I don’t waver.
His exhale is a whisper, low and forceful, like he’s barely contained himself all evening.
“I won’t hurry you,” he continues. “And I won’t take more than you want to give."
“I want this with you. I feel ready,” I add softly.
His eyes sharpen, predator-like. Calculating. He looks at me the way he does when he has to make a choice that involves us both.
“I need you to say it clearly,” his voice is low now, slightly darker. “I need you to know you’re choosing it.”
Outside our windows, the city pulses. Cars drift lazily across the ceiling in waves of headlights and taillights. Lives move all around us, people completely untouched by the swell of heat between Erik and me in his loft.
Here, inside four walls lit only by street glow, there is only him and my hand pressing white knuckles against his shirt.
“I want us to make love together,” I manage this time, and though my voice cracks, it does not shake. “Please, Sir.”
Erik's thumb gently presses down and slides across my breast. The substantial contact leaves me breathless. Heat coils tight in my belly, familiar and low.
He doesn’t grab me or claim me… yet. He waits. Erik’s self-control has always amazed me.
I move forward until my swollen breasts bump against him. I can hear his breath quickening just before mine does. Something shifts inside of me when I press fully into him, palms flat against his waist. I've been experiencing this since he entered my life, and now I find myself staring into his eyes. He looks as if he wishes to engulf me completely.
His hand cups my ass slowly, lightly, but solidly. He holds me like he holds everything else he loves in this world, with purpose, deliberately, and never without care.
I gasp.
“Claire,” Erik whispers, the name rumbling against my body.
When he says my name, I feel weak in the knees, not because he’s got the power to dominate me, but because he sees me.
There’s no desperation here. This is a choice. Erik leans forward until our foreheads touch, and one of his hands lightly presses at the small of my back. Minutes pass while I nod shakily, my breath stuttering.
“Tell me if you need me to stop.” His voice is rough with promise.
He will stop. I know he will. “I can’t tell you to stop because I never want you to,” I say, hands squeezing his waist possessively.
His jaw clenches, and a twitch of his teeth against his bottom lip shows that my response changes him from waiting to deciding.
“We will not do this leaning against the kitchen counter,” he murmurs. Confidence colors his words in a low, calm, and sure way.
Erik steps backward without ceremony. When he turns and begins walking toward the bedroom, I follow, obedient to his pull. My heartbeat thrums dangerously loud in my ears with each step I take.
He stops just inside the doorway, turning to regard me fully. Darkness fills the bedroom now, streetlight filtering in through pulled curtains. Everything sways softly in shadow.
I know he’s seeing me. When he speaks, his eyes rove over every inch of my body.
“You said you trust me.”
“I do.”
“Good.”
Erik’s voice is a low growl now. “You’re going to strip for me, Claire.”
They are not demands. No orders are shouted. They are requests given because I’ve consented.
“I want you to take your time,” he continues. “Slowly. And then, get on the bed.”
