“You think you’re in charge now?” I arch against him. “Just because you showed up with some grand gesture—”
“Nothing grand about it.” He traces my jaw with his free hand. “Just a man who finally figured out what he wants.”
“Which is?”
“You.” Simple. Certain. “However I can have you.”
My breath catches.
“That’s not fair,” I manage. “You can’t just say things like—”
“Watch me.” He releases my hands and runs his knuckles along my cheek. “You’re brilliant. Infuriating. Beautiful. You reorganize everything you touch, including me, and I—” He stops. Swallows. “I’m completely gone for anyone who isn’t you.”
“Dean—”
“Still talking.” But he’s smiling now. That rare, real thing that transforms his whole face. “Let’s see what other things we can do with that mouth of yours.”
He kisses me then. Different from before. Slower. Deeper. Like we have time now. Like maybe the urgency’s settling into something else. Something that might last longer than tonight.
“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” I point out when we break apart.
He pauses. Studies me and seems to decide something. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
His shirt finally comes off. Then everything else, with a lot less finesse than I’m sure he planned. But I don’t care about finesse. I care about his hands on my skin. His weight above me. The way he says my name like a prayer.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“You. Just you. All of you.”
He moves then, and we both gasp. A shocked, helpless sound—like we’ve opened a door we’ve been leaning against for months. For a moment we’re still. Adjusting. Remembering. Relearning. Foreheads pressed close. Noses brushing. My fingers clutch at his shoulders, feeling the tremor there that matches mine.
“Okay?” he asks, breathless.
“Perfect.” I pull him down for another kiss. It’s messy and grateful and a little desperate. “You’re perfect.”
“Poppy—”
“Shut up and move.”
He does. Slow at first. Careful. Like I might break. His hand finds mine above my head; our fingers lace, anchor-tight.
“I’m not fragile,” I tell him.
“No.” He picks up the pace. “You’re not.” His mouth finds my pulse point. “Perfect for me,” he breathes into my neck.
Something in my chest loosens. It’s nothing like before. Nothing like the fumbling, rushed, what’s-the-fuss-about experiences I’ve had in the past. Not that there were many. A handful of forgettable encounters that left me wondering if maybe I was broken. If everyone was lying about how good this could be.
This is… everything. This is deliberate. Intentional. This is choosing each other.
“Look at me,” he says when my eyes drift closed.
I do. Find him watching me with something like wonder.
“So good,” he murmurs. “So perfect. So mine.”
“Yours,” I agree.
His rhythm falters. “Say it again.”
