The kiss turned slower, deeper. Less urgent and more consuming. His thumb brushed my cheek, then my jaw, then slid down the line of my throat like he was memorizing me.
“Still want this?” he murmured against my mouth.
My answer came out breathless. “Oh, yes.”
His forehead rested briefly against mine.
“Then stop talking.”
He lifted me effortlessly, and the sudden movement tore a surprised laugh from me as he set me on the bed.
For one suspended moment, he just looked at me.
Like he was trying to imprint the sight into memory.
Red sweater discarded on the floor. Morning light filtering through curtains. Me bare and waiting for him.
Something dark and satisfied flickered in his expression.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me later,” I whispered. “Show me now.”
His mouth curved faintly.
Then he bent and kissed me again, slower this time, hands exploring, learning, grounding himself in touch.
Every brush of his palm sent heat spiraling through me. My nerves felt too close to the surface, everything heightened, sharpened.
His hands slid along my sides, over my hips, mapping me like unfamiliar territory he intended to claim.
Possession, but chosen.
Given.
And my body answered instinctively, arching toward him, wanting more contact, more heat, more of him everywhere at once.
His mouth trailed along my jaw, down my throat, kisses slower now, like he was savoring the reaction he pulled from me.
A soft sound escaped before I could stop it.
His hand tightened slightly at my waist.
“You’re killing me,” he murmured.
“You’re taking your time.”
“I’ve imagined this too vividly to rush it.”
Heat pooled low in my belly.
“You’ve imagined this?”
His gaze lifted to mine, dark with honesty. “More than I should’ve.”
A small thrill shot through me.
“Good. And here I wondered if you wanted me.”
