Not wild.
Not the devouring kiss from the plane or the ballroom.
This kiss is slower than all of those.
Softer too.
Almost unbearably deliberate.
His mouth lingers over mine like he’s trying to teach my body a new language gently enough that it never learns fear.
I melt into it.
There is no other word.
I melt.
My hands slide up his chest, over the clean lines of his shirtfront, the hard shape of muscle beneath perfect tailoring, the loosened bow tie at his throat. His breathing changes the second I touch him there—rougher, deeper, like he is one thread away from losing all that impossible control and choosing not to.
That choice undoes me as much as the kisses do.
He kisses me again.
And again.
Every one of them different.
Every one of them saying the same thing.
I’m here.
I’m here.
I’m here.
By the time his mouth leaves mine to brush along my cheek, my jaw, the edge of my throat, I am trembling in earnest now.
Not from fear.
Not from nerves exactly.
From the sheer intensity of being wanted like this.
Handled like this.
As if every inch of me deserves patience.
His lips pause just below my ear.
“Can I take this off?” he murmurs, fingertips brushing one strap of the dress.
The question sends a shiver all the way down my spine.
“Yes.”
His breath leaves him in a quiet rush.
Then he turns me carefully in his arms until I’m facing the mirror across the room and he’s behind me.
