He kisses a slow path back down the center of my body: sternum, ribs, navel, lower belly. When he settles between my thighs, his shoulders wedge them wider. His forearms brace along the insides of my legs, palms pressing flat to my hips. He holds them without trapping.
“Look at me,” he says.
My eyes find his gaze dark and steady.
“I’m going to taste you now. Slow and deep until you come on my tongue.” He waits, letting the words settle. “Tell me yes.”
“Yes.” The syllable trembles out.
His head lowers. The first contact is only breath in warm pulses against my pussy. My clit throbs in answer. Then the flat of his tongue glides from my entrance to hood in one luxurious sweep. No flicking. No frantic circling. Just long, deliberate licks that cover me completely. Again. And again. The rhythm never hurries. Each pass drags pleasure upward until it sits heavy behind my navel.
My hands find his hair. Not pulling, but holding on.
He groans against me. The vibration sinks straight into my pussy. One palm slides upward, cupping my breast again. His thumb brushes the still-wet nipple in lazy circles that sync with his tongue below in dual points of contact. My thighs start to shake.
He doesn’t speed up or change the cadence, only adds the slightest suction when his mouth closes over my clit in gentle pulls. Release. Pull. Release. The sensation builds in thick, rolling waves instead of sharp spikes. My breathing turns jagged, hips lifting toward his mouth on instinct.
“Stay with me,” he says, lips barely lifting. “Let it climb slow.”
I do. I let it build, let the heat spread through my limbs until my toes curl against the quilt. His tongue presses flat again. Holds. Then circles once, tight, with perfect pressure, and the wave finally breaks.
Pleasure detonates low and deep. My back bows. A cry tears free. He keeps the same rhythm through every pulse, drawing them out and gentling only when my thighs clamp around his ears and my fingers twist hard in his hair.
He eases back gradually, kissing the inside of one thigh then the other with soft presses of his lips to my trembling muscle. When he finally rises over me, his forearms cage my shoulders. His chest brushes my breasts with every breath we share.
His mouth finds mine, slow and deep. I taste myself on his tongue, and it doesn’t embarrass me. It binds us. His heartbeat thuds against my breastbone, strong, even, unafraid.
“You’re safe,” he whispers into the corner of my mouth. “Right here. Safe.”
I believe him.
He rolls us so I’m tucked against his side, one arm banding my waist. The other hand strokes down my spine in long, soothing passes. From nape to tailbone. Back up. Again. My cheek presses into the warm hollow beneath his collarbone. His pulse knocks steadily beneath my ear.
Neither of us speaks.
We don’t need to.
His palm never stops moving. Up my back. Into my hair. Across my shoulder. Down again. Grounding every aftershockuntil my limbs turn heavy and liquid. Until the only thing left is the quiet certainty that I let him in, and he stayed exactly where I needed him to be: keeping me safe. Adored. Maybe home.
"I should go," he says eventually, but he doesn't move.
"Don't." The word escapes before I can stop it.
He pulls back to look at me. "If I stay, I'm not sleeping in a chair."
"I don't want you in a chair."
Desire tightens the line of his jaw as he rains soft, deliberate kisses across my face. He lingers at my temple before ghosting over my lips, his voice a low, disciplined rasp. "I'm not rushing this. Not tonight."
"Why not?"
"Because when I take you to bed, Sloane, it's not going to be after one day. It's going to be when you're ready to admit this is real."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
He sits up, and I watch him move through the cabin in the dark, picking up my discarded clothes, folding them on the chair, and checking the lock on the door. Taking care of me in small ways I'm not used to accepting.
At the door, he turns back. "Six a.m. I'll bring coffee."
