He grins. “I almost died.”
“You did die. A little. Came back wrong.”
“Came back better,” he corrects, mouth finding the spot just below my ribs. “For you.”
We undress each other like unwrapping something sacred—like discovery, not desperation.
The wine is forgotten.
The music stays.
There’s a kind of reverence to it tonight. We’re not rushing. We’re remembering. Skin to skin. Breath to breath. Every kiss a question. Every touch an answer.
He knows where to find me.
Not just my body.
Me.
And I know him.
The scars.
The silences.
The way his breath hitches when I press my palm to his chest and whisper, “Stay.”
“I already did,” he says against my throat.
But it’s more than just staying.
It’s worship, in the way his mouth moves lower—across my breastbone, down my stomach, until his lips press to the hollow just above my pelvis.
He parts my thighs with hands that span from hip to knee.
Gold. Strong. Alien.
His palms are rough, scaled and warm, but his mouth—gods, his mouth—soft and slow and devastating.
“Kaz—” My voice is a breath, not a word.
He pauses, looks up, eyes glowing blue. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” I say, barely holding together. “I want you.”
He grins, but it’s not cocky. It’s reverent.
He leans in and licks slowly up the seam of me, and my breath punches out of me in a half-choked gasp.
His tongue is longer, hotter than any human’s—sleek and sinfully dexterous. He explores me like I’m a new quadrant on a star map, and he’s determined to chart every constellation by touch and taste.
My hips buck, and he holds them down, growling softly—a low, possessive sound that vibrates straight through my bones.
“Stay still,” he whispers against my skin. “Let me make you come.”
I want to tell him he doesn’t need to try so hard. That I’m already halfway there.
But then he flicks his tongue across my clit in tight, practiced strokes, and language disintegrates.
