Cal's breath catches. "Molly..."
"Too much?" I whisper, suddenly uncertain.
"Not enough," he corrects, and then he's kissing me again, deeper this time, one hand tangling in my hair while the other pulls me flush against him.
I can feel his arousal pressing against my stomach, hard evidence of his desire. It makes me feel powerful, wanted, perfect exactly as I am. Iarch into him, a small sound of need escaping me when his lips leave mine to trail along my jaw, down my neck.
"Cal," I gasp as his teeth graze my pulse point. "Please."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his own dark with desire but still questioning. "Please what, Molly? Tell me what you want."
"You," I say simply. "All of you. No more waiting, no more doubts."
For a moment, he searches my face, as if making sure I'm certain. Then he nods once, decision made. "Not here. There's sawdust everywhere, and you deserve better than a workbench for your first time."
"First time?" I laugh softly. "I'm not exactly innocent, Cal."
"First time with me," he clarifies, and the possessive edge in his voice sends heat pooling low in my belly. "Come on."
He takes my hand, leading me through a door at the back of the workshop into what must be his office. It's spartan but comfortable—a worn leather sofa against one wall, a drafting table covered in sketches, bookshelves filled with woodworking manuals and, to my delight, a small collection of classic novels.
Cal releases my hand only long enough to lock the door behind us, then turns to me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
"Last chance to change your mind," he says, voice rough with restraint.
In answer, I reach for the top button of my dress, slipping it free. "I know what I want, Cal."
His eyes track the movement of my fingers as I undo another button, then another. When the dress falls open to reveal my simple cotton bra, his jaw tightens visibly.
"You're beautiful," he says, the words carrying the weight of absolute truth.
I let the dress slide from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. Standing before him in just my underwear, I resist the urge to cover myself. My body isn't perfect—my hips wide, my stomach soft, my thighs marked with silvery stretch marks—but the raw hunger in Cal's eyes makes me feel like a goddess.
"Your turn," I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.
He pulls his t-shirt over his head in one fluid motion, revealing a broad chest dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail disappearing beneath his jeans. His body is solid, powerful, shaped by years of physical work rather than a gym routine.
"Come here," he says, and I go to him willingly.
The first touch of his bare chest against mine pulls a gasp from both of us. His skin is hot, slightly rough with calluses as his hands explore my back, my waist, the curve of my hips. I trace the muscles of his shoulders, marveling at their strength, at how gently they hold me despite their power.
"You feel so good," I murmur against his neck, pressing kisses wherever I can reach. "Better than I imagined."
"You've been imagining this?" His hands slide lower, cupping my bottom and pulling me tighter against him.
"Since the day you walked into that committee meeting." I nip at his earlobe, delighting in his sharp intake of breath. "Those hands of yours... the way they moved when you sketched. I couldn't stop thinking about them."
"These hands?" He brings one between us, tracing the edge of my bra. "The ones that want to touch every inch of you?"
"Yes," I breathe, arching into his touch. "Please, Cal."
He unclasps my bra with surprising dexterity, drawing it slowly down my arms. When my breasts are bare before him, he makes a sound low in his throat—half groan, half reverence.
"Perfect," he murmurs, cupping their weight in his palms. His thumbs brush over my nipples, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through me.
I reach for his belt, suddenly desperate to feel all of him. "Too many clothes," I complain, fumbling with the buckle.
Cal smiles against my neck. "Impatient."
