His kiss ignited a wildfire inside me.
It wasn't rushed, or desperate—it was patient, deliberate, like he was tasting the very essence of me, learning me by touch and breath. The warmth of his lips pressed against mine, soft at first, then deepening, hungry. It felt like time bent around us, the air thickening, charged, like the walls of the room themselves were leaning in to listen.
I gasped softly as his tongue slipped past mine, and that sound—small as it was—made him pull me closer. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.
His hands found my waist, firm and confident, slipping beneath my top like he'd done it a thousand times in dreams and only now had permission to do it for real. His touch lit a path of fire along my skin, his palm warm as it slid up my ribcage and curled tenderly around the swell of my brêast. My breath caught. The way he touched me—so reverent, so unhurried—it made me feel like something precious, like something worshipped.
