My skin feels too tight. Too aware. Too exposed under the weight of his gaze.
His breath brushes against my stomach first, warm and uneven, like he’s trying to steady himself and failing. The soft drag of his nose against the fabric of my bra sends a shiver up my spine, slow and unrelenting.
I inhale sharply, and he notices. Of course he does. Holt notices everything.
His hands settle at my hips, firm enough to hold me in place but not enough to trap me. Not yet. The contrast makes it worse—the control wrapped in restraint.
Like he’s giving me the chance to stop this.
I don’t take it.
My fingers find his shoulders, gripping lightly at first, then tighter when his mouth follows the same path his touch just mapped. The first press of his lips is slow. Deliberate.
Not rushed. Not careless. It’s that—more than anything—that makes my knees feel unsteady.
My head tips back slightly, my breath catching as he moves lower, each shift of his mouth pulling another reaction from me before I can stop it.
“Holt—” His name barely makes it out.
He pauses, just for a second, then his hands tighten at my hips, pulling me closer, grounding me again before I can drift too far into the feeling.
I should stop him. I should remember why this is a bad idea. Instead, I lean into him. Because I want to see what he does next.
His mouth moves again, slower now, more intentional, like he’s testing the edge of something—mine or his, I’m not sure.
My grip on him tightens. Everything sharpens.
Every breath.
Every touch.
Every second he doesn’t pull away.
My body reacts before my brain catches up, heat pooling low, my legs shifting instinctively as if searching for something I’m not ready to name.
And that’s when he stops. Completely.
The loss is immediate.
Jarring.
My eyes open, my breath uneven as I look down at him.
“What—”
His hands slide up my sides, steadying me, anchoring me back in place as he lifts his gaze to mine.
There’s something different in his expression now. Not gone. Not softened. Controlled.
“You’re not ready for more,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges.
The words hit heavier than they should.
“Don’t decide that for me,” I shoot back, even though my voice comes out thinner than I intend.
His thumb traces slowly along my hip, not moving away, not letting me step out of the moment completely.
“I’m not deciding anything,” he says. “I’m stopping before this turns into something you can regret.”
