Before I can formulate a coherent thought, I’m moving. I slide my hands from her hips to her ass, lifting her from the kitchen counter. She makes a small, surprised sound—a softgasp that’s half inhalation, half sigh—and her arms instinctively tighten around my neck. She’s lighter than I expected, but solid. Real. She fits against my chest as if she were carved to be there.
I stand in the middle of her kitchen, holding her, my heart thudding a heavy, primal beat against my ribs. She presses her forehead against mine.
“Which way?” I murmur, my lips brushing against hers.
I feel her smile, a small, private thing. “Down the hall. Last door on the left.” Her voice is a breathy whisper, meant only for me.
I turn and start walking. Each step feels deliberate, momentous. The hallway is dark, the only light spilling from the kitchen behind us, casting long, strange shadows on the walls. My world has compressed to the woman in my arms. I’m hyper-aware of everything. The scent of her shampoo as I bury my nose in her hair. The astonishing warmth of her body seeping through my shirt. The way her fingers are lightly, nervously, tracing the line of my collarbone.
I’m terrified I’m going to trip over a rug I can’t see, that I’m going to do something clumsy and shatter this perfect, crystalline moment. But my feet find the floor. I make it to the last door on the left. It’s slightly ajar. I push it open with my shoulder and step inside.
Her bedroom.
It’s dark, but not completely. Moonlight filters through a gap in the curtains, painting a pale silver rectangle on the floor and catching the edge of a simple, dark wood bed frame. The bed itself is large, covered in a soft-looking duvet that looks impossibly inviting. The room smells more intensely of her. It’s clean, uncluttered, and deeply, intimatelyhers. It feels like a sanctuary, and for a second, I hesitate. I feel like a trespasser.
Then she shifts in my arms, lifting her head to look at me. Her eyes are wide and dark, and in them I see no fear. Only trust.Only... a mirror of the same want that’s clawing its way up my own throat.
I cross the room and lay her down on the bed, my movements as gentle as I can possibly make them. She sinks into the mattress, and I don't let go immediately. I keep one hand under her back, the other on her hip, leaning over her.
“Maya,” I whisper. I need to give her one more out now that we’re actually here. I need her to know that this is her choice, all of it. “Are you... are you sure?”
She doesn’t answer with words. She lifts one hand, her palm cool and soft, and cups my jaw. Her thumb strokes over the rough scruff on my cheek. She justlooksat me, and in that look, I see all the confirmation I'll ever need. She tugs gently, pulling my face down to hers.
The kiss is different again. It’s slow, searching. It’s a promise.
I pull away and kneel on the floor beside the bed, my hands finding the hem of her sweater. My fingers are trembling.Get it together, Zachary.
“Okay?” I ask, my voice barely audible.
She nods, her hands drop to her sides.
I take a steadying breath and slowly,slowly, draw the soft wool up. My knuckles graze the warm skin of her stomach, and she sucks in a sharp breath. I pause, my hands resting on her ribs. I lean forward and press my lips to the small, bare patch of skin I’ve just uncovered. She shudders, a full-body tremor that runs right through me.
I continue my task, pulling the sweater up over her head. Her hair tumbles free, a dark halo against her pale, soft skin. I toss the sweater aside; my eyes fixed on her. She’s in a simple, dark lace bra. Beautiful.
I don’t rush. I’m setting the pace from her, from the slow, deliberate way she’s watching me. My hands go to her shoulders, my thumbs tracing the sharp, delicate line of her collarbones.I lean forward again, kissing the hollow of her throat, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath my lips. I follow the line of her shoulder with my mouth, and her fingers reach out and tangle in my shirt.
My hands slide down her back, searching for the clasp of her bra. My fingers feel thick and clumsy. I fumble with it for what feels like an eternity before the small hooks finally release. I draw the straps down her arms, my gaze lingering on every new inch of skin.
She’s glorious. The moonlight catches the curve of her breast, the shadow between. I have this insane urge to just... look. To memorize every line, every curve.
“You are so beautiful, Maya,” I whisper, and the words feel painfully inadequate.
She doesn't say “no” or “stop” or blush and turn away. She just holds my gaze, her own burning with an intensity that steals my breath.
I slowly press her back into the mattress, my hands find the button of her jeans. The metallicshnickof the button and the rasp of the zipper sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. I hook my fingers into the waistband and slowly, inch by agonizing inch, pull them down over her hips. Her hands fall away from my shirt to rest on the bedspread. I’m tracing her body with my hands as I go. My palms skim over the jut of her hipbones, the soft skin of her stomach, the curve of her thighs.
I stop to kiss her hipbone, right where the pale skin disappears beneath the line of her panties. She arches off the bed, a small, desperate sound caught in her throat. That sound breaks my control.
I pull her jeans and socks off in a single, slightly-less-than-graceful movement, tossing them onto the floor. I stand up pulling my shirt over my head in one frantic motion. I’mfumbling with my own belt buckle, my own zipper, then kicking off my jeans, my eyes never leaving her.
She’s lying on the bed, bathed in moonlight, wearing almost nothing, and she’s watching me with an expression of such raw, open wanting that my knees feel weak.
I climb on the bed, sinking into the mattress beside her. I’m on my side, propped on one elbow, looking down at her. She’s perfect. Absolutely, terrifyingly perfect.
I reach out, my hand shaking just a little, and lay it flat on her stomach just below her navel. Her skin is so soft. So warm.
“Zachary,” she says again, her voice cracking.
