“Good,” he says. “Now can I please take your clothes off?”
I laugh—surprised and delighted by the shift in tone. “That escalated quickly.”
“I’ve been thinking about it all day.” His hands slide to the hem of my shirt. “All week, actually. All month.”
“Just a month?”
“Fine. Years.” He lifts the fabric slowly, giving me time to stop him. I don’t. “I’ve been thinking about this for years. About how it would feel to actually have you forever.”
“And?”
“And the reality is better than anything I imagined.”
The shirt disappears. His eyes move over me with focused attention—cataloging, appreciating. I used to hate being looked at this way, used to feel exposed and vulnerable. Now it just feels like being seen.
“Your turn,” I say, reaching for his buttons.
We undress each other slowly. No rush, no desperation. Just the gradual revelation of skin, the building warmth of contact, the quiet intimacy of learning each other’s bodies without the urgency that used to drive us.
When we’re finally bare, he pulls me close—chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
“I love you,” he says again.
“You’ve said that three times in the past hour.”
“I have years to make up for.” He kisses my shoulder. “Get used to it.”
We fall onto the bed together, and the world narrows to this—his hands on my skin, his mouth tracing paths I’ve memorized and mapping new ones, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. It’s familiar by now, but different, too. Deeper. More grounded.
“Tell me what you want,” he mumbles against my throat.
“You.”
“Specific.”
“I want—” I gasp as his hand slides between my thighs. “I want you to stop teasing and actually—”
“Actually what?”
“Bennett.”
“I want to hear you say it.” His fingers move with maddening precision, building heat without giving relief. “Use your words.” I almost laugh. Almost.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” He doesn’t stop moving. “Consider it payback for every Post-it note.”
It’s a callback to everything we’ve been through. All those weeks of forcing him to articulate his feelings, to name what he wanted instead of hiding behind control. Now he’s doing the same to me, and it’s infuriating and arousing in equal measure.
“I want you inside me,” I manage. “I want to feel you. I want—”
“Me too,” Bennett groans, voice rough with restraint. He reaches for the condom he’d just rolled on, but I stop his hand with mine.
“No.” The word comes out breathy, urgent. “Not tonight. I’m on the shot. I’m clean. I want you bare, Bennett. I want to feel every inch of you with nothing between us.”
His eyes darken, pupils blowing wide. “You sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” I stroke him slowly, feeling him throb in my grip. “I want you raw. I want to feel you come inside me. Please.”
