"Smooth," she says, but there's no edge to it. Just warmth.
"I'm working on it."
The boots hit the floor. The jeans follow. And then she's laid out before me in nothing but a pair of black cotton underwear that shouldn't be sexy but somehow is — because it's Molly, and everything about her makes my blood run hot.
I press my mouth to the inside of her knee, then higher, to the soft skin of her inner thigh. She tenses, then forces herself to relax, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. I can feel her pulse hammering against my lips.
"You're shaking," I murmur against her skin.
"Shut up," she whispers, but her hand finds the back of my head and holds on.
I take my time. I owe her that. I owe her more than that, but time is what I have right now, and I'm going to spend every second of it like currency I'll never earn again.
My fingers hook into the elastic of her underwear, and I drag them down slowly, letting the anticipation build. She lifts her hips again, helping, and when the last barrier is gone, I just look at her for a moment — flushed and wanting and so goddamn beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Then I lower my mouth to her.
The sound she makes is raw and startled, a gasp that breaks into something desperate. Her thighs clamp around my ears, then relax, then clamp again like she can't decide whether to pull me closer or push me away. I use my tongue like I'm learning her, mapping the terrain of what makes her breath hitch, what makes her hips roll, what makes her fingers tighten in my hair until it stings.
"Fuck," she breathes, and the word is torn from somewhere deep, somewhere she rarely lets anyone hear. Her back arches off the mattress, and I slide my hands beneath her, cradling her hips, pulling her closer.
I keep going — steady, deliberate, relentless in a way that isn't about power but about proving something I can't say with words.That she's worth the patience. That someone can hold still for her without wanting something in return.
Except I do want something. I want everything. And the guilt of that wanting sits like a stone in my chest even as my tongue traces circles that make her spine bow.
Her hips lift into me, and I feel the moment she lets go — really lets go, not just physically but somewhere deeper. The tension in her thighs eases. Her grip on my hair softens from desperate to something almost tender. She stops fighting it.
"Right there," she gasps. "Don't stop — please don't —"
I don't stop.
I feel the orgasm roll through her like a wave — her whole body seizing, her thighs clamping hard against my jaw, a sound wrenched from her throat that's half sob, half moan. I keep her there, riding it out, giving her every second of it until she's gasping and pushing at my shoulders.
"Come here," she pants, voice wrecked. "Get up here. Now."
I climb up the length of her body, kissing as I go — her hip, her navel, the scar, the soft underside of her breast. By the time I reach her mouth, she's already pulling me down, kissing me with the taste of herself still on my lips and not caring, not flinching.
Her hands find my belt, clumsy and urgent. "Off," she demands. "These need to be off."
I help her, kicking free of my jeans and boxers, and when there's nothing left between us, she goes still beneath me. Her eyes are open, watching, waiting. Not hiding.
"I love you," she whispers, and the words crack something open in my chest.
"I love you too," I say, and I mean it more than I've ever meant anything. More than the lies. More than the mission. More than the fear that keeps me awake at night.
Those words are going to ruin me.
I position myself and pause, forehead to forehead, our breathing ragged and mingled.
"Slow," she says. "Please."
"I've got you."
I press into her — slow — and the world narrows to a single point of contact, a single breath, a single sound that comes from both of us at once. Her hand finds the back of my neck and holds on, her eyes never leaving mine.
I move gently. Each stroke is deliberate, measured, like I'm trying to say something my mouth can't form. Her breath hitches on the first one, steadies on the second, and by the third she's meeting me — not rushing, not fighting, just matching. Finding the rhythm between us like it was always there, waiting.
"There," she breathes. "Like that."
