It started the way the best things do — without a plan.
We were just kissing, just close, just breathing the same air. His jacket came off at some point, and my cardigan, and we were tangled together on my narrow bed with the streetlight starting to come through the curtains as the afternoon faded.
Then he shifted and pulled me against him and I felt it — that specific warmth, the pressure of him through denim — and everything slowed down.
He didn't move to take anything else off. Neither did I. We just — stayed. His hands on my hips, mine at his chest, his forehead resting against mine in the dim room.
"Okay?" he murmured.
"Very okay."
He moved slowly, deliberately, and I understood immediately that this was intentional. That he had all the time in the world and intended to use ever
