He exhaled, something soft and reverent, as though those two words undid him.
“Then may I come to you?” he asked quietly.
She nodded.
He crossed the room slowly, like a man approaching sacred ground. When he reached her, he lifted a hand—but did not touch her yet. His fingers hovered, close enough that she felt their warmth against her skin.
“Celine,” he murmured, “I have wanted you from the moment I saw you coming down that staircase, full of fury and fire. But this… this is different.”
“How?”
“This isn’t want.” He finally touched her cheek—just the lightest brush. “This is something I don’t have a name for.”
She leaned into his hand. “Then let us name it together.”
A tremor went through him.
He bent toward her, slowly, giving her time to stop him. She didn’t. Their lips met in the gentlest kiss they had ever shared—soft, exploring, reverent. His hand slid to cradle her jaw, and she touched his waist, feeling the breath leave him in a shudder.
The kiss deepened, unhurried but certain, building warmth by degrees. She tasted the restraint in him—the deliberate care, the desire to savour this moment rather than devour it.
“Celine…” he whispered against her mouth. “Tell me if anything feels—”
She stopped his words with another kiss, firmer, needier.
And that was when the control in him wavered.
Just slightly.
He drew her closer, his hand sliding to the small of her back, pressing her against him. The kiss changed—still tender, but no longer calm. His breath caught; hers faltered. The room seemed to shrink around them, leaving only the heat between their bodies.
She felt him—solid, strong, unmistakably aroused—through the thin barrier of cloth, and something inside her answered with equal urgency. He inhaled sharply as her fingers curled in his shirt.
“Celine…” His voice was ragged now. “If I kiss you like this… I won’t want to stop.”
“Then don’t stop.”
The last of his restraint snapped—like a bowstring released after being drawn too long.
He kissed her again, and the reverence transformed into something hungrier, deeper, impossibly intimate. His mouth claimed hers with a need that felt like truth—raw and breathtaking.
Her hands slid up his chest, and he shuddered. He lifted her, guiding her backwards until her knees brushed the edge of the bed.
But he didn’t push her down.
Instead, he broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting against hers.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She did.
“I want this to be you and me,” he said. “Not desire alone. Not hunger. Us.”
“It is us,” she whispered. “It has always been us.”
A soft, fractured sound escaped him—half laugh, half moan of relief. He kissed her again, slower now but unbearably intense, his hands sliding along her waist with reverent certainty.
He lowered her onto the bed with infinite care, covering her body with his own, his mouth tracing heated, lingering kisses down the line of her throat.
