I reach up and touch his jaw. The stubble is rough against my palm, grounding me in the reality of this moment. He leans into the touch like a cat seeking warmth, and something aches in my chest. Aches for this man who just wants to be loved.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Something shifts in his expression—relief, maybe, or wonder. Like he still can’t quite believe I’m here, that I chose him, that this is real.
“Okay,” he breathes. He kisses me again, and this time there’s nothing tentative about it.
We move toward the bed in a tangle of limbs and whispered words. His jacket lands somewhere near the door. My jersey—his jersey, the one I wore to claim him in front of twenty thousand people—gets pulled over my head and set aside with more care than the jacket received.
“I like seeing you in my name,” he murmurs against my throat.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Makes me feel like you’re mine.”
“I am yours.”
Hegroans and captures my mouth again.
His shirt is next. He works on the tie while I undo the buttons on his shirt. Then my hands are on his chest, feeling the warm expanse of skin and the definition of muscle beneath.
He’s beautiful. I knew that already—I’ve seen him shirtless at the facility, watched him in the weight room when I thought no one was looking. But this is different. This is mine to explore.
I trace the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his biceps, the ridge of an old scar near his collarbone. His skin is warm beneath my palms, smooth over hard muscle. He shivers under my touch, and I realize with a start that he’s trembling.
“Banks?”
“I’m okay.” His voice is rough and strained. “It’s just—no one’s ever—” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.
No one’s ever touched him like this. With care. With intention. With the specific goal of making him feel good, not just getting something from him.
My heart cracks open a little more.
“Sit down,” I tell him, nodding toward the bed.
He obeys, sitting on the edge of the mattress and looking up at me with an expression that’s equal parts hunger and uncertainty. I step between his knees, and his hands automatically find my hips, gripping me like he needs an anchor.
“I want to touch you,” I say. “If you’re okay with that…”
“Win—”
“Let me take care of you.” I run my fingersthrough his hair, and his eyes flutter closed. “You’ve spent your whole life taking care of everyone else. Protecting everyone else. Let someone take care of you for once.”
He swallows hard and nods.
I start at his shoulders, running my palms over the breadth of them and feeling the tension knotted beneath the skin. His muscles are hard from years of training, but the way he carries himself—tight, braced for impact even now—tells me the tension is more than physical.
“Feel good?” I ask.
“Yeah.” The word comes out broken. “So good, Win.”
I trail my hands down his arms, over his biceps—God, his biceps, thick and defined and straining—to his forearms and wrists. His hands flex against my hips. I bring one of them to my mouth and press a kiss to his palm.
He makes a sound. Low. Wounded.
I kiss each of his knuckles: the bruised ones from tonight’s fight, still raw and tender; the scarred ones from fights before, the skin white and ridged.
“These hands,” I murmur, “they’ve been through so much.”
