Page 74 of Drunk On Love

My fingers trailed from his neck to his chest, slow and trembling, like each inch was a question I wasn’t sure I was allowed to ask. His skin was warm beneath my fingertips, too real, too steady for the chaos inside me.

His eyes never left mine—focused, calm, impossibly patient. That little crease between his brows made him look adorably serious, like he was holding back the world for me.

My palms wandered across his chest in slow, uncertain circles, mapping out unfamiliar terrain with reverence and hesitation. Like I was afraid I’d wake up and this would all vanish.

When my hand settled over his heart, I felt it stutter.

His eyes fluttered closed.

His throat bobbed—tight, tense—as he swallowed hard.

He glanced down, then gently cupped his hands over mine, grounding me with a touch that was morehomethan restraint.

“You’re doing great,” he murmured, voice low, more vibration than sound—a quiet rumble I felt in his chest, under my hands.

My hands traced upward, following the curve of his collarbone until my arms found their way around his neck. His own hands rested gently on my waist, fingers pressing just enough to keep me close, but loose enough to let me go.

He was giving me space.

A choice.

But I didn’t want space. Or distance. Or decisions. Not anymore.

My heart raced so violently that I was sure he could feel it pulsing against his chest. And still, he waited. Steady. Silent. Mine.

I swallowed, tilting my head upward. A breath, a heartbeat, and suddenly our lips were almost touching. So close I could feel his inhale brush across my mouth. A tiny laugh slipped out—nervous, uncertain—and I felt his chest rise as he let out a soft, answering chuckle.

“We can stop anytime,” he said, voice gentler than air, breath grazing my cheek like a promise.

I shook my head, the smallest motion.

I didn’t want to stop.

Every inch of me was tuned to him—the warmth of his skin, the tremble in his fingers, the pause in his breath, the silent question in his eyes.

And I was ready to answer.

He leaned in, just a fraction, resting his forehead gently against mine. I closed my eyes for a single heartbeat, summoning courage. Rising onto my toes, I let my armstighten around his neck and leaned in—just a millimeter closer—close enough to feel his breath ghost softly over my lips.

The world seemed to hold its breath with me.

Neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to. His hand slipped from my waist to the small of my back, guiding me gently into him.

One more second. One final sliver of space.

And then—I closed the gap.

My lips met his, and a shiver raced down my spine, igniting every nerve in a sudden, electric jolt. The contact was feather-light and yet achingly intense, sending my stomach tumbling and lifting all at once. His breath caught—I felt it in the slight, breathless hitch against my mouth.

For a moment—just half a heartbeat—there was stillness. His hand slid higher on my back with the softest exhale, drawing me in. The kiss deepened—a slow burn of warmth and longing, of fire wrapped in tenderness. Like we’d been holding our breath for years, and this was the moment we finally remembered how to breathe.

Time blurred.

His other hand slipped into my hair, fingers grazing my scalp, and every rational thought scattered like confetti in a storm. There was only this—his body against mine, the taste of him, the hum of something unspoken blooming in my chest.

When we finally pulled back, it was only just—barely enough to steal a breath. His forehead rested against mine, our chests rising and falling in sync, his eyes still closed. Mine fluttered open, and I traced the shape of him with my gaze—the curve of his mouth, the flutter of his lashes, the flush highon his cheek.

His voice, when it came, was a hushed rasp, a whisper of my name laced with meaning. “Cheeseball…”