Andy reached out and took her hands, his fingers curling gently around hers as he pulled her to her feet. Summer rose without resistance, but the moment she stood in front of him — close, suddenly very aware — her breath caught.

  He was tall. She'd noticed before, of course, but now, standing right there, she realized just how much. She barely reached his shoulder. A whole foot of difference, at least. She tipped her head back to look up at him, and he looked down with something between a smile and a question. Her heart beat faster. Not from fear — but from the strange, disorienting safety of it.

  Andy raised a hand and brushed a curl of damp hair behind her ear, then let his fingers rest just lightly along her jaw. "You're even smaller than you looked sitting down," he murmured, affectionate.

  Summer gave a shaky, self-conscious laugh. "I feel like a pocket edition," she whispered.

  Andy leaned in, lowering his head to speak near her ear. "Good. I like things I can keep close."

  His fingers slid gently down from her jaw to her shoulder, resting there as if to ground her — as if to ground himself. His voice came low, warm, not quite touching the silence between them. "I don't often get to choose for myself," he said. "Where I go. Who I spend time with. What I say, even." His thumb brushed her collarbone through the fabric of her shirt. "But this... you...

  "I quite like this."

  Summer's breath caught again, her heart skipping for an entirely new reason this time. It felt too big, too tender, too fragile to hold. She pushed up onto her toes, her hands curling lightly in the fabric of his shirt. She kissed him softly — slow this time, not desperate, just gentle and sure, like an answer.

  When she eased back, her eyes searched his. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice hushed, like she was afraid of both the answer and the asking.

  "I want your honesty," he said quietly. "You've been open with me. Genuine. I know you're scared, and I know this is sudden, but... I like the way you speak your truth. I want more of that." His gaze softened. "Whatever happens tonight — tomorrow — I'd like it if you keep doing that."

  Summer's eyes dropped. She swallowed hard, unable to hide the small, shy smile curling at the corner of her lips. That look of being seen — truly seen — danced in her expression, quiet and bright.

  Andy's smirk crept in like moonlight under a door. Without warning, he slipped his arms around her waist and lifted her clean off the floor. Summer gave a startled, breathy laugh, her hands gripping his shoulders automatically, half from instinct, half from wonder.

  "Hey — !" she squeaked.

  "You looked like you needed reminding," he murmured, voice wickedly warm. "That you're wanted."

  Summer melted — her tension gave way, her fingers unclenched, and she let out a soft, breathless sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. She folded against Andy, her arms curling loosely around his neck, her cheek brushing his temple. "I'm definitely reminded," she murmured.

  Andy grinned, spun her once in a graceful, laughing arc that made her hair fly and her clothing flutter, then dropped down onto the couch with her still cradled in his lap. He held her like she was something rare — like she'd just stumbled into a dream she hadn't known she needed, and maybe he had too.

  His voice near her ear, velvet-soft: "So now that you're here... what shall I do with you, Summer?" The question and the way he said her name slid down her spine like silk edged with heat, and Summer shivered before she could stop herself. Her breath caught — sharp and soft — and she turned her face slightly to hide the way her cheeks flushed pink.

  But Andy felt it. All of it. He shifted just enough to look at her, still holding her in his lap like something precious, and murmured, "You felt that." It wasn't a question. It didn't need to be.

  Summer nodded slowly, barely more than a movement of her lashes against her skin. "I don't know what you're doing to me," she whispered.

  Andy smiled, low and wicked and gentle all at once. "Just listening," he said. "Your body's saying so much."

  Summer looked down at her hands where they rested against his chest, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. She didn't look up when she asked, quietly, "What's it saying?"

  Andy let the silence linger for a moment, his thumb tracing lazy circles at the small of her back. "It's saying you want to be held," he murmured. "That you're trying not to run — but you want to stay."

  Her breath caught again.

  "It's saying you're scared," he added softly, "but not of me. Scared of believing this is real."

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  "And," Andy said, his voice dipping lower, almost reverent, "it's saying you like the sound of my voice. Right here — " his fingers brushed lightly against her spine. "It goes all the way down."

  Summer couldn't look at him, not yet. But she whispered, "That's not fair."

  "Isn't it?" he asked, smiling gently. "Or is it exactly fair, for once?"

  He leaned in, breath warm against the shell of her ear, and said in a voice as smooth as cream, "Right now, I'd like to lay you back against that couch... press kisses just here — " he let his fingers ghost along the curve of her jaw, down her neck, pausing at the hollow of her throat " — until I feel your pulse quicken."

  Summer trembled, her hands tightening against his chest.

  "I'd like to take my time," he went on, his tone barely above a whisper now, meant only for her. "Uncover every inch of you like a secret I've waited my whole life to learn. Let you forget everything outside this room. Let you feel wanted — not for what anyone else sees. For you." His hands remained gentle, still, reverent. "If you'd let me."

  Her breath shook. She hadn't moved. But she didn't pull away. Her soft moan slipped past her lips like a secret she hadn't meant to tell, breathy and aching. Andy's arms tightened just slightly, and the sound that came from him in response wasn't delicate at all — a low, dark growl that vibrated from deep in his chest.

