I want to be honest with him. Open up to him?—
But I’m so scared he won’t be able to see past the woman I pretended to be that night.
If,I remind myself, he’s the man from the club.
I use the moment to guide his hands to the hem of my shirt, subtly steering them around my back. It’s a dance of evasion, each of my movements calculated even though I’m desperate to appear casual.
As his fingers brush against my skin, I can’t help but think how ridiculously this mirrors a bad spy movie—dodging laser beams in a high-security vault.
Except here, the treasure is the secret branded into my skin, the very thing that might shatter this fragile, beautiful illusion we’ve woven.
His hands work their way around my torso as he gently lifts my shirt from my body. The cool air brushes against my skin, but the heat from his touch is all-consuming. Exposed in the soft glow of the moonlight cascading through the window, I feel both vulnerable and empowered.
But if he were to open his eyes … even for a moment …
I inhale sharply, torn between wanting more and fearing the inevitable. My heart is a drumbeat thundering in my chest, loud enough, I’m convinced, for him to hear.
Sneaking another glance in his direction, I smile at his closed eyes and his ghost of a grin. Then, I match his movements, my fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt as I revel in the way he feels beneath them.
As I undo the last button, my fingers lightly trace the contours of his well-defined chest, then to the lines of his abs.
Seriously, how many muscles does this man have?
The soft gasp that escapes his lips emboldens me to push the shirt off his shoulders. It falls to the floor, forgotten, as I stand up and brush my lips to his. His tongue sweeps against my lower lip, and a growl rides the simple request.
I open my mouth, allowing his tongue to dominate me, exploring and savoring the kiss.
As his hands pull me closer, mine roam across his chest, down his abs—every touch an exploration, adiscovery.
The clasp of my bra is suddenly undone and it slides from my body and lands on the floor between us. With each piece of clothing that drops, it feels like we’re shedding more than just fabric—we’re precariously close to baring our souls.
But my real quest lies hidden, and my hands cleverly work their way to his waistband, feigning a boldness I don’t entirely feel.
This is the moment of truth—literally.
I’m looking for the tribal tattoo, the silent testament of our shared past.
If we have one—I remind myself again.
As I slide my hands along his waist, I feel his muscles tense under my touch. I glance up at him, his eyes still obediently closed, his expression a mix of anticipation and vulnerability.
For a second, I’m torn—do I really want to know?
Can I handle the truth?
I push the thought aside, steeling myself.
I do. Ineedto know.
Slowly, I start to unbuckle his belt and undo the button on his jeans. My fingers tremble slightly as I work, each motion deliberate yet fraught with nervous energy.
I’m hyper-aware of every breath Adam takes, every slight movement of his body. It’s as if my entire world has narrowed down to this single, pivotal moment.
His belt slips free, and the sound of his zipper seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. As I slowly tug the fabric down, my heartbeat pounds in my ears, a frantic rhythm that mirrors my escalating nerves.
There’s a tension in the air, thick and palpable, as his jeans hit the floor and he steps out of them.
Adam, perhaps sensing the shift in my demeanor, or maybe holding his own breath in anticipation, remains still.