Big mistake.
Because now I’m face-to-face with him in the soft gray morning, his dark hair mussed, beard rough, blue eyes still heavy with sleep, and absolutely none of last night feels like a dream anymore.
He is beautiful.
Rugged, masculine, overwhelming, and somehow softer around me than I would have believed possible less than a day ago.
His gaze moves over my face, steady and quiet.
“You okay?”
The question is low, serious, immediate.
As if the answer matters more than anything.
That does something dangerous to my chest.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m okay.”
His whole body seems to ease.
“Good.”
Only then do I let myself really feel it. The ache between my thighs. The lazy warmth still humming through my body. The sweet, stunned satisfaction of remembering exactly how careful he was. How patient. How reverent. Like he had all the time in the world for me.
Like I was worth taking his time for.
No one has ever made me feel like that.
His thumb brushes lightly over my cheek. “You’re thinking hard.”
“You did that.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Did what?”
“Made me all... floaty.”
That almost-smile deepens, just a little.
“I made you floaty.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I laugh softly, and the sound seems to please him even more.
He leans in and kisses me once. Slow. Morning-soft. Nothing like the hungry heat of last night and somehow no less devastating.
When he pulls back, I blink up at him.
“You kiss very confidently for a man who claimed he hadn’t done this before.”
His eyes darken with amusement. “I said I hadn’t gone all the way before.”
“Still.”
He shrugs one broad shoulder against the pillow. “Wanted to get it right.”
