One button. Then another. The dress opened fully at her back, the fabric falling away as his warmth followed the cool air across her skin.
His hand reached the clasp of her bra and stopped.
Waiting.
As if her next breath mattered more than anything else.
She reached back and covered his fingers with hers. “Yes.”
The clasp gave.
She closed her eyes as he traced the path he’d opened. His fingertips on her spine—reading her body with the same attention he gave to terrain.
It was all she could do to keep breathing. No one had ever touched her with this kind of focus. As if he intended to commit her to memory and never forget.
The borrowed bra loosened, the straps slipping off her shoulders with the dress. His hands followed—down her arms, sliding the fabric free.
He was behind her, his chest against her bare back, the contact total now.
Just him.
His good arm came around her, palm flat against her sternum. His pulse beat a fierce rhythm against her skin. His injured arm stayed lower, careful, his hand resting at her hip rather than pulling.
His mouth returned to her neck—the hollow behind her ear, the tendon, the place where her pulse beat fast and visible. His hands moved with a patience she now understood as care from a man who believed caring was the thing that broke you.
The loosened fabric caught on the slope of her breasts. He pushed it clear and her skin grew taut beneath the sudden exposure.
His good hand traced the underside of her breast. Slow, then up, the rough pad of his thumb skimming over her nipple, and the sensation tore through her so cleanly a small sound escaped her.
He did it again. More leisurely this time. As if he’d heard her and wanted to know exactly what part of it had pulled the sound out.
Her head dropped back against his shoulder. She couldn’t help it. Her body had stopped asking her mind for permission.
“Pav.”
His mouth pressed harder at her neck in answer.
His injured arm stayed low around her, anchoring her at the hip. His good hand rested high against her chest briefly, his breathing at her back not as steady as his hands.
He was holding the line there while everything else in him slipped. This was hitting him as much as it was her.
Then his good hand slid down across the plane of her stomach, tracing the line of her ribs, the dip of her navel, where her breath was shallow and fast. Under the dress now, where the fabric pooled at her hips, his palm was warm against her belly, fingers spread wide, absorbing the tremor she was holding in.
He stilled, his breath a scant shudder of exhalation, his mouth resting at the curve of her neck.
Then his touch drifted lower to the line of her underwear. He traced the edge—once, twice—the way he’d traced her spine. Testing, asking without asking.
She pressed back against him. That was her answer. She knew what she was asking for and she wanted it anyway.
His hand slipped beneath the fabric. Through her curls, to where she was already slick and aching for him, had been from the moment his mouth touched her neck.
He made a sound near her ear. Low. Almost a breath. As if the discovery cost him something. Then his fingers moved, learning the shape of her. When he found the one point that mattered, the calloused pad of his finger moved in controlled circles.
Her hips jerked against his touch without her permission.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against her ear—the same voice, the same certainty he used when the world was ending.
He didn’t stop.
