His hands slide from her back to the hem of her shirt, fingertips grazing the bare skin just above her jeans. She arches into him without meaning to—a small, helpless sound escaping her throat—and she feels his breath catch against her neck, the warmth of it trembling before it steadies. He doesn't pull the shirt off. His fingers curl into the fabric, holding it, waiting.
She opens her eyes. He's watching her with those gray eyes, steady and patient, the same way he watched her the first night—like he can see every thought before she forms it. She feels the heat of his palms through the thin cotton, the weight of his attention, and the room seems to hold its breath with them.
"I need you to say it," he says, his voice low and rough, stripped of all that calm authority. His thumb traces her hip bone again, a slow, deliberate circle. "Not because I don't know. Because you need to hear yourself choose."
Her pulse hammers. She wants to deflect, to make a joke, to hide behind sarcasm—but the words catch in her throat, and all that comes out is a shaky exhale. His gray eyes don't leave hers. He's not rushing. He's giving her the space to fall or to stand, and she realizes that's the most terrifying part: he trusts her to make this decision.
She presses her forehead against his, her curls falling between them. "I don't know how to do this," she whispers. "I don't know how to want something without fighting it first."
His hand slides up her spine, stopping between her shoulder blades, warm and steady. "Then don't fight it. Just feel it. Feel this." He draws her closer, his lips brushing her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth—not a kiss, just a touch of breath and skin, a question without words.
She shivers. Her fingers find his jaw, the sharp line of his cheekbone, and she tilts her chin, offering her mouth to him without having to say it. He kisses her, soft and searching, like he's tasting her answer. She makes a small, desperate sound, and his hand tightens on the fabric of her shirt.
He pulls back just enough to look at her. "Say it, Ava." His voice cracks on her name. "I need to hear you say it."
The word sticks in her throat. Fear and want and the rawness of being seen. Then she breathes out, and it comes—quiet, broken, true: "I need this. I need you."
His eyes close for half a second, like he's been holding his own breath. Then he kisses her again, deeper, his hand sliding under her shirt, palm flat against the warm skin of her lower back. She arches into him, her fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer—and the choice settles into her bones, not a surrender, but a claiming.
His mouth captures hers again, deeper this time—a claiming that makes her breath stutter. His hand on her lower back presses her closer, and she feels the hard length of him through their jeans, a solid heat that sends a tremor through her thighs. She shifts her weight, the friction making them both gasp, and his grip tightens, fingers digging into her spine as if he's anchoring himself.
"Ava." Her name is a ragged exhale against her lips, and she feels the word travel through her chest, settling somewhere deep and warm. She doesn't answer with words. She rolls her hips again, a slow, deliberate grind that makes his jaw clench, his breath hissing between his teeth.
His head dips to her neck, mouth hot and open against the curve where her pulse drums wildly. She shivers, her nails scraping his scalp through his hair, and he groans—a low, raw sound that vibrates against her skin. His hand slides from her back to her side, thumb tracing the edge of her ribs, the fabric of her shirt rucking up with the movement.
She wants to be closer. She wants to feel his skin. Her fingers find the buttons of his shirt, clumsy and urgent, and she undoes the first one, then the second, her knuckles brushing the warm plane of his chest. He stills for a moment, lifting his head to watch her, his gray eyes dark and questioning.
"Is this—" he starts, his voice rough and uneven. She cuts him off with a kiss, softer this time, her lips moving against his in a slow, deliberate rhythm that says yes without words. His hands find her wrists, cradling them, his thumbs stroking the delicate skin over her pulse points.
He pulls back again, resting his forehead against hers. "I need to hear it again." His voice cracks, breaks open. "Tell me you want this."
She breathes in the scent of him—coffee and something clean, like rain on pavement. Then she whispers, "I want this. I want you." The words feel like stepping off a ledge, and the fall is his hands pulling her closer, his mouth claiming hers, the chair creaking as he shifts beneath her.
His lips travel down her throat, tongue tracing a path to her collarbone, and she arches her back, her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there. His teeth graze her skin, a gentle scrape that sends heat pooling low in her belly. She feels herself growing wet, a slick heat that surprises her with its intensity.
His hand finds the hem of her shirt again, and this time he doesn't stop—his palm slides up her stomach, slow and deliberate, until his fingers brush the underwire of her bra. She stops breathing. His eyes meet hers, asking, waiting, and she gives a single nod, her throat too tight for words.
He pushes the fabric up, exposing the pale skin of her belly, and his hand flattens there, warm and steady. His thumb traces a circle just below her ribs, and she trembles, a sound escaping her—half gasp, half moan. He watches her face, cataloging every reaction, and she feels seen in a way that terrifies and thrills her in equal measure.
His mouth returns to hers, slower now, a kiss that tastes of surrender and hunger, and she melts into him, her body molding against his. The clock on his desk ticks somewhere in the silence, marking a rhythm that matches the thud of her heart. She's no longer counting the seconds. She's lost in the weight of his hands, the heat of his breath, the quiet, broken truth that she chose him. He's still holding her shirt up, his palm against her skin, and she feels the choice settle deeper, not a surrender, but a claiming—of herself, of him, of this moment they're building together.