"Is the foundation, not the ceiling," he interrupts gently. "I'm not suggesting we throw away three years of connection. I'm suggesting we build on it."
His words resonate through me, breaking down the last of my resistance. I set my glass beside his on the table, turning to face him fully.
"No overthinking?" I confirm, my heart pounding.
"None." His eyes drop to my lips.
"No five-year projections?"
"Not a single spreadsheet in sight." His hand comes up to cup my cheek.
"And if it gets messy?"
"Then we handle it together." He leans closer, his breath warm against my lips. "Like we do everything else."
That's all I need to hear. I close the distance between us, my lips finding his in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly blazes into something far more urgent. His arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against his chest as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that draws a soft moan from my throat.
I weave my fingers into his hair, sighing as he kisses lower, mouth dragging heat across my skin. Each press of his lips sets off sparks that dance along my nerves. When he reaches the spot just below my ear, I can't help it. My head tilts back, a helpless gasp slipping out, spine bowing toward him like my body can't bear the space between us.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he murmurs, his voice rough with hunger, vibrating against my neck. “Since you walked into that damn conference room I’ve been hard as a rock.”
My breath catches. I start to say something but the words tangle up when he takes hold of my hips and pulls me closer, his strength unmistakable, unquestioned. One hand finds the hem of my sweater dress and starts to drag it up, knuckles brushing the skin of my thighs, and I don’t stop him. I just raise my arms and let him strip it away.
His eyes rake over me, black with heat, lips parting when he sees the black lace I chose that morning. He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. The look in his eyes says enough. It saysmine.
“You wore this for me,” he says. Not a question.
I nod. It’s all I can manage.
He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me in again, kissing me like he wants to own my soul. Then he leans back, pulling his sweater off in a swift motion, exposing the body I’ve onlyglimpsed before. Not like this. Not when it's just us and I cantouchhim.
My hands find his chest, tracing muscle, feeling the heat rolling off him like a furnace. His heart thuds under my palm, hard and fast. His eyes never leave mine, locked on like he’s watching for the moment I break.
When my fingers dip lower, following the trail of dark hair vanishing beneath his jeans, he catches my wrist.
“Not yet,” he says. His tone leaves no room for argument.
He peels the rest of my clothes away slowly, reverently, like unwrapping something sacred. When he finally unclasps my bra and lets it slide off my shoulders, his mouth parts on a breath. I expect him to pounce but instead he just stares, drinking me in like he’s memorizing every curve.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he says low, hands tracing my ribs, stopping just under my breasts. His thumbs circle close but don’t touch.
I can’t take it. “Please.” I whisper, already aching.
That’s all it takes.
He cups my breasts, rough palms brushing nipples already taut from anticipation. My body bows into his touch as his head dips and his mouth replaces his fingers, warm and wet and devastating. I cry out, hands tangling in his hair again, hips shifting in search of more.
He lays me back onto the rug by the fire, guiding me gently but firmly. The heat from the flames flicker across his skin as he undresses me with maddening care, until there’s nothing left between us. When he slides his jeans off and I see him fully, my breath stutters.
He moves between my thighs, not touching yet. Just looking.
“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice like gravel soaked in honey.
“I want it,” I breathe. “I want you.”
That’s all he needs.
He settles against me, one hand parting my thighs wider, the other stroking over my slick skin with confident, knowing fingers. I moan under him, caught between embarrassment and bliss, but he doesn’t slow. He watches me unravel, every reaction noted, catalogued. His name escapes me over and over, until he finally pulls his hand away and positions himself at my entrance.
