I kiss him softly, taking my time with it because I won’t see him for seventy-two hours and I can already feel my heart contracting painfully at that realization.
I’ve gotten used to his presence, and even on evenings when I’m not here, I see him at the university, which makes the distance bearable. This is different.
His hands settle on my lower back and pull me closer. Because I’m emotional, because he has never once pushed past the limits I set, because I already miss him, I reach for the hem of his black T-shirt and pull it up.
The look on his face is one of surprise, and it always does something to my confidence when I manage to render him speechless.
My hands explore every inch of his abdomen and arms — the arms that have filled every fantasy I’ve had over the past several weeks. The definition of him, the warmth of his skin under my palms, the way the muscle shifts when I move my hands.
I press my lips to his neck and his hands find my hair, pulling it loose from its bun. He swallows, and with a voice roughened at the edges, he says, “Amalia, fuck, baby, you know those mathematicians you’re always referencing?”
“Mhm,” I tell him between kisses pressed to his jaw, his neck, his chest.
“If you don’t stop, not a single theorem of theirs is going to help me keep my hands to myself.”
“Good,” I say, smiling against his skin, continuing, “because I don’t want you to.”
That’s the last sentence I manage before he picks me up and carries me to the bedroom.
If I were more coherent, I’d take a moment to appreciate how perfectly the room suits him, the low bed with its dark wood frame, one deep forest green wall behind it, furniture that looks like it was chosen carefully over time rather than bought all at once. But I am anything but coherent right now.
Every nerve ending, every receptor in my body is entirely focused on the man who is kissing me like he intends to make me forget my own name.
His hands push my blouse up and over my head, and normally I’d be paralyzed with self-consciousness standing in front of someone in just a bra. But when I see his eyes, dark and full and stunned with wanting, I’m the one who reaches back and unclasps it myself.
I watch as he takes in every inch of my skin like he’s looking at something rare. The feeling in my chest triples.
He’s staring and saying absolutely nothing, and even though I know the curve of me works in my favor, the silence starts planting doubts.
I take his face in my hands, and his eyes finally find mine.
“Silas, talk to me.”
He takes my hand and presses it flat against his chest, where his heart is pounding violently. I know mine isn’t steady either, but I look at him with a quiet question in my eyes.
“I don’t know why I can’t control my reaction when it comes to you,” he says quietly.
And only then do I understand. He’s overwhelmed, genuinely overwhelmed, and he has no idea what to do with it.
“Then stop trying to control everything, baby.”
Something in those words registers somewhere deep in him, because in the next moment he’s above me and I can feel our hearts almost in sync, both of them galloping at an alarming rate. Our hands want to touch everything at once, and when my fingers reach the waistband of his trousers, I don’t hesitate to pull them down.
“Are you sure?” he murmurs against my lips.
“One hundred percent.”
My pants follow immediately after his, and only when there’s nothing left between our bodies do I fully understand what’s about to happen. I wait for at least a trace of panic to stop me.
It doesn’t come.
All I feel is the need to pull him closer, so I do. His erection presses against my thigh, and the sounds that leave me make my impatience embarrassingly obvious.
His dark hair is disheveled from my fingers, and his hands move slowly over my chest and down my stomach. The contrast between his ring-adorned fingers and my skin is enough to give me material for every night he won’t be beside me.
“Damn it, Amalia.”
His head drops to kiss me, and with one hand he gently parts my thighs, giving himself access.
