldn’t look away.
The way the soft light from the hallway spilled across her skin—gold against porcelain—made her look like something unreal. And still… mine. Entirely, irrevocably mine.
Kennedy stood in front of me, quiet but not fragile. A storm behind her eyes. And that dress? It clung to her like it didn’t want to let go. But I would be the one to take it off—carefully, like unwrapping something sacred.
My hand found the zipper at her back, and I hesitated.
Not because I didn’t want her.
Because I did. So much it fucking hurt.
I eased the zipper down, inch by inch, knuckles ghosting along the dip of her spine. Her breath caught, a stutter of sound so small it might’ve been missed—but I felt it like a crack of thunder.
The fabric loosened. Slipped from her shoulders.
And when it finally fell, pooling at her feet, I stepped forward and pressed a kiss to the place her neck met her shoulder. Soft. Slow. Possessive.
“You’re beautiful,” I said, and I meant every goddamn syllable.
She shivered beneath my mouth. That little reaction lit something deep and dangerous in me. Not hunger. Not exactly.
Worship.
I didn’t touch her breasts. Didn’t push for more. I let my palms settle lightly on her shoulders, then slide down her arms in slow, reverent strokes. Like I was grounding her to the moment. Letting her know she was safe here.
With me.
When her gaze lifted, I saw it—nerves, yes. But something else too. Bravery. Curiosity.
Her fingers moved to my shirt. She hesitated. Then started on the buttons.
One. Two. Three.
Her hands shook, just a little. But I didn’t move. Didn’t help. Let her come to me.
When she pulled the fabric aside, her eyes didn’t dart away. She looked. At the bruises. The scars. The parts of me I never explained.
And she didn’t flinch.
Her fingers traced a faded scar just beneath my ribs like she was reading a story in the silence.
I exhaled slowly, chest rising beneath her touch. Let my eyes fall shut as her hands skimmed over me with something like reverence. Like I wasn’t a man who’d done ugly things—but someone worth touching like this.
When I shrugged the shirt off and tossed it aside, it was just us—skin and breath and something deeper buzzing beneath the surface.
She stood there in nothing but the thinnest lace.
I didn’t grab her. Didn’t shove her onto the bed.
I just looked.
At her.
And it hit me hard and fast—this wasn’t sex. This wasn’t about getting off or claiming what I’d wanted for weeks.
