He moves his head back, assessing me again, his eyes gentle—a far cry from their tempest in the dive bar bathroom.
The first brush is soft—lip to lip—like he’s testing something. Then pressure layers.
I sigh as my bottom lip is caught gently between both of his, his exhale filling my lungs. I taste barley and something metallic.
I should slow this down.
I don’t.
Because my only hesitation is the echo of Adrian in my ear.Heal. Heal. Heal.
Well Adrian can fuck right off.
He can’t cock-block me from Miami when I’m all the way in Ravelle, no matter how hard he tries.
So I don’t step back.
Instead, I lean in.
And then Soren’s hands are on my chest through my top, my nipples pebbling under his touch.
My hands find his hips, denim dragging under my nails as I fist shallow fabric.
He answers by parting my lips with his tongue—not invasive, just inquiry—then retreating so I follow him forward off the stool.
The fridge hum matches our breathing. He backs me two steps until my tailbone meets the counter edge, porcelain dishes clinking inside cupboards when we bump them.
His thigh slips between mine, pressure riding up until seam meets seam, and he waits for me to rock before meeting me with a slow grind that turns sparks into current.
He peels off my tank top, cool air skimming my skin and tightening everything north of my ribs. His gaze dips to my collarbone, sternum, black lace stretched thin where my ribs end. “God,” he says, hoarse, “you really are lovely.”
His words skate heat straight down my midline, my nipples peaking against the thin fabric before he even touches them. When he does, finally, it’s palm-first and then he groans, his face lighting up as his thumbs orbit the delicate silver barbells trapped between lace.
Metal transmits temperature quickly. The cold shock blooms into an ache that pools low in my core, and I lean into it.
“Jesus fuck,” he murmurs. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more perfect.”
His deep voice and his words, and his strong hands massaging my breasts, do something to me. My legs give—and he catches me. “Easy, stray,” he murmurs.
“What did you just call me?” I feel like I must have misheard him, the word sticking in my head.
“Stray,” he shrugs. “Why, you don’t like it?”
I roll it around, thinking about its meanings. Thinking about me, about him. About everything.
The word lands somewhere deep.
Like it fits.
I look up at him. “I love it.”
He watches every flicker across my face as if he’s memorizing coordinates—how I gasp when the bars roll under lace and then catch under callus. How my head drops when the pinch becomes a tug, then becomes a gentle torque that lifts me onto my toes. Like he’s learning me in real time.
My own moan surprises me—raw vowels bouncing off stainless steel appliances like we’re in a cathedral built for hunger.
His shirt is gone next, followed by the lace peeled down my arms which are still goose-bumped from temperature shock. His heartbeat hammers just left of center of his inked pecs, and I press my lips there to feel it knocking against cartilage.
He leans down and takes one of my nipples into his mouth. I yelp as he bites down, tugging the metal bar between his teeth—and then push into him.