His hand slides up my spine, palm flat against bare skin, each vertebra a slow discovery. I feel the callus at the base of his fingers catch on my bra strap as he reaches the underwire, and I hold my breath without meaning to—waiting, needing, aching for what comes next.
He doesn't rush. His thumb traces the edge of the lace, once, twice, and I can feel him in the stillness, the way he studies my body through touch alone. Then his palm cups my breast through the fabric, and the callus on his thumb drags across my nipple with deliberate pressure. I gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his tongue sliding against mine in that same slow rhythm—circle, circle, circle—matching the pattern he's drawing on my chest.
I'm trembling, my hips grinding against his thigh without permission, chasing friction I'm too afraid to name. His thigh is solid beneath me, and every roll of my hips sends a jolt through my center, wet heat soaking through my jeans until I can feel the dampness against his pants. He groans into my mouth, low and ragged, and his hand squeezes once, firm, before he breaks the kiss.
His forehead presses to mine. We're both breathing hard, my lungs burning like I've been underwater and just broke the surface. His gray eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and he's looking at me like he's seeing something he didn't expect—something that's undoing him as much as it's undoing me.
His thumb brushes my nipple again, slow, teasing, and I whimper before I can stop it. The sound hangs in the air between us, raw and honest, and I watch his jaw tighten.
"You're so wet for me," he says. Not a question. The words hit me like a current, low in my belly, and I clench around nothing, a sharp, hollow ache that makes me press my thighs together. He feels the movement, his hand still cradling my breast, and his gaze drops to my mouth.
"Tell me," he says, voice rough, almost a whisper. "Tell me what you feel."
I can't find words. My throat is tight, my whole body vibrating with need, and all I can do is shake my head, pressing my lips together to hold in a sound I'm not ready to release. His thumb stills on my nipple, and the sudden absence of movement is louder than any demand he could make.
"Ava." My name, cracked and soft, a plea wrapped in steel. "I need to hear you."
I slide my hand up his chest, feel his heart hammering under my palm, and for a moment I'm afraid I'll drown in it. But I look at him—this man who never raises his voice, who watches me like I'm a match burning down to his fingers—and I let go of the last knot in my chest.
"I feel you," I whisper. "Everywhere."
His mouth finds mine again, and this time it's different—slower, like he's learning the shape of me, the way I taste, the small sounds I make when his tongue brushes against mine. His hand leaves my breast, slides up my neck, cups my jaw with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. He tilts my head, adjusts the angle, and the kiss deepens without urgency, without demand—just his mouth on mine, warm and searching, like he has all the time in the world.
I don't know what to do with slow. I know how to rush, how to burn, how to push until something breaks. But this—this deliberate, patient exploration—undoes me in a way I didn't expect. My hands are still tangled in his hair, and I curl my fingers, holding him there, afraid that if I let go he'll pull back and I'll lose whatever this is becoming.
He feels the tension in my grip. His thumb strokes my jaw, once, twice, a silent reassurance. I'm not going anywhere.
I relax my fingers. He feels that too.
His other hand finds my hip, palm flat, fingers pressing into the curve of my waist. He doesn't pull me closer—he just holds me there, grounded, like he's letting me know he's present, that every part of him is in this moment with me. I shift on his lap, and the friction of denim against denim sends a spark through my thighs, a reminder of how wet I am, how much I want him to touch me again.
He breaks the kiss slowly, his lips trailing across my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth. I feel his breath on my skin, warm and uneven, and I shiver despite the heat between us.
"Ava." My name again, soft this time, almost reverent. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel his lashes brush my brow when he blinks. "Look at me."
I open my eyes. His gray eyes are close, too close, and I can see the flecks of silver in them, the way they've softened at the edges. He's looking at me like I'm something precious, something fragile, and it terrifies me more than his authority ever did.
"I want to take this slow," he says, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Can you do that?"
I want to say yes. I want to be the kind of girl who can let herself be held, be known, be loved without rushing toward the edge. But the word sticks in my throat, and all I can do is nod, my chin brushing against his thumb.
He kisses me again, soft and deep, and I feel the promise in it—not a demand, not a test. Just him, choosing me, slow and steady and real.