His mouth moves against mine carefully, learning the shape of me. Then it turns deeper. Hungrier. His tongue slides against mine, and I moan into him, the sound foreign and shameless and so fucking good I want to cry. His hand grips my waist, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of my nightgown, pulling me flush against him until I can feel every hard line of his body.
"Please," I breathe against his lips, and I don't even know what I'm asking for. More. Everything. Something to make me feel real again.
He breaks the kiss, eyes searching mine like he's taking pictures of this moment. Then his hands slide down to my thighs, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
Everything about him feels unmistakable to me.
I wrap my legs around his waist as my back hits a wall that wasn't there before—cool stone covered in climbing roses. The thorns should hurt, but they don't. Nothing hurts here. Everything is perfect.
"I've wanted this," he rasps, his mouth dragging down my throat. "Since the first moment I saw you. Do you know what that's been like? Watching you every day and not being able to touch you?"
His teeth press into my pulse point, and I gasp, rolling my hips against him.
"I need to hear you say it. Tell me what you want," he demands.
Those words flip a switch inside me.
Heat coils through me, sudden and unforgiving, like something that's been waiting just beneath my skin for years. Every buried thought, every forbidden want I thought was gone comes rushing back. A version of myself I threw away years ago—the one who used to ask for what she needed, who used to beg for it and loved every second of the surrender.
"I want you to touch me."
"Where?"
"Everywhere."
His hand slides up my thigh, achingly slow, trailing fire across my skin. "Like this?"
"More."
He smiles, loving the control I just handed him. "Such a needy girl."
Needy girl.
I used to love being talked to like that.
I remember it all too well. That exact phrase, in that exact tone, from a voice that sounded just like?—
His fingers brush between my thighs, and the thought dissolves, replaced by pure sensation. I'm not wearing anything beneath the nightgown, and the realization should embarrass me, but instead it only makes me wetter.
"You're soaked," he murmurs against my ear. "Is this all for me?"
"God, yes."
He rewards me with one slow stroke right where it hurts, and my head falls back against the stone.
It's been so fucking long since anyone touched me and actually made mefeelsomething beyond revulsion and resignation.
"That's it." His voice has gone velvet-dark, a sound that wraps around my spine and squeezes. "Let me hear you."
Another stroke, deeper this time. He presses his thumb against my clit, and I cry out, digging my fingers into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Please—"
"Please what?" He draws back, tracing his fingers lightly down my thighs.
I can quite literally feel myself dripping.
"Use your words, baby girl. Tell me what you need."
