His eyes darken, but there’s no rush in them—just heat and reverence.
“I want to take my time with you,” he whispers, setting me down gently. His fingers skim along the hem of my borrowed shirt. “May I?”
I nod, heart pounding. My skin tingles as he slowly lifts the shirt, his knuckles brushing lightly over my stomach, ribs, breasts. When he pulls it over my head, he stares—not like I’m a thing to be consumed, but like I’m sacred. His.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly, his voice almost breaking. “I’ve dreamed about this. About you. Being mine like this.”
I reach for his shirt, fingers trembling as I tug it off. My hands explore the planes of his chest, the curve of his shoulders. He breathes in sharply when I press a kiss to his collarbone, then another to his neck.
His arms wrap
