Page 309 of A Vicious Love

“Slow,” I murmured, brushing her hair back again. “You’re doing fine.”

She glanced up. “It’s just a belt.”

“It’s my belt.”

Her blush returned.

Beautiful.

She worked the buckle free, a little clumsy from nerves, and I let her take her time. I could have done it in two seconds. That wasn’t the point. The point was her choosing to see me. Her hands on me because she wanted them there. Her learning she could touch the parts of me that had scared her and find no punishment waiting.

“That’s my girl,” I said, I touched her cheek, thumb beneath her lower lip. “You’re doing so well, baby.”

She drew the belt loose.

I hissed out a breath despite myself.

Her eyes dropped immediately to the sound, then to my hands as I let her pull the leather free. She placed it beside us, as if she didn’t quite know what else to do with it once it existed outside my clothing.

“Good girl.”

Her hands returned to my waistband, bolder now by a fraction. She looked at me for permission, and I gave it with a nod. The button came next. Then the zip, slow enough that my control thinned to a thread.

I watched her watching me.

The hunger in her face was shy. Her fingers brushed skin, and my stomach tightened.

She noticed. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” I caught her wrist and pressed her palm harder against me. “You felt good.”

“Oh.”

That tiny, pleased sound.

Fuck.

I leaned down and kissed her again, rougher for one second, then slowed because I had promised. Her hands stayed between us, trapped against my body, the restrained violence under my skin. I kissed her until her breathing matched mine badly.

I brushed the hair from her face again and lowered my forehead to hers. “I want you seeing me, baby. All of me. But I want you feeling safe more.”

Her hands curled against my open waistband.

“I do,” she whispered. Her fingers moved again, braver this time. Her fingers moved against my waistband again, braver by a fraction, and I had to remind myself that I had promised slow. Slow meant every inch of her learned me without fear.

I helped only when she got caught on the fabric, lifting my hips enough for her to draw the trousers lower. Her attention dropped with the movement, curiosity and nerves fighting across her face. Then she saw me properly.

Her eyes widened. Her fingers froze against my hip, and for one magnificent second, Sienna Bellemere looked at me stunned.

“No,” she said.

I stared at her.

Her gaze stayed locked below my waist, deadly serious. “No, Jamison.”

“No?” I asked, trying for calm and failing internally in ways that would have embarrassed better men.

She finally looked up at me, eyes huge, cheeks burning. “That can’t fit.”