Like I can feel everything.
“This face,” he says, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “It’s so damn pretty.”
My stomach flips.
“First time I saw you in that ice cream shop?” he continues, his gaze locking with mine in the mirror. “I damn near forgot how to breathe.”
I swallow.
Hard.
Because he’s not teasing.
He’s not exaggerating.
He means it.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
His hands slide over mine, guiding them down.
Over my throat.
My collarbone.
The movement is slow, deliberate—like he’s mapping me out, like every inch matters.
“You feel that?” he murmurs.
I nod before I can stop myself.
My heartbeat is galloping inside my chest, and I know that’s what he’s talking about.
“Good,” he says. “I want you to.”
My breath comes a little faster now.
Because it’s not just what he’s saying.
It’s how he’s saying it.
Like this isn’t just about touching.
It’s about seeing.
His hands move mine again, settling them lower, and I tense for a second—but he doesn’t let me pull away.
Doesn’t force me either.
Just holds me there. His palms pressing against the back of my hands as he guides me to my breasts.
Cupping them.
Weighing them.
His grip on me is steady.
Certain.
