Page 24

I nod again, barely breathing.

I perch on the edge of the bed. My fingers knot themselves in the hem of the shirt I’m wearing—Jonah’s, I think. It smells clean and not too strong, which I like. None of them seems to wear a heavy scent. It’s…refreshing.

You’re thinking too much, Ani.

My stomach flutters when I see the way he’s watching me. I press my knees together, and I’m pretty sure my legs are trembling. I’m bracing for something, though I don’t know what.

Finn doesn’t rush. He watches as he kneels in front of me and places his hands on my bouncing legs.

“You can stop me at any time,” he says again, and this time, I manage to answer.

“I know.”

He’s watching me again. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for, but I must give the right signal because he moves. But he doesn’t go for the toys.

That surprises me. I thought we were headed straight toward the part I’m not supposed to think about—let alone want. I was wrong.

Carefully, he lifts one of my wrists and presses his lips to the inside of it.

Definitely not what I was expecting. And yet…I really like it.

He presses another kiss to my skin, this one on the inside of my wrist. Then the inside of my elbow, and on my shoulder, where the collar of the shirt dips. Another at the base of my neck, right where my pulse flutters.

I don’t know what to do with my hands. My mind is spinning. His lips are the only thing keeping me grounded. His mouth is not rough or teasing or commanding—it’s tender, and that’s what undoes me.

Because this is the opposite of everything I’ve known.

He’s not trying to take anything from me. He’s giving. It’s not about expectations or consequences or performance.

He sits back on his heels and meets my eyes.

“Still okay?”

I nod again, and this time, my voice is steadier.

“Yes.”

That word lands differently now. I’ve said it so many times in my life, and most of the time I didn’t really mean it. But this one is real.

His hands move slowly. One settles against my waist, the other brushing my thigh. He doesn't reach for the hem of my shirt yet. Not until I give him confirmation that I want this. So, I do, with a short nod.

I’m nervous, but I’m not scared.

I know the difference now.

His fingers trace the outside of my leg, from knee to hip. My skin tightens beneath his touch. My breath catches in that space between his hand and where it might go next. The anticipation is excruciating.

I don’t know what’s about to happen. I don’t know what I want. My body is out ahead of me, answering before my thoughts have caught up. There’s heat pooling in places I was taught to silence.

I’m aware of every inch of my skin, especially the parts he hasn’t touched yet.

He pulls back slightly, his hands moving to the bottom of my shirt. He pauses, giving me a moment to object. I nod, confirming I don’t want him to stop.

He lifts the fabric over my head, exposing me. I cross my arms instinctively.

“You’re okay,” he promises.

I nod and make myself breathe deeper. The panic doesn’t vanish, but it gives me space. He kisses the slope of my shoulder again, then the center of my chest, just above my bra.