Chapter 3 #2
I’m a different woman than the girl he knew at twenty-one.
My body holds more weight, more history.
For a heartbeat, the urge to hide myself flares up.
But then his fingers are at my back, unfastening my bra.
As he peels the lace away, his gaze tracks the movement with an appreciation so absolute it smothers my shame.
To him, I’m not a collection of flaws; I’m the only thing he’s been looking for.
"You're beautiful," he says, his voice heavy with want. “Tell me what you need.”
“You.” The word feels raw. “Just you.”
He unbuttons my jeans. I slip out of them, along with my underwear, and I’m bare before him. He lowers his mouth to the soft swell below my navel, nudging me until I’m on my back on the bed.
“So fucking beautiful,” he says, kissing my stomach.
It lands hot, his warm lips pressing and holding.
Then he drags upward in one unhurried line that follows the fullest curve of my belly.
My lungs seize. He maps every inch with his tongue next, in slow, flat strokes that trace the stretch marks I’ve hidden under high-waisted everything for years.
Each pass honors the skin instead of ignoring it.
My fingers curl into the quilt, cotton bunching under my palms.
His hands slide to the outsides of my thighs, thumbs stroking the crease where my leg meets my hip while his mouth continues its worship higher.
When he reaches the underside of my breast, he pauses, breath ghosting the skin first. Then his lips close over the tender curve, and he sucks gently.
The pull is patient, insistent enough to make my nipple tighten into a hard peak before he’s even touched it.
“Still okay?” His voice stays low against my skin.
I manage a nod, not trusting my voice.
He shifts higher. One broad palm cradles my breast, kissing it like something sacred.
His tongue circles my areola in widening spirals until every nerve lights up.
When he finally takes my nipple between his lips, the suction is deep and steady, rhythmic pulls that match my heartbeat.
My spine leaves the mattress on the third draw. A broken sound escapes me.
He releases my nipple with a soft pop and moves to the other breast, repeating the ritual. The contrast of wet heat and cool cabin air makes my skin pebble. His free hand stays anchored on my hip, grounding me. Keeping me from floating away while the sensations stack higher.
“Gorgeous curves,” he murmurs right against the peak of my nipple. “Every fucking inch of you.” The praise undoes me. Heat coils tighter in my pussy.
He kisses a slow path back down the center of my body: sternum, ribs, navel, lower belly. When he settles between my thighs, his shoulders wedge them wider. His forearms brace along the insides of my legs, palms pressing flat to my hips. He holds them without trapping.
“Look at me,” he says.
My eyes find his gaze dark and steady.
“I’m going to taste you now. Slow and deep until you come on my tongue.” He waits, letting the words settle. “Tell me yes.”
“Yes.” The syllable trembles out.
His head lowers. The first contact is only breath in warm pulses against my pussy.
My clit throbs in answer. Then the flat of his tongue glides from my entrance to hood in one luxurious sweep.
No flicking. No frantic circling. Just long, deliberate licks that cover me completely.
Again. And again. The rhythm never hurries.
Each pass drags pleasure upward until it sits heavy behind my navel.
My hands find his hair. Not pulling, but holding on.
He groans against me. The vibration sinks straight into my pussy. One palm slides upward, cupping my breast again. His thumb brushes the still-wet nipple in lazy circles that sync with his tongue below in dual points of contact. My thighs start to shake.
He doesn’t speed up or change the cadence, only adds the slightest suction when his mouth closes over my clit in gentle pulls. Release. Pull. Release. The sensation builds in thick, rolling waves instead of sharp spikes. My breathing turns jagged, hips lifting toward his mouth on instinct.
“Stay with me,” he says, lips barely lifting. “Let it climb slow.”
I do. I let it build, let the heat spread through my limbs until my toes curl against the quilt. His tongue presses flat again. Holds. Then circles once, tight, with perfect pressure, and the wave finally breaks.
Pleasure detonates low and deep. My back bows. A cry tears free. He keeps the same rhythm through every pulse, drawing them out and gentling only when my thighs clamp around his ears and my fingers twist hard in his hair.
He eases back gradually, kissing the inside of one thigh then the other with soft presses of his lips to my trembling muscle. When he finally rises over me, his forearms cage my shoulders. His chest brushes my breasts with every breath we share.
His mouth finds mine, slow and deep. I taste myself on his tongue, and it doesn’t embarrass me. It binds us. His heartbeat thuds against my breastbone, strong, even, unafraid.
“You’re safe,” he whispers into the corner of my mouth. “Right here. Safe.”
I believe him.
He rolls us so I’m tucked against his side, one arm banding my waist. The other hand strokes down my spine in long, soothing passes. From nape to tailbone. Back up. Again. My cheek presses into the warm hollow beneath his collarbone. His pulse knocks steadily beneath my ear.
Neither of us speaks.
We don’t need to.
His palm never stops moving. Up my back.
Into my hair. Across my shoulder. Down again.
Grounding every aftershock until my limbs turn heavy and liquid.
Until the only thing left is the quiet certainty that I let him in, and he stayed exactly where I needed him to be: keeping me safe. Adored. Maybe home.
"I should go," he says eventually, but he doesn't move.
"Don't." The word escapes before I can stop it.
He pulls back to look at me. "If I stay, I'm not sleeping in a chair."
"I don't want you in a chair."
Desire tightens the line of his jaw as he rains soft, deliberate kisses across my face. He lingers at my temple before ghosting over my lips, his voice a low, disciplined rasp. "I'm not rushing this. Not tonight."
"Why not?"
"Because when I take you to bed, Sloane, it's not going to be after one day. It's going to be when you're ready to admit this is real."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
He sits up, and I watch him move through the cabin in the dark, picking up my discarded clothes, folding them on the chair, and checking the lock on the door. Taking care of me in small ways I'm not used to accepting.
At the door, he turns back. "Six a.m. I'll bring coffee."
"Cash?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
In three quick steps, he’s back, framing my face and stealing my breath with a kiss that feels like a claim. "No thanks needed," he breathes, his forehead resting against mine for a heartbeat. "I’m exactly where I want to be."
When he pulls away and vanishes into the night, the sudden emptiness is deafening, my skin still humming where he touched me.
Guilt should surface. I should be thinking about Seattle and my job and the life I left behind. Instead, I pull the blanket up to my chin and close my eyes.
I sleep through the night for the first time in months.
When I wake to pale dawn light, there's a travel mug of coffee on my porch railing and a note tucked underneath.
You're mine now. Don't forget it. —C
I press the note to my chest and smile.