"Bedroom," I managed between kisses.
He carried me down the short hallway, lips never leaving mine. The bedroom was dark, just streetlight filtering through blinds, but it was enough to see his face when he set me on my feet beside the bed.
pulled my sweater over my head, standing there in jeans and a simple black bra. His gaze traveled over me, hot and appreciative, making me feel powerful instead of exposed.
"Your turn," I said, fingers going to his belt.
He caught my wrists gently. "Slow this time. Want to savor you."
The words sent warmth spreading through me. This wasn't the frantic coupling in the cruiser. This was something else. Something more.
He undressed me like I was a gift, fingers reverent as they found buttons and zippers. Each new expanse of skin revealed earned a kiss, a touch, a murmured appreciation that made me shake. By the time I was naked, I was already trembling with need.
I reached for him, needing to touch, to reciprocate, but he caught my hands again.
"Let me," he said, walking me backward until my legs hit the bed. "Let me worship you properly this time."
He laid me out on his sheets—they smelled like him, surrounded me with him—and proceeded to map every inch of me with his mouth. Each touch deliberate, designed to build rather than satisfy.
By the time his mouth found where I needed him most, I was already wound tight as a spring. The first swipe of his tongue made me arch off the bed, hands fisting in his hair.
"That's it," he encouraged, the vibration of his words making me gasp. "Let go for me."
He took his time, learning what made me shake, what made me beg, building me up steadily until I shattered. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, leaving me boneless and panting.
He kissed his way back up my body, and when he finally slid inside me, we both groaned. This was different from the cruiser—slower, deeper, eyes locked on each other.
We moved together, finding our rhythm, hands exploring, mouths meeting and parting. When he shifted angles, hitting that perfect spot inside me, I cried out.
"There?" he asked, doing it again.
"Yes, God, yes."
He kept that angle, that pressure, building me up again. One hand slipped between us, thumb circling, and I flew apart for the second time. He followed immediately, my name rough on his lips as he buried his face in my neck.
We lay tangled together afterward, sweat cooling, breathing gradually returning to normal. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, and I felt something I hadn't experienced in years.
Peace.
"Stay," he said, not a question but not quite a demand either.
"Okay."
He pulled me closer, my back to his chest, arm heavy around my waist. Safe. Protected. Chosen.
"Your father's going to lose his shit," he said against my hair.
"Probably."
"Regrets?"
I turned in his arms to face him, seeing uncertainty in those usually confident eyes.
"No," I said firmly. "No regrets. Not about this. Not about you."
He kissed me then, soft and sweet, and I knew I'd made the right choice. The complicated choice, the dangerous choice, but the right one.
For the first time in years, I'd chosen what I wanted over what was expected.