  He pulled her even closer, his breath rougher now against her cheek. "You don't even know," he murmured, voice like smoke curling into her bones, "what that sound does to me." One of his hands slid slowly down her side, savoring every inch, while the other cradled her cheek. He kept her gaze locked with his. He didn't move further, waiting.

  Summer's heart pounded so loudly she swore he could hear it. Her fingers trembled, but still she sat up in his lap, just enough to tug her shirt over her head. The fabric caught for a moment, and she flushed harder — but she didn't stop. She wanted this moment, even if it scared her. When the shirt dropped beside them, she looked up through her lashes, bracing herself for judgment. But Andy — Andy looked stunned in the best way. His breath caught, his hands gently steadied her by the waist, and then he smiled, slow and wicked and reverent all at once.

  "Bold," he murmured approvingly. "And utterly perfect." His fingertips traced over the curve of her waist, featherlight. "Are you sure?" he asked, softer now, eyes searching hers again. "You get to choose everything, Summer."

  Summer swallowed hard, gathering every flicker of courage still fluttering in her chest. "I want," she whispered, lifting her chin just a little. "But you get to choose too."

  For a moment, Andy was still. Then his smirk spread slow, sinfully beautiful and wicked, and heat bloomed through her like wildfire. "Oh, sweetheart," he said, voice curling around her like smoke, "I was hoping you'd say that."

  His fingers slid up her back, trailing heat with them, and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then her collarbone, then just beneath her throat — each touch a question, a promise, a claiming. His smile never faded, not even as his hands began to move again, reverent and deliberate, like she was a story he couldn't wait to read slowly.

  "Let me show you," he murmured against her skin, "what I choose."

  Summer barely had time to recover from the deep, slow kiss Andy pressed to her lips before he drew back, gaze dark and soft all at once. Then, in one fluid motion, he rose to his feet with her still in his arms.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  She blinked, startled, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. "Andy — what — ?"

  He only smiled, walking with unhurried grace down the hallway. "You deserve to be kissed slowly," he murmured, "touched carefully. Not rushed, not on a couch in the dim light like some passing indulgence."

  She flushed, burying her face in his shoulder as her heart beat like thunder in her chest. "I'm not a fantasy," she whispered.

  "No," he said gently, nudging her bedroom door open with his foot. "You're real. That's why this matters."

  Summer's fingers clenched instinctively in the soft black fabric of Andy's shirt the moment he set her down. Her eyes searched his, heart racing, and her grip tightened just slightly — as if asking, don't go anywhere.

  Andy smirked, that wicked, knowing curl of his lips making her breath catch. "Want this too, do you?" he teased, voice low and velvet-dark. Without breaking eye contact, he let the shirt slip off his shoulders in one fluid, practiced movement. It fell to the floor.

  Summer's fingers twitched against the warm skin of his waist as she stared — his body all elegant lines and long shadows, pale skin and stark tattoos. "Smug bastard," she mumbled, flustered.

  His grin only deepened. "You did ask." He leaned over her, one knee on the bed, his bare chest catching the low lamplight like something from a painting. Not hurried, not ravenous — intentional. Every move slow, deliberate, reverent. "A patron gets performance," he murmured, brushing his fingers over her cheek, then her collarbone, then the edge of her bra strap. "But you get choice. My choice."

  Summer swallowed, her skin prickling under his touch. "And you chose me?"

  Andy smiled, soft now, eyes dark and sure. "Yes."

  Then he kissed her again — deeply, patiently, letting her feel it wasn't duty or transaction or routine. It was devotion. Every wordless touch that followed said 'you are wanted', and 'I see you', and 'you are not just allowed — you are cherished'. He moved slowly, with the same care he'd shown from the first moment — fingers brushing over seams and hems, over the soft edges of fabric and the softer skin beneath. Not once did he rush her. When he eased her out of her clothes, he did it like it was a privilege. Like unveiling a secret.

  When she reached for him, hesitant and curious, he didn't guide her hands. He let her find her own pace. Let her learn him. She traced the tattoos on his ribs. The lines of lean muscle beneath his skin. The fine ridge of his hipbone. And when she flushed or faltered, he stilled, eyes warm and open, until she found the courage to keep going.

  "Everything you do is right," he whispered, as her hands shook and she exhaled softly, reverently.

  And when she lay back, he followed her down and kissed every breath from her lungs. Every slow touch of his lips on her body was thoughtful, tender, meant. He didn't just learn what she liked — he adored it. Took note of every twitch, every gasp, every shiver. She wasn't a patron to please. She was a mystery he wanted to uncover, page by page, moment by moment.

  * * *

  Andy's fingertips lazily traced patterns over Summer's bare shoulder, his voice low with a pleased rasp. "Bamboo silk sheets," he murmured, amusement curling at the edges. "Someone has a taste for luxury."

  Summer buried her face in the pillow with a muffled sound — part groan, part laugh, part flustered squeak.

