She arched into him, gasping softly, her fingers threading through his hair.
“Elias…”
Her voice trembled, and he shuddered as though undone by the simple sound of his name on her lips.
He paused only long enough to meet her gaze—to ask without asking—and when she nodded, soft and sure, something in him yielded.
He trailed lower, tracing her with his lips, his breath warm and uneven against her skin. She felt each exhale like a stroke of heat, each brush of his mouth like the slow unfurling of something long coiled inside her.
When he lowered his head further, truly honouring her with his attention, she gasped.
“Tell me if—” he began, breath trembling.
She touched his hair, fingers sinking into the dark strands with a tenderness that made him inhale sharply.
“I will tell you everything,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes at that—as though the words mattered more to him than anything else—and then he set about worshipping her.
Every touch of his mouth was gentle at first, almost cautious. But as she softened under him—as her breath caught, as her hips shifted in helpless response, as her fingers curled around the sheets and then back into his hair—he grew more certain, more intentional, giving her exactly what she needed before she even knew how to ask.
His breath broke against her skin, hot and uneven.
Her own breath fractured in answering rhythm.
The world blurred at the edges, dissolving into heat and sensation and the sound of her own voice whispering his name—not as question, not as plea, but as promise and surrender all at once.
When pleasure crested through her, sharp and bright and overwhelming, he held her through every trembling wave of it—steady, devoted, unshakeable—as though anchoring her back into her own body, refusing to let her drift anywhere he could not follow.
Only then did he rise over her again.
He braced himself carefully, making space for her breath to steady, but not withdrawing from the fragile intimacy they’d just created. And when she opened her eyes, she found him watching her with something raw and unguarded.
There was awe there—stunned, breathless awe. And a profound, aching relief, as though he had been holding himself together for years and had finally been granted permission to stop.
He came over her, bracing himself carefully.
“Are you certain?” he asked, voice raw.
She answered by guiding him closer, her forehead resting against his.
“I have never been more certain of anything.”
He entered her slowly.
Tenderly.
As though she were something precious—and she had never loved him more for that.
The first joining stole both their breaths.
She gasped, her fingers tightening against his shoulders.
He shut his eyes, jaw clenched, as though the sensation shattered through him.
He paused, giving her time to adjust, to welcome him fully. She felt him trembling—not from strain, but from reverence, from the enormity of this moment that neither of them could take back and neither wished to.
“Celine,” he murmured, forehead pressed to hers, “tell me if anything—”
