She tips her chin up. “Stop thinking so much.”
A laugh almost breaks out of me, but it dies in my throat because her voice isn’t teasing. It’s pleading. So I give her what she’s asking for.
I kiss her.
The first kiss is slow—barely there—like a test. Like I’m letting her nervous system catch up. Her mouth parts on a shaky breath, and I feel it everywhere. The second kiss goes deeper.Tongues colliding against each other like they’re trying to fight for the limited space. Her fingers clutch the front of my shirt like she needs something solid. A low sound tears out of me—rough, ruined—and her whole body trembles like it hits her right where she lives. My hands settle at her waist, gentle but sure.
Not gripping.
Anchoring.
She leans into me like she’s been fighting gravity all day and finally stopped. The kiss turns hungry, and my control starts to fray at the edges. Harlow pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead pressing to mine, voice wrecked.
I lead her gently toward the mirror I noticed earlier on her closet door. The slightly open bathroom door gives the room just enough light that I can make us both out in the mirror, without freaking her out.
When she stands in front of the closet mirror, she crosses her arms automatically like armor. I step behind her, close but not touching yet. I meet her eyes in the reflection.
“You’re safe,” I say.
Her throat moves. “Okay.”
I lift my hands to the hem of her shirt and pause.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” I murmur.
Harlow shakes her head once. “Don’t stop.”
My chest tightens. I lift slowly, and as the fabric rises, her breaths turn shallow. So I slow down even more, kissing her shoulder through the material, keeping her grounded in sensation instead of spiraling thought. When I pull the shirt over her head, I don’t rush to look. I don’t act like I’ve been starving. I keep my gaze on her eyes in the mirror. Because I want her to know I’m not here to judge her body. I’m here to worship it.
She’s in a tank top now, skin warm in the low light, and she looks like she’s braced for impact anyway.
I lean in and speak where she can’t miss it.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
Her mouth opens on an instinctive protest.
I shake my head, soft. “No. Let me.”
Her eyes flick to mine. I slide my hands down her arms, slow. “You’re beautiful because you show up even when everything in you wants to disappear.”
My fingers trace her waist over the fabric. “You’re beautiful because you feel everything, and you still keep your heart in your chest.”
I kiss the side of her neck, and she shivers. “You’re beautiful because you don’t weaponize your softness. You survive with it.”
Harlow’s breath hitches.
I pause.
Look at her again, steady, in the mirror. “Still okay?”
Her voice is barely there. “Yes.”
So I keep going. I peel the tank top up, inch by inch, and as more skin appears, I name it like it’s sacred.
Not cheesy.
True.
