Her breath shudders. “Take them off.”
I drop to my knees.
Her eyes widen.
Good.
Let her see me there.
Let her understand exactly where I’m willing to put my pride.
I unbutton her jeans, watching her face, not my hands. Her lips part. Her breath turns shallow. I pull the denim down slowly, over her hips, her thighs, her knees, taking the last pieces of armor with it. Her panties are plain cotton, pale blue, soft, nothing like the infamous road-kill drawers that started this whole mess.
Still, my mouth curves.
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t say it.”
“I said nothing.”
“You thought something.”
“I often do.”
“Derby.”
I kiss the inside of her knee. “These did not attack me, so I’m being respectful.”
She laughs, then gasps when my mouth moves higher.
That is the last funny moment for a while.
I take my time because she deserves time. Because I’m trying to burn the difference into both of us. Sex ain’t a duty here. Not a debt. Not a performance. Not a thing she gives so a man stays calm. This is hers as much as mine. More, maybe.
I kiss her thighs.
Her stomach.
The place above the waistband where her breath keeps catching.
She trembles.
“Still yes?” I ask.
She looks down at me, face flushed, eyes dark.
“Yes.”
So I give her my mouth through the thin cotton first, and she nearly folds in half.
The sound she makes ain’t quiet enough for her, but plenty quiet for the house. I grip her hips when they jerk, keeping her steady, not still. Never still unless she asks. Her fingers scratch my neck hard enough to hurt, and I love it. Every part of me loves it.
“Derby,” she gasps.
I look up.
She is undone already. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with pretty. This is alive. This is power she forgot she had coming back through her skin.
I hook my fingers in the waistband and pause.