I kiss her shoulder. “This is beautiful.”
The curve of her collarbone. “And this.”
The soft rise and fall of her breath. “This.”
Her mouth trembles.
I catch her gaze once more in the mirror and keep my voice low. “Look at yourself.”
Her eyes flicker with panic.
I slide my hands to her hips—warm, steady. “God just look at you, Harlow.”
Her throat bobs, and she slowly looks at herself. And I watch the moment her brain tries to argue with her reflection. I don’t let it win.
“You’re not too much,” I murmur near her ear. “You’re exactly enough. And you’re mine to be gentle with, not to fix.”
Harlow turns her head like she wants to swallow the words right out of my mouth. She kisses me—harder this time, impatient, her hands fisting in my T-shirt. I groan against her lips, and the sound is embarrassingly wrecked, like she just pulled something loose in me that I can’t put back.
I wouldn’t want to anyway.
She smiles against my mouth like she felt the effect.
Dangerous girl.
I tug my shirt over my head and toss it onto her desk chair with my sweater. Her eyes track the movement—heat and nerves warring in the same space. I step in behind her again, chest to her back, and she inhales like she’s surprised by how good it feels to be held without being trapped.
Moving her hair to one side, I move my lips along her jaw. “Tell me what you want.”
Harlow’s voice cracks. “You.”
“I know,” I breathe. “But tell me how.”
Her hands come up to my wrists, guiding them like she’s giving herself permission. My fingers slide to the waistband of her leggings and stop. I wait. Harlow meets my eyes in the mirror, pupils blown wide. She nods once.
That’s my yes.
I peel them down slowly, keeping my hands warm and steady, not yanking, not rushing. She steps out of them like she’s stepping into a different version of herself. One that doesn’t have to fight so hard. She’s in her underwear now, the light soft across her skin, and she’s shaking, but not from the cold.
I press a kiss to her shoulder. “Still with me?”
Her answer is a breath. “Yes.”
I turn her gently to face me, and the sight hits harder than it should. She’s flushed. Eyes bright. Mouth parted like she keeps forgetting how to breathe.
My hands frame her waist. “Can I take this off too?” Gesturing toward her bra.
Harlow swallows. “Yes. But…don’t?—”
“I won’t,” I say immediately. “I’m not turning this into something you have to survive. This is all about you.”
Her eyes flicker, relieved and terrified at the same time.
I guide her back until her shoulders meet the closet door beside the mirror—not pinning, just placing, giving her something solid behind her. Then I move slowly, sliding the straps down her shoulders like I’m unwrapping something precious.
I keep talking the whole time—not to fill space, but to hold her there.
“Your shoulders,” I murmur, kissing the skin I just exposed. “I love these.”
