“You gave me courage too.” He leaned into my touch. “Iwas terrified my whole life of my father’s rejection. And when it happened, when he actually said those things… it destroyed me. But you were there. You held me through it. That’s why I could keep going.”
I kissed him. Soft, gentle, grateful. When I pulled back, his eyes were dark, his breathing slightly uneven.
“I want you,” he said quietly.
The words sent heat through me. “Yeah?”
“I want—” He stopped, swallowed. “I want all of you. I want to be with you. Really with you. The way we haven’t been yet.”
Understanding hit me. “Étienne?—”
“We’ve been together for two months. We’ve… done other things. But I want this. Tonight. I want—” He gestured helplessly. “I don’t know how to say it without being crude. And nothing we’ve ever done was crude. But I want to feel you inside me.”
I took his hand. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” But I could see the nervousness in his eyes, the way his fingers trembled in mine. “I’ve never—I mean, I’ve never done that before. Of course I haven’t.”
“I know.”
“But I want to. With you. I want everything with you.”
I stood, pulling him up with me. “Come on.”
We climbed up the stairs to the bedroom, and I felt Étienne’s tension in the way his hand was tight on mine, the way his breathing had gone shallow. In the bedroom, I turned to face him.
“We don’t have to do this tonight,” I said gently. “There’s no rush. We have time.”
“I want to.” He stepped closer, his hands coming up to frame my face. “I want this. I’m just—I’m nervous.”
“That’s okay. Being nervous is okay.” I kissed him softly. “We’ll go slow. And if you want to stop at any point?—”
“I won’t want to stop.”
“But if you do, we stop. No questions, no pressure. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I kissed him again, deeper this time, pouring reassurance into it, and he relaxed into me with a sigh that felt like surrender. His hands slid down to my shoulders, tentatively at first, then found the hem of my shirt and tugged gently. We undressed each other slowly, carefully, each piece of clothing a deliberate choice. My shirt. His. Soft kisses between each reveal—his collarbone, my chest, the curve of his shoulder.
When we were both naked, standing in the dim golden light spilling from the hallway, I took a moment just to look at him. All lean muscle and nervous energy, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. I could see the uncertainty still flickering in his eyes—the fear of the unknown—but beneath it, something stronger. Desire. Trust. Love that made my chest ache with the weight of it.
“Come here,” I said softly, guiding him to the bed with gentle hands.
We lay down together, the sheets cool against heated skin, and I took my time. No rush. No urgency. Just my hands skimming the landscape of him—the dip of his waist, the sharp angle of his hip, the sensitive skin of his inner thigh that made him shiver. My mouth followed, pressing kisses to his sternum, his ribs, the hollow of his throat where his pulse hammered against my lips. Caressing every inch of skin, cataloging every place that made him gasp or arch into my touch, every sound that told me I was doing this right. Building the heat slowly, patiently, letting the nervousness dissolve into want.
“Marco,” he breathed, my name broken and desperate,and his hands fisted in the sheets like he needed something to hold onto. “I need?—”
“I know.” I kissed him softly, then reached for the supplies in the nightstand. My hands were steadier than I expected. “I’ve got you. I promise.”
I prepared him carefully, gently, watching his face the entire time—reading every flicker of expression, every catch of breath. He was tense at first, his body uncertain and resisting, but I took my time. Talked him through it in low murmurs, told him he was doing perfectly, reminded him to breathe. Gradually, incrementally, I felt him relax. Felt him open up for me, his trust a gift I didn’t take lightly.
One finger, then two, working slowly, letting him adjust. His breathing went ragged, and I kissed his knee, his thigh, anywhere I could reach, while my other hand stroked soothing patterns on his hip.
“You’re doing so good,” I murmured. “So perfect.”
When I added a third finger, when I curled them just right and found that spot inside him, his whole body went rigid. He arched off the bed with a sharp gasp, and a stream of French poured out—half prayer, half profanity, beautiful and incoherent.
“That’s it,” I said, my voice rough with want and restraint. “Just like that. Breathe through it. I’ve got you.”
