"Then let's stop thinking," she says.
And then I kiss her.
This time, there's no stopping, no interruptions, no attempts at restraint. It's all heat and hunger. Her mouth opens to mine like she's been waiting for this since the day we met, and the sound she makes, a quiet, breathy moan, unravels every thread of my self-control.
My hands slide beneath the hem of her sweater, fingertips skating over warm skin. I pause, not to ask, but to give her one last chance to breathe.
She doesn't need it.
She reaches for my shirt, her fingers nimble on the buttons.
We move in tandem, clothes peeling away. Her sweater comes over her head, baring a sliver of skin that makes me forget how to breathe. Her skin is flushed, luminous in the golden light, and I can't stop touching her, palming her waist, brushing over the soft curve of her ribs.
Her hands find my chest, trailing fire across every nerve ending. They're soft and certain, like she's not touching me, she's claiming me.
"You're beautiful," I whisper against her neck, dragging my mouth along her skin, tasting the faint salt of her and the heat rising beneath it. She smells like citrus and something sweeter, like vanilla melted under sun-warmed skin. It hits me like a spell I didn't know I was under until it was too late.
"So are you," she breathes, like she means it, like she sees something in me no one else ever has.
We undress each other with reverence. Like worship. When I trace the delicate line of her collarbone with my lips, she shivers, her body arching toward mine.
"Mason," she gasps, and I swear I feel it echo inside my chest.
Her hands roam, into my hair, down my spine, across my shoulder blades, leaving heat in their wake, branding me. I've had sex before. I've even had passion. But this? This is something else. This is soul-deep, blood-warm, universe-collapsing intimacy.
When we're skin to skin on the ridiculous faux bear rug that's somehow become sacred ground, I take a moment to look at her. Her hair fans out around her like ink on parchment, herlips kiss-bitten, her eyes hazy with want. Trust radiates from her in waves.
"You're staring," she says, but her expression says she doesn't mind.
"I'm memorizing," I say, brushing her hair back from her cheek. "I want to remember everything."
Her fingers skim along my jaw, feather-light and grounding all at once. "Memorize me later. Right now, I need you."
I brace my weight over her, our noses touching, and the heat between us hums like static. I can see every shade of brown in her eyes, every fleck of gold. The closeness is intimate. Breath-stealing.
Then I see it.
The bear head has somehow twisted around during our … relocation activities. Instead of pointing toward the wall like it should be, it's now facing us, its glassy eyes fixed in a stare that can best be described as stern judgment.
"Um," I say, glancing over at our furry witness. "I think we have an audience."
Maddy follows my gaze and bursts into laughter, not the kind that wrecks the mood, but a joyful, unguarded sound that makes everything feel right in the world. "Oh my god, it looks like it's disapproving."
"Should I be concerned that a fake bear is judging my technique before I even have a chance to demonstrate it?"
She grins up at me, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, it is a discerning bear. I'm sure it has high standards."
"Great. Performance anxiety from synthetic wildlife. That's a new one."
"Don't worry," she says, pulling my head down to hers. "I'll give you an excellent review."
And then she's kissing me again, and the bear becomes irrelevant, forgotten in the face of her warmth and sweetnessand the way she makes me feel like I'm the man she's been waiting for.
Our lovemaking begins with exploration. A dance of mouths and hands and breath. Her skin is silk over fire beneath my fingertips, and every place I touch feels like a discovery. She's responsive in a way that makes me feel powerful and helpless all at once, arching into me with soft sighs and gasps that brand themselves into my memory.
We learn each other in real time, what makes her gasp, what makes me groan, what pulls pleasure from her body like a secret I'm meant to know.
"Tell me what you need," I whisper, lips brushing her ear, fingers gliding down her side, memorizing the slope of her waist, the vulnerable softness of her belly.
