"Enough that no one else ever felt right." The words are raw and true. "Enough that I'm thirty-eight years old and I've never—" I stop, unable to finish.
"Never what?"
My shoulders curl inward, arms wrapping around my ribs like I can hold the truth inside. "Felt safe enough to let go and really give myself to them." The admission makes my eyes burn. "With anyone. Ever."
The world around us stops. He pulls me up, and the distance between us vanishes into a feverish heat. I’m pinned against the hard planes of his chest, his hands anchoring my waist while his breath ghosts over my lips.
"I'm not letting you run this time," he says quietly. "Not unless you tell me you don't want this."
"I don't know what I want. I don't even know who I am anymore."
"I do." He cups my neck, closing the distance until our foreheads touch, and his thumb finds my pulse point. "You're the woman who stayed three extra days because you didn't want to leave. The woman who laughed at herself when her horse spooked that second morning, who saidwell, that's embarrassinglike admitting fear was the worst thing she could do. I remember everything about you, Sloane. You're still her."
The specific memory undoes me. That I'm not just a blur of spring break to him. That he kept the details.
I shake my head against his. "That girl was reckless. I had to grow up."
"No. You had to survive. There's a difference."
The truth lodges beneath my ribs. He's not wrong. Somewhere between twenty-one and thirty-eight, I stopped choosing joy and started choosing achievement. Stopped asking what I wanted and started asking what I should want. I built a life that looks successful from the outside but feels empty from the inside.
"Cash." His name breaks on my tongue, a breathless surrender that I couldn't have held back even if I’d tried.
He steps back, giving me space I don't want, and walks to the door. For one terrible second, I think he's leaving. Then he turns the lock. He comes back and stands in front of me with his hands loose at his sides and his eyes burning into mine.
"I'm not asking for forever," he says. "I'm asking for permission."
My breath catches. "Permission for what?"
"To take care of you." He steps closer, walking me backwards until I hit the bed. "To show you what it feels like when someone puts you first. To prove that letting go doesn't mean losing yourself."
I should step back. My body moves closer instead, choosing him before my brain can object. "Okay," I whisper.
There’s no rush in him, only a quiet, respectful deliberation. When his fingers find the skin beneath the hem of my shirt, he lingers, his thumbs tracing my ribs while he waits for my permission. I give him a small nod, and he pulls the shirt over my head. Cool air hits me, but it’s his darkening, intense expression that takes my breath away.
I’m a different woman than the girl he knew at twenty-one. My body holds more weight, more history. For a heartbeat, the urge to hide myself flares up. But then his fingers are at my back, unfastening my bra. As he peels the lace away, his gaze tracksthe movement with an appreciation so absolute it smothers my shame. To him, I’m not a collection of flaws; I’m the only thing he’s been looking for.
"You're beautiful," he says, his voice heavy with want. “Tell me what you need.”
“You.” The word feels raw. “Just you.”
He unbuttons my jeans. I slip out of them, along with my underwear, and I’m bare before him. He lowers his mouth to the soft swell below my navel, nudging me until I’m on my back on the bed.
“So fucking beautiful,” he says, kissing my stomach. It lands hot, his warm lips pressing and holding. Then he drags upward in one unhurried line that follows the fullest curve of my belly. My lungs seize. He maps every inch with his tongue next, in slow, flat strokes that trace the stretch marks I’ve hidden under high-waisted everything for years. Each pass honors the skin instead of ignoring it.
My fingers curl into the quilt, cotton bunching under my palms.
His hands slide to the outsides of my thighs, thumbs stroking the crease where my leg meets my hip while his mouth continues its worship higher. When he reaches the underside of my breast, he pauses, breath ghosting the skin first. Then his lips close over the tender curve, and he sucks gently. The pull is patient, insistent enough to make my nipple tighten into a hard peak before he’s even touched it.
“Still okay?” His voice stays low against my skin.
I manage a nod, not trusting my voice.
He shifts higher. One broad palm cradles my breast, kissing it like something sacred. His tongue circles my areola in widening spirals until every nerve lights up. When he finally takes my nipple between his lips, the suction is deep and steady, rhythmicpulls that match my heartbeat. My spine leaves the mattress on the third draw. A broken sound escapes me.
He releases my nipple with a soft pop and moves to the other breast, repeating the ritual. The contrast of wet heat and cool cabin air makes my skin pebble. His free hand stays anchored on my hip, grounding me. Keeping me from floating away while the sensations stack higher.
“Gorgeous curves,” he murmurs right against the peak of my nipple. “Every fucking inch of you.” The praise undoes me. Heat coils tighter in my pussy.
