"Your turn," I say.
She reaches for the hem of her shirt, but I catch her wrists — gentle, not restraining. Just stopping. Her eyes snap to mine, a question and a challenge tangled together.
"Let me," I say.
For a heartbeat, I think she's going to fight me on it. That's what Molly does — she fights everything, even the things she wants. Especially the things she wants. But something shifts in her expression, a softening at the edges that costs her more than she'll ever admit.
She drops her hands.
I take my time. I lift the fabric slowly, letting my knuckles drag against her ribs, her sides, the soft skin beneath her breasts. She shivers, and I feel it in my spine. When the shirt clears her head, I toss it somewhere behind me and just look at her — the freckles scattered across her collarbone, the faint pink scar near her hip that I've traced with my mouth before, the way her breath comes quick and shallow.
"You're staring," she says, but there's no bite to it. Just observation.
“I am." I reach around her back and unhook her bra with one hand — a skill I'm not proud of, but grateful for at this moment. The straps slide down her shoulders, and she lets them fall. "Can't help it."
Her chin lifts, defiant even now. "You going to do something about it, or just look?"
I answer by lowering my mouth to her collarbone, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint trace of bar soap and something underneath that's pure Molly. She inhales sharply, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders like she needs an anchor.
I work my way down — slow, deliberate, savoring. I don’t know how much longer, how many days, I’ll have left to enjoy Molly before my job rips our worlds apart. I want it all. I want every taste of her. My lips find the swell of her breast, then the peak, and when I take her nipple into my mouth, she makes a sound that's half gasp, half groan. Her fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
Good. I want the marks. I want proof that this happened, that she let me in, that for one night at least, we're real.
"Evan," she breathes, and my name in her mouth sounds different now — not a warning, not a weapon. A surrender.
I pull back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, and there's a flush spreading down her neck and chest. She's beautiful like this — undone, unguarded, all her sharp edges softened by want.
"Bed," I say. It's not a question.
She nods once, quick, and I scoop her up before she can argue. Her legs wrap around my waist on instinct, and she laughs — a genuine laugh, surprised and breathless — as I carry her toward the bedroom.
"Show-off," she mutters against my neck.
"You love it."
"I tolerate it." But her arms tighten around me, and when I lay her down on the mattress, she doesn't let go right away. She holds on, pulling me down with her, as if she's afraid I'll disappear if she loosens her grip.
I brace myself over her, forearms on either side of her head, and just breathe. Her hair fans out across my pillow, a riot of redagainst the white. Her chest rises and falls beneath me, and I can feel her heartbeat — fast, erratic, matching my own.
"Hey," I say softly.
Her eyes meet mine. "Hey." Then she swallows. "I'm nervous."
The admission costs her something. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the way she looks away like she can't stand for me to see her vulnerable.
“Nervous?”
“I want it slow. I want it gentle. I want to… feel it.”
“Lie back,” I say. “Relax.”
My lips meet hers, then descend to her neck, to her chest, her breasts, then lower still until I'm kneeling between her thighs, my mouth tracing a path down her stomach that makes her muscles jump and twitch beneath my lips. She tastes like salt and heat and something underneath that's purely Molly — fierce, alive, impossible to forget.
Her fingers thread into my hair, grip tight, and I feel the war in her body: the instinct to close, to guard, to pull away, fighting against the part of her that's already falling open. I press my lips to the soft skin below her navel, and she makes a sound that's half sigh, half whimper.
"Evan," she breathes, and there's a warning in it, but also permission.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her jeans and look up at her, waiting. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and she nods once — quick, almost impatient. I work the button, the zipper, and she lifts her hips to help me slide the denim down her legs. Her boots are still on, which makes the whole thing awkward and clumsy, and she laughs when I have to stop and unlace them.
