I press my palms to his back.
He shudders.
“I didn’t think we’d get this far,” he murmurs.
I lean in, lips brushing the ridge where his neck meets shoulder.
“We haven’t gotten anywhere yet,” I say against his skin. “We’re just... here.”
He turns.
His eyes—molten gold, rimmed in midnight—search my face like it’s a map. Like he’s looking for the pieces he lost.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low. Hoarse. Not from lust. Fromneed.
I answer with a kiss.
Not gentle.
Not rushed.
Butcertain.
His hands come up slow. One to my waist. One to the back of my neck, pulling me in like I’m the answer to every question that’s kept him awake at night.
My fingers find the edge of his jaw, the line of his ribs, the old scar down his side he never talks about. I trace it with my thumb.
He flinches.
I pause.
He covers my hand with his.
“No hiding anymore,” he whispers. “Not from you.”
The bed isn’t far.
But we don’t rush to it.
Wedrift.
Clothes peel away between kisses. My dress falls like smoke. His hands are reverent—almost too careful.
I stop him.
“Don’t worship me,” I whisper. “Touch me like I’myours.”
He growls—quiet and low—and that’s all it takes.
The next few seconds are a blur of limbs and gasped names. He lifts me like I weigh nothing. I feel everything. The weight of him. The heat. The tremble in his hands as he lays me down like I’m both fragile and unbreakable.
And then he’s over me.
Around me.
Inside me.
And everythingburns.
