His hands slid beneath the fabric, lifting it inch by inch with a patience that felt more intimate than ripping it off ever could. He peeled it away, baring me to him, and just… looked.

Not rushed. Not devouring. Just there, letting the sight of me hit him.

Like he had dreamed of this.

Then his mouth returned—hot, full, devoted. His tongue swept over my nipple, slow and firm, and a broken sound escaped my throat. His hand cupped the other, his thumb circling in time with his tongue until ...