His lips curve into that crooked smile I’ve grown to love. “Ladies first.”
I sit up and reach for the hem of my tank top, but his hands are there before mine, his fingers brushing my sides as he peels the fabric up and over my head. The cool morning air hits my skin, raising goosebumps, and I’m suddenly very aware of how exposed I am.
Not just physically. Emotionally. After everything I shared tonight—all the fears and wounds and ugly truths I’ve kept hidden for years—there’s nowhere left to hide.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and the word sounds like reverence.
“I’m covered in emotional baggage and floor dust.”
“Beautiful,” he repeats, more firmly this time. His hands skim down my arms, leaving trails of warmth in their wake. “Stop deflecting.”
“It’s a coping mechanism.”
“I noticed.” He leans down to press a kiss to my shoulder. “Find a new one.”
“Any suggestions?”
“A few.”
His mouth travels along my collarbone, nipping and soothing in turns. I arch into the contact, my fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and working them open with more haste than finesse. Beneath the expensive fabric, his chest is warm and solid, and I spread my palms against it just to feel his heart beating under my hands. Fast. Faster than I expected.
He’s as affected by this as I am.
The realization emboldens me. I push the shirt off his shoulders, running my nails lightly down his spine, and am rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.
“Careful,” he warns.
“Or what?”
His answering smile is all teeth.
The next few minutes are a blur of shed clothing and roaming hands and kisses that grow increasingly urgent. He explores mybody like he’s mapping uncharted territory, finding sensitive spots I didn’t know I had and exploiting them with devastating precision.
When his mouth closes over one breast, I gasp and arch into him. When his hand slides between my thighs, I nearly come off the bed entirely.
“Easy.” His voice is rough against my skin. “We have time.”
“Do we? Children’s class, remember?”
“Forget the class.”
“I never—oh.” His fingers curl just right, and every thought in my head dissolves into static. “Mal.”
“There she is.” He sounds insufferably pleased. “That’s the sound I’ve been wanting to hear.”
“Arrogant.”
“Accurate.” Another curl of his fingers, another wave of sensation that leaves me gasping. “You’re so responsive. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“No.”
“Their loss.” He shifts, positioning himself between my legs, and for a moment, we both go still. His eyes meet mine—dark and hungry and impossibly tender. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want this.”
“Tell me you want me.”
“I want you.” My hands cup his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. “I want you, Mal. Not the deal-maker or the chaos demon or the charming facade. Just you. The real you.”
