"You know..." he murmurs, his breath warm against the back of my neck, "I waited for you. All this time. Letting you lead. Waiting for a signal. A sign."
I turn slightly, heart thudding. "And now?" I ask, my voice quieter than I meant.
His lips curve into something that's not quite a smile, something darker, more certain. "Now I'm done waiting."
He steps into my space, not forceful, just... certain. His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt, slow, deliberate. One by one. The fabric parts, and I forget how to breathe.
"I told you I loved Superman," he says, voice a low vibration in the air between us. "Most people think that's just the nerd in me talking."
Another button undone. My eyes follow his fingers, helpless.
"But it's not," he continues, softer now, eyes locked on mine. "It's because IamClark Kent. Mild-mannered. Soft-spoken. Hiding behind glasses. Playing it safe."
He pulls the glasses from his face and sets them gently on the dresser. The motion is quiet, reverent. Like he's shedding an old skin.
Then the shirt opens fully—and I seehim.
Not the quiet man who stargazes in silence, or the gentle touch in the hallway. No. This man is fire. Focused. Feral in restraint.
"In private though, " he continued, his tone teasing yet sincere. "I don't have a cape, but I do have a knack for taking control when the situation calls for it."
His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch both gentle and assured.
"Of course," he added, his gaze locking with mine, "only with your enthusiastic consent. After all, even superheroes need permission to save the day."
"Hmmm", I said as I am barely listening to him. I am just gazing. His chest is lean, defined—not chiseled, but strong. Real. And the ink—
Liam's fingers gently tilted my chin upward, his eyes locking with mine, a smirk playing on his lips.
"I need words, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low, commanding whisper that sent shivers down my spine.
Caught in the depths of his gaze, I blinked, momentarily lost. "Huh? Oh... yes, yes," I stammered, a blush creeping up my cheeks.
He chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm. "Good," he said, his thumb brushing gently against my cheek. "I like hearing that."
The ink stuns me.
Not a scattering of tattoos, but a tapestry of them—galaxies winding across his ribs, nebulae blooming along his chest, symbols in delicate lines tucked just beneath his collarbone. One swirl of stars arcs from his shoulder down toward the curve of his hip, and beneath the trail of cosmic ink, near the sharp V ofhis pelvis, numbers and coordinates I don't yet understand mark his skin like secrets.
"You tattooed the universe onto your body," I whisper, awe catching in my throat.
He nods, stepping closer. He takes my hand, guiding it along the path of inked constellations, each star a point of connection between us. His touch is confident, yet tender, as if he's inviting me to explore the universe he's mapped on his skin.
As our fingers trace the celestial patterns, I feel a sense of wonder and intimacy, as if we're charting a course through the cosmos together. The room fades away, leaving only the warmth of his body. I barely manage a whisper. "You... you have a nipple piercing to!"
He grins. A wicked, knowing grin. "Two, actually. And you haven't even seen my comet trail."
I blink. "Yourwhat?"
He steps close, lips grazing my ear as he whispers, "Relax. Let me show you why the stars don't lie."
My skin prickles. My heart pounds.
He reaches for the zipper of my dress, slow and deliberate, he murmurs against my neck. "You've been dancing around me for too long. It's my turn, sweetheart."
The zipper slides down. My dress slips lower.
"God," he says, "touching you is like a solar flare—sudden, searing, and unstoppable."
