She says it.

Her doubts spill from her lips like water breaking through a dam—every worry, every fear, every hesitation laid bare before me.

She confesses what's been twisting inside her. How much she wants me. How much she's afraid of what that means.

And I?

I'm so fucking proud of her.

Because I know how hard this was for her.

She faced Evan, stood her ground against his manipulation. Now she's trusting her instincts about us. She's choosing to trust me despite everything she's been through.

To want me.

And I want to reward her for that.

I want to make her mine.

Right here. Right now.

Anywhere she'll have me—the couch beneath us, the floor, pinned against the wall with her legs wrapped around my waist.

Wherever she'll let me.

But I also know I can't.

Not yet.

The timing isn’t right. She's still processing her trauma. I won't take advantage of her vulnerability. And most importantly, I'm hiding something crucial from her.

Because eventually—though not tonight when everything is raw and new—I'll need to come clean about Caleb.

Yes, she's mine from this moment forward. But I refuse to build a relationship with her based on deception.

I force myself to step back. It takes immense self-control to tear my hands off her, to put space between us, to keep from laying her out beneath me and showing her exactly what she's just signed up for. Instead, I mutter the only practical thought I can manage.

"Let me just turn off the damn stove first."

Because if I don't? I might actually forget to, setting off her smoke alarm and ruining the mood. For her, at least. Nothing could kill the mood for me right now.

Not when I'm already rock fucking hard for her.

Not when my mind is reeling, imagining all the ways I could erase her pain. I want to replace each negative experience, each cruel word, each moment of self-doubt with pleasure so intense she forgets everything but my name on her lips.

But tonight I’ll go slow.

Savor her. Memorize each curve, each sensitive spot, each small reaction to my touch.

I shut off the stove, barely registering what I'm doing, and turn back to her.

She's still sitting there, watching me, breath uneven, waiting. The flush of her cheeks spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath her top.

My restraint evaporates.

My instincts take over.

Without hesitation, I move to her and claim her mouth with mine.

At first, I keep it light. Controlled. A soft brush of lips. A question, not a demand. But the moment I feel her melt into me, the way she sighs against my mouth, I deepen it.

I take more.

Explore more.

My tongue sweeps against hers, coaxing, learning. And fuck, she tastes good—like honey and heat, like she’s been waiting for this just as long as I have.

I could kiss her forever.

Could spend all night learning her, teasing her, drawing out every little sound I know she's capable of making right from her lips.

At some point, I force myself to pull back. I don't want to, but this has to be said. She needs to understand that tonight, she's in control.

We're both breathing hard. Her beautiful lips are extra pouty from my attention. I have to stop myself from pulling that bottom lip of hers between my teeth. I watch as she glances down at my hands, still resting at my sides, still not touching her where I need to.

Her gaze rises to meet mine, hesitant and searching, like she’s bracing for what I might say next.

I exhale, reaching up to cup her cheek, tilting her face toward mine.

"My hands," I murmur, the words thick with restraint. "They're yours tonight."

Her breath hitches.

"You choose where they go," I continue. "In the future, I'll take every ounce of control you want to give me."

I slide my thumb along her cheekbone, watching as her lips part slightly.

"But for tonight?" I murmur, dipping my head closer, my lips brushing against hers. "You decide."

She shudders, but nods. I go back to kissing her.

Deep. Slow. Possessive.

And then, after a moment, she reaches down to grab one of my hands and moves it up her body.

She keeps my hand over her clothes at first.

I don't care.

Even through layers of soft fabric, I can feel her. Feel the heat of her body, the intoxicating softness beneath my hands. Her curves yield to my touch, perfect and feminine. My fingers skim along the curve of her waist, tracing the dip where her body narrows before flaring into the plush swell of her hips. I exhale hard, my breath mingling with hers, hot and uneven.

Her stomach is soft, smooth beneath my fingertips, and I palm it, feeling the slight tremor in her muscles, the way her breath stutters when she moves my hands lower. My hands slide along her hips, gripping them, feeling the full, luscious shape of her, the body she keeps trying to diminish, to downplay.

She doesn't even know how fucking perfect she is. I groan into her mouth, deep and rough, letting myself touch, letting myself explore, and when she whimpers against my lips, when her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me in like she needs me just as badly, I know I'm never letting her go.

Then she does something that completely unravels me.

She pulls her top off.

Just like that.

And—fuck.

She's not wearing a bra. Her breasts spill free, perfect and lush, round and soft. She grabs both my hands and places them there.

Oh fuck.

I might just come right here.

But I hold myself back.

I don't break the kiss.

I can't.

Her mouth is addictive. She kisses me like she needs it, like she’s starving for it—and I kiss her like I’m not giving it back. Her tongue tangles with mine, and I take over, deepening it, demanding more.

I memorize her.

The sweetness of her breath, the way her lips part so perfectly for me, like she was made to be kissed like this.

And all the while, my hands are full of her. Her tits spill into my palms, flushed and aching, her nipples stiff as I pinch and tease them just to hear her moan. She arches into me like she’s desperate for it—mine to touch, mine to ruin.

She whimpers, arches into me, her head tilting back slightly, offering herself up to me.

And I take.

I drag my thumbs over her nipples, swallowing the way her breath stutters, how she moans into my mouth like she's coming undone just from this.

She's so sensitive.

So fucking responsive.

It's destroying my self-control, the way her body reacts to every touch, every stroke, every squeeze. And when her hands start to roam, when her fingers skim down my stomach, reaching for me, I lose my mind completely. She slides them up my chest, teasing along the hem of my shirt. She pulls back slightly, breath heavy, fingers tugging at the fabric.

"Is this okay?" she whispers.

I nod.

She pulls my shirt off. Her fingers trail across my tattoos, like she's tracing a map. Her touch sends fire through my veins, every nerve lighting up under her delicate fingers.

She swallows. "I've always wanted to...lick them."

I drop my forehead against the crook of her neck, groaning.

"Fuck, Izzy." My voice is strained, ragged. "You say shit like that, you're gonna make me come."

She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dancing with amusement.

"What if I want to make you come?" she teases.

I grit my teeth. I could ruin her right now. Could bend her over, spread her open, take her the way I know she's desperate for. Instead, I drag my mouth along the curve of her jaw, biting back another groan.

"Yes," I murmur, "I have no doubts." I hold back the fact that she's already made me come so many times before. To the idea of her in my mind, to the sound of her moans on the phone.