“I’m sure,” she whispered. “I’m done running from things that matter.”
God.
I pressed my brow to her shoulder, breathing her in, and let the relief ground me. I wanted her in ways that were ten years old and also brand-new. But I wouldn’t rush her.
“Okay,” I murmured. “We go slow. Your pace.”
The space between us went electric, like the air before a storm—thick with anticipation, with something shifting. Jess pulled back enough to meet my gaze, her eyes gone soft in the dim light, the kind of soft that made my pulse kick up. “What if my pace is this?” she murmured, her voice low and steady, but I caught the faintest tremor beneath it.
Then she reached for the hem of her sweater.
My breath left me in a rush, like I’d been gut-punched. The sweater rose, inch by inch, revealing skin I’d imagined a thousand times but never seen—not like this, not in the quiet intimacy of my house, not with her standing there, vulnerable and unafraid. The pale glow from the window spilled over her, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone, the freckles dusted across her shoulders like constellations I’d never known about. It caught on the faint shadow between her breasts, the gentle slope of her waist, the way her ribs expanded with each breath. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t trying to be anything but herself—honest, unguarded. Perhaps the realest thing I'd ever seen.
The sweater dropped to the floor in a whisper of fabric.
“Jess.” Her name left me rough, almost reverent, like a prayer I’d been waiting a decade to say. My hands twitched at my sides, aching to touch her, but I held back, letting her set the rhythm.
She stepped closer, close enough that I felt the heat radiating off her skin. Her fingers found the hem of my shirt next, sliding underneath with a confidence that made my stomach tighten. She didn’t rush. She explored—trailing her fingertips over the ridges of my abs, up the ladder of my ribs, mapping me like shewas memorizing the terrain. Goosebumps chased her touch, and my body reacted in ways that were both familiar and entirely new, like every nerve ending had been rewired just for her.
Easy, Ferguson. Her pace.
I only helped her with my shirt when she tugged, letting her guide me. The fabric pooled at our feet, and for a heartbeat, we stood there, skin to skin, the quiet between us thick with everything we’d never said. I cupped her face, my thumbs brushing the soft warmth of her cheeks. They were flushed, her lips parted, and I saw the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.
“Tell me if you want anything to stop,” I said, my voice rough.
Her answer came in the form of her hands sliding around my waist, pulling me flush against her. The press of her body was a live wire humming against my skin. “I’ll tell you,” she whispered, her breath warm against my chest. “But I don’t want you to stop.”
That was all it took.
I kissed her again, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of wanting into it—years of stolen glances, of almosts and what-ifs, of nights spent wondering what it would be like to have her like this. Jess kissed me back with a fierceness that belied the tenderness of her touch, her fingers curling into my skin like she was afraid I’d disappear. I tasted the desperation in her, the same desperation clawing at me, but we took our time. We savored.
I walked her backward toward the bedroom, one step at a time, punctuating each with a kiss—her lips, her jaw, the sensitive spot below her ear that made her breath hitch. Every few steps, I pulled back far enough to check her eyes, to make sure she was still with me. She was. God, she was. Her gaze was dark, her pupils blown, but clear—steady in a way that told me she was right here, choosing this, choosing me.
When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she sat, her hands never leaving me. She tugged me closer by the belt loops, her mouth trailing down my jaw, along the side of my neck, each kiss sending a jolt straight through me. I threaded my fingers into her hair, tilting her head back to capture her lips again. She made a soft, needy sound that shot straight to my gut.
We moved in slow, deliberate pieces. She lay back, pulling me with her, her hands sliding over my shoulders, grounding me. I followed, bracing myself above her, my body humming with the need to touch her everywhere at once. My hands mapped her slowly—the curve of her thigh, the dip of her waist, the soft inside of her arm. Each touch was a question: Are you okay? And every time, she answered—with the arch of her back, with the way her breath hitched, with the quiet yes she pressed against my throat.
Clothes came off in pauses, like we were unwrapping something precious. Hers first, each piece removed with a deliberateness and reverence that made my chest ache. The way her bra straps slid down her arms, the way her jeans pooled around her ankles—every reveal was like a held breath finally released. Then it was my turn. Her fingers worked the button of my jeans, her touch sure even as her breath trembled. The denim hit the floor, and then there was nothing left but skin and heat and the weight of a decade’s worth of almosts collapsing into this single, perfectnow.
I lowered myself over her, my body covering hers, and she reached up, cupping my jaw to pull me into a kiss. The world tilted beneath us. Deep and slow, it was the kind of kiss that rewrote history, that made every second before this a prelude. Her legs parted, cradling my hips, and when I settled between them after rolling on a condom, the sensation of her—warm, soft, there—nearly undid me.
“Jess,” I breathed against her lips, my forehead pressed to hers. “Tell me what you need.”
Her answer was a broken whisper. “You. God, Powell—just don’t stop.”
So I didn’t. I slipped slowly into her tight, wet heat, and swore I was coming home.
We moved together in a rhythm both inevitable and impossible, like we’d been practicing this dance for years without ever knowing the steps. I kept my pace slow, watching her face for every flicker of emotion—the way her brows furrowed when pleasure coiled tight, the way her lips parted on a shaky exhale, the way her nails dug into my shoulders when it became too much. I memorized it all.
When she wrapped her legs around my hips and lifted to meet me, the sound she made—a raw, unguarded cry—went straight to my core. It was the most honest thing I’d ever heard, the kind of sound that didn’t just ask for more but demanded it. I gave it to her. I gave her everything.
Her hand slid into my hair, gripping tight as pleasure crashed over her. She whispered my name like it was the only word she knew, the only thing keeping her anchored. I kissed her through every shiver, every breaking point, every crest of her release until she arched beneath me, her body tense and trembling, her breath catching in a way that made my entire chest ache with the need to follow her.
I did, moments later, burying my face in the curve of her neck as the world narrowed to this—her, me, the way she clung to me as if I was the only solid thing left. I held her through it, grounding us both as pleasure wrung me out, leaving me shaking and bright-eyed and utterly hers.
After, we stayed tangled together, her head resting on my shoulder, my hand tracing lazy, absent patterns up and down her spine. The streetlights outside painted soft gold stripesacross her bare skin, turning the room into something warm and quiet, a cocoon separate from the rest of the world. Her breathing slowed, evened out, and I pressed my lips to her temple, as her body melted deeper into mine, like she was finally—finally—letting herself rest.
She was still catching her breath when she said, almost wonderingly, “I can’t believe we’re… here.”
