His jaw tightens and his eyes close for a brief second, like he’s fighting the urge to lose control before he even starts.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, low.
I shake my head once. “I don’t.”
That’s all it takes.
He rolls us so I’m on my back, his body settling between my thighs, heavy and solid and grounding in a way that makes my breath catch. His forearms brace on either side of my head, caging me in without trapping me.
He kisses me slowly at first, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to remember the shape of my mouth. Then rougher, needier, his hand sliding into my hair, fingers tightening just enough to make my spine arch.
I kiss him back just as hard.
The night floods back in pieces. The gala. The looks. The silence. The way everything cracked open.
I push my hands under his shirt, needing skin, needing proof he’s real. His breath stutters when my fingers drag across hisstomach, and he breaks the kiss long enough to pull the shirt over his head and toss it somewhere behind him.
My hands go to his shoulders, then his back, nails digging in like I need to anchor myself to something solid.
“Sarah,” he breathes again, like my name is both a plea and a restraint.
I hook my leg around his hip, pulling him closer. “I need this,” I admit, voice low.
His forehead drops to mine. “So do I.”
That’s when it shifts.
We are two people trying to outrun the weight sitting on our chests.
He kisses down my throat, over my collarbone, his mouth hot and unhurried but his hands tug my shirt up and over my head, then back down my body. His fingers find the edge of my underwear and pause, like he’s giving me the chance to pull back.
I lift my hips in answer.
He groans quietly and pushes them down, not teasing, just controlled. Focused.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
“I’m here.”
He moves fast then, urgency bleeding through the restraint. He strips us both down with efficient movements, not stopping to admire, just needing. Wanting. He reaches for the condom on the nightstand without breaking eye contact, rolls it on in one practiced motion, then lines himself up and pushes inside me. The sensation hits hard and sharp and perfect all at once.
I gasp, hands flying to his shoulders.
He doesn’t rush. He sets a slow, steady rhythm, each thrust deliberate, grounding, like he’s reminding both of us that this is real. That we’re here.
My legs tighten around him, a silent demand for more, for closer, for everything he’s holding back.
His jaw tightens. “Easy.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Please.”
His eyes lock on mine, dark and unguarded. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s not enough.”
Something snaps. His movements turn rougher, deeper, the bed creaking beneath us. My breath breaks apart, my hands clutching at him like he’s the only thing keeping me upright. His mouth finds mine again, swallowing the sound I make when he hits just right, and I feel him lose a fraction of his control.
Not completely.
