The tension in the room becomes electric.
In one smooth movement, he lifts me. I gasp, my heart skipping deliciously. He lowers me to the bed, the mattress dipping beneath my weight. He doesn’t climb over me immediately. Instead, he stands at the edge of the bed, looking down at me.
Really looking.
The intensity of it makes my skin prickle.
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The room feels smaller, warmer, filled with the sound of our breathing.
“Wilder…” My voice comes out soft, uncertain.
His jaw tightens. “You have no idea what you do to me, baby girl.”
The words send heat curling low in my belly. He reaches for me again, slower this time. His fingers slide beneath the hem of my shirt, skimming over my skin as he pushes the fabric up. The movement is unhurried, deliberate, as if he wants me to feel every second of it. My back arches in response when his knuckles brush the underside of my breasts.
He stills. His gaze drops, his eyes darkening with a hunger that makes my breath catch.
“Arms up,” he murmurs.
I obey automatically. He pulls the shirt over my head and tosses it aside, but his eyes never leave me. The look on his facemakes me suddenly aware of every inch of my body. I want to cover myself and lean into him at the same time.
His hands move to my bra. For a moment, he just traces the edge of it, his fingers rough and warm against my skin.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m not scared,” I whisper.
A low sound escapes him. He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra. The straps slide down my arms, and when the last barrier falls away, the air feels colder. His gaze darkens further, sweeping over me in a way that makes my toes curl.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, like the words are pulled out of him.
The vulnerability in his voice makes something inside my chest squeeze.
He leans down and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below my collarbone. His lips move lower, then lower again, but he doesn’t linger. Not yet. It’s as if he’s cataloging, learning, memorizing.
When he straightens, his hands move to my jeans. He pauses, looking at my face. “Still sure?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
He nods once and opens the button. The sound is loud in the quiet room. The zipper follows, my body trembling involuntarily. His fingers slide along my hips, pushing the fabric down.
He kneels, slowly guiding my jeans and panties down my legs, his touch lingering at my calves, my ankles. When he finally pushes them off and stands again, I’m completely bare.
For a moment, neither of us moves, the air thick with anticipation. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. But the way he looks at me doesn’t make me want to hide. It makes me feel wanted in a way I’ve never known before.
His chest rises and falls, his control visibly fraying.
“Your turn,” I whisper.
Something flashes in his eyes. Something dark and dangerous. He reaches for the buttons of his shirt, but his gaze never leaves mine as he opens them one by one, the slow reveal making my pulse race. When the shirt falls away, my hands move before I can stop them, sliding over his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the strength beneath it, the faint ridges of old scars.
I trace one with my fingertips. His breath hitches.
“Does that hurt?” I ask softly.
“Not anymore.”
My chest tightens.
