I swear I almost broke right there. Her palm flattened over my sternum.
“Is this ok?” she asked.
“Whatever you want,” I said, “Whatever you need. It’s fine by me.”
Her breath hitched—but she didn’t pull away. Instead she rested her forehead against my chest, her voice muffled. “Good. Because I want to know what it feels like to touch someone without bracing for pain.”
My hands clenched at my sides. I couldn’t touch her yet. Not unless she asked. Not unless she showed me she was steady enough. She slid her hand down my ribs, over my stomach, then back up again—mapping me with trembling fingers. My pulse punched against her palm, and she froze before finally looked up at me—eyes glassy but bright, cheeks flushed, courage battling fear. “I want something good tonight,” she said. “Something that’s mine. Not something taken from me.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Tell me what you want me to do, Malibu.”
She swallowed, pressing her hand firmly against my chest.
“Just…stay still,” she murmured. “And let me learn you. At my pace.”
“Whatever you want,” I said again. And meant every word.
Her fingers drifted up my throat, along my jaw, the side of my face. Slow. Deliberate.
Claiming ground inch by inch. She was breathing harder now—soft little pulls of air she was trying (and failing) to hide. Her hands were warm on my stomach, tracing slow, unsure lines like she was learning a language she hadn’t spoken in years. Then she pulled back just enough to look up at me, hair falling across her cheek, eyes wide and scared and wanting all at once.
“Jackson?” she whispered.
“Yeah, Malibu?”
Her throat bobbed. “Can…can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
She closed her eyes for half a second like she needed to steady herself, then whispered, “I just want to feel you. Skin on skin. Just before you go.”
The words hit like a fist to my chest. Not lust. Not shock. Just…trust.The kind that made your knees go weak.
“You sure?” I asked, voice rough.
“Yes.” A breath. “Please.”
I exhaled slowly, carefully—like if I moved wrong the whole moment might shatter. “Ok,” I said softly. “Come here.”
She stepped closer, fingers curling into the hem of her sweatshirt. And then, slowly—giving her time to stop, to rethink, to run if she needed—I lifted it up and over her head.
A simple bra. Bare shoulders. Bare stomach. Nothing sexual in her eyes. Just honesty. She was letting me see her—really see her—without armor.
My breath left me in one long exhale. “Holly…”
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said quickly, but her voice wavered. “Like I’m breakable.”
“You’re not breakable,” I said. “You’re brave. That’s what I’m looking at.”
Her cheeks flushed, lips parting, and she whispered, “Your turn.”
I swallowed once, then tugged my shirt over my head and tossed it onto the foot of the bed. And the second I did, she froze. Not with fear. With…something else entirely. Her eyes swept over my chest, the tattoo over my ribs, the faint scars from all the dumb shit I’d done over the years. She reached out—slow, intentional—and pressed both palms to my chest.
My damn heartbeat stuttered under her hands.
She stepped closer, until her forehead rested against my collarbone. The press of her stomach to mine, bare skin to bare skin, made every muscle in my body go rigid—but not for the reason I expected.
Her arms slid around my waist, tentative at first, then firmer when she realized I wasn’t going anywhere. I wrapped my arms around her carefully—slow, visible, giving her every second to stop me if she needed.
