"I want... more," I admitted.
The words cost me more than they should have. My voice came out rough and fragile. His eyes found mine and stayed.
"Yeah?"
I nodded.
"We don't have to do anything you're not ready for," he said quietly. "Tonight or any night. You do not have to prove anything to me. Not ever."
That had always been the fear. The idea that intimacy had to be performed to deserve love. But Bramwell looked at me in a way that made those fears feel irrelevant.
"I know," I whispered.
He moved his hand slowly to the side of my neck, pausing just before touching me as though giving me every possible chance to lean away. When I didn’t, his palm settled there carefully, warmth spreading instantly against my pulse.
The contact made my breath catch.
Bramwell’s eyes dropped to my throat almost helplessly, like that part of me fascinated him more than he knew what to do with. His thumb brushed lightly beneath my ear once, slow enough that I could feel the exact moment my pulse jumped against his skin.
"I have spent an embarrassing amount of time wanting to put my mouth right here," he admitted softly, his fingers brushing the side of my neck with unbearable restraint.
Heat climbed into my face.
His gaze lingered on my neck for another long second before he stepped closer, drawn toward me with the kind of restraint that only made the attention feel more intense. I could feel the warmth of his breath near my skin now, the barely-there ghost of it along the sensitive place beneath my jaw.
He kissed me again, guiding me back toward the couch with careful patience. I sank into the cushions and he knelt in front of me, eye level.
His hands moved to the hem of my sweater. "This okay?"
I nodded.
He held my gaze a moment longer, as if searching for something unspoken in my expression, then carefully helped me out of it, leaving only my shirt underneath. He folded it aside before settling back, simply looking at me for a long moment.
"April," he said, voice lower than usual. "You are so beautiful. I don't think I've said that. I should have."
Warmth spread through me and I broke eye contact before I could stop myself.
"Hey," Bramwell murmured softly, tilting my face back toward him. "One day you’re going to hear these things without trying to run from them. Until then, I’ll repeat them as often as necessary."
His hand rested warm against my waist while his thumb moved once across my shirt, grounding me. His eyes stayed on mine with the same patient attention he always carried, like he'd wait as long as it took.
"One to ten," he asked softly, "how nervous are you right now?"
I swallowed. "Six."
His expression softened. "Okay. What would make it a five?"
I looked down at the space between us. "I think... I want you to take charge a little." Saying it aloud made something honest unravel inside me. Bramwell went still for a beat, then leaned in with that devastatingly gentle attention.
"Yeah?" he asked.
I nodded, and heat flooded my chest at how saying it aloud changed the room.
People always assumed things when they looked at me—tall, broad-shouldered, muscular from years of carrying the weight of myself. Strangers treated me like someone who always belonged in control, as if softness could only exist in smaller bodies. Somewhere along the way, people stopped imagining I might want gentleness too.
God, I did.
But how could I, when I don’t look like your typical princess?
