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He moves behind me and unhooks the clasp with careful fingers. My heart stumbles in my chest. I fight the urge to pull the straps back up.

He shifts, guiding me gently backward until I’m lying down on the bed. The movement is slow enough that it doesn’t startle me, but my breath still stutters. My hands, unsure of where to land, hover for a moment before settling over my stomach.

His eyes flick to my hands, then to my face, and he waits.

I breathe in through my nose, then out, and move my hands to the mattress.

His palm returns to my thigh. “You’re allowed to feel good and you actuallydeserveto feel good,” he says, the words landing so softly I almost don’t catch them.

His hand moves again. The pads of his fingers follow the curve of my waist, lingering at the softest parts of me. There’s no shame in the way he touches me.

He leans in and kisses just below my navel. Then higher, just between my ribs. Then the center of my chest. His mouth is warm, unhurried. Every kiss feels intentional, placed more for me than for him.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

I’ve heard that before. But not like this. Not while lying flat on my back with barely any clothes between us.

My chest rises unevenly.

“You doing okay?”

I nod, and I mean it.

He moves higher and kisses the space just below my collarbone. I tilt my head slightly, and he takes the cue, kissing the length of my neck. My pulse jumps. I know he feels it.

His mouth finds the curve beneath my jaw. Then the corner of my chin. My skin is hypersensitive.

He hesitates for a moment, his breath stilling where it brushes my cheek. Finn leans in, slow enough for me to change my mind. When his lips brush mine, I nearly whimper at the contact.

My first kiss.

My mouth doesn’t quite know how to shape itself, but he doesn’t push. He gives me time to find him. I kiss back awkwardly at first. I miss his mouth the second time, brushing too far to the right. He tilts his head and meets me again, correcting gently.

It’s not what I expected.

There aren’t fireworks or violins or anything I read about in books. But it feels amazing.

His hand cradles my jaw. His tongue grazes mine, coaxing instead of claiming. I open more.

My hands move without me thinking about where I should place them. One lands on his forearm—the other slides up to his chest. I curl my fingers there.

I feel the sound he makes more than I hear it—a low hum at the back of his throat. He pulls back a fraction, then kisses me again. My chest lifts into him. My legs shift. Every part of me starts to answer his touch.

I’ve never had this. Not with Davit. Not with anyone. I was told it would happen in time. That love could grow. That physical closeness would come only after the papers were signed and the right people had given their blessing.

His hand drifts upward again. When it reaches the side of my breast, he hesitates. I take his hand and press it there. His eyes close, breath catching low in his chest. The sound he makes is quiet but raw, pulled from somewhere deep. He cups me fully, palming my breast and squeezing lightly. When his thumb grazes the top, my body arches instinctively.

He shifts his weight to one elbow, still braced beside me, and lowers his other hand back down between my legs.

His finger strokes once, just over the outer part of me. It’s nothing. Just pressure. But it’s also oddly intense. I feel the echo of it ripple upward, tightening something in my belly.

His fingers pause.

“Do you want to keep going?”

I nod, breath shallow. “Please.”

The word is small, but it feels so big right now.