The room flickered with shadows from the firelight. My sheets cool against my skin, his body warm where he pressed against me.
One hand cupped my cheek. His other slid along my thigh, fingers rough with calluses but careful—like even now, after everything, he still couldn’t believe I was real.
When I arched beneath him, my breath shuddering, he caught my lips again.
This time, he didn’t rush.
Slow. Deep. As if we had all night and maybe all the rest of time.
The moan escaped before I could stop it—quiet but honest.
Outside, the rain started. A steady, soft rhythm against the windowpanes. Thunder low in the distance.
His voice against my ear was quieter than the storm:
“I should go slow...”
“You should,” I whispered back, fingers tracing the line of his abs, hot and damp with sweat