  He chuckled, soft and slow. "Don't hide. It's beautiful. You're beautiful." He leaned in, brushing a kiss to her temple, letting his words hum there. "You look like something out of a painting. This colour... " He drew the sheet up just enough to catch a bit of it between his fingers, studying the muted celadon green. "It was made to make you look like this. Like gold and fire and silk yourself."

  She turned her head toward him then, lips parted, eyes wide with the barest hint of disbelief.

  He kissed her again, slower this time, as if proving it. "You deserve soft things," he whispered. "All of them."

  Summer shifted a little under the sheets, the silk cool against her overheated skin. Andy stayed curled at her side, his hand still drawing lazy patterns on her hip, as if reluctant to stop touching her for even a moment.

  "You keep saying I deserve soft things," she whispered against his throat, her voice low and teasing. "But you're not soft."

  He hummed a questioning sound, a lazy, amused noise. "No?"

  She smiled a little — a mischievous, barely-there thing — and, gathering her nerve, let her hand slip down between them, under the sheet. Her fingers closed around him, finding him unmistakably, undeniably hard.

  Andy caught his breath, a startled sound that turned quickly into a low, appreciative growl deep in his chest.

  Summer lifted her head slightly, meeting his gaze, cheeks pink but eyes sparkling with something bolder now. "Definitely not soft," she said, half laughing, half breathless.

  Andy's smile was slow and wicked, made of pure molten satisfaction. He caught her hand in his own but didn't pull it away — just guided her slowly, showing her exactly what she was doing to him without a single word. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a purr against her ear. "Soft is for sheets, sweetheart," he murmured. "Not for everything."

  Summer's fingers twitched against him, the sensation almost too much — almost not enough. Andy let out a soft, ragged breath, his hand wrapped lightly around hers, not controlling, only guiding. His head tipped back against the pillows, exposing the long line of his throat, his lashes fluttering shut. He murmured little encouragements, broken around his breathing: "Good... just like that... beautiful girl... " His voice vibrated down into her chest.

  Summer focused, feeling his body react to every tentative stroke, every tightening of her hand, every shy adjustment. He was so warm under her touch, so real. And despite the sheer power she could feel trembling through him, Andy let her have this — let her give him pleasure, as though she were precious. His hand slipped away after a moment, leaving her in control. He thrust up a little into her palm, helplessly, as she found a rhythm that made him groan, a real, raw sound that left him vulnerable and stunning.

  Summer watched, overwhelmed with wonder. Every twitch of muscle, every shiver he gave her was a gift she never thought she could earn. Her fingers tightened just slightly, and Andy's hips bucked up into her hand before he caught himself with a gasp.

  "Summer — " he managed, voice ragged, strained at the edges with pleasure. He caught her free hand and pressed it over his hammering heart. "You're undoing me," he whispered, smiling in a way that was all surrender and all hunger.

  And Summer, for once, believed she could.

  Once Andy could breathe again — his chest rising and falling more evenly, the flush high on his cheeks beginning to settle — he opened his eyes and looked at her. The affection in his gaze was almost unbearable.

  He brushed her hair back from her face with a gentle hand. His thumb lingered at her temple, as if memorizing her. His voice was still rough when he asked, "How long has it been for you, really?"

  Summer hesitated, a little shy under the weight of his gaze. Finally, she admitted, voice low, "Years."

  Andy swore under his breath, pulling her in tighter against him. "Men are idiots," he said fiercely, the warmth of his anger clearly not directed at her. "Fucking idiots." Summer gave a soft, startled laugh against his shoulder. Andy kissed the top of her head like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You're — " He broke off, searching for the right words, then just said, with complete sincerity, "They don't deserve you."

  His arms curved around her protectively, and Summer melted into him again, her heart full and aching at once.

  Andy was quiet for a moment, just holding her while his fingers stroked lightly up and down her spine. Then he tilted his head enough to look at her properly, blue eyes dark and serious. "Do you believe in fate, Summer?" he asked, his voice soft. Like it was a secret he was offering her.

  Summer blinked at him, caught off-guard. She hesitated, then said, "I don't know. Sometimes I want to. Sometimes it feels... safer to think there's a reason for things."

  Andy smiled faintly, something wistful in it. "I think I do," he murmured. His hand slid up to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing tenderly at her hairline. "Because otherwise — what are the chances I'd be walking through a garden in the rain, and find you?"

  Summer swallowed and clutched softly at his bare sides, overwhelmed again. Andy leaned in, resting his forehead lightly against hers. "Feels a lot more like fate than accident to me," he whispered.

  Summer squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears came anyway, slipping hot and traitorous from the corners of her eyes. She turned her face away, trying to hide it, but Andy only made a soft sound of protest and followed her, refusing to let her escape him. Gently, he kissed the tears from her cheeks, one by one, murmuring nothing words against her skin. "You think I'll regret this," he said. A truth he could feel in the way she trembled.

  Summer gave a small, broken nod. She couldn't say it out loud.

  Andy cupped her face in both hands, forcing her to look at him. "I won't," he said, low and fierce. "I won't, Summer."

  She whimpered, torn between wanting to believe and being too afraid to. "Nothing lovely lasts for me," she whispered hoarsely.

  "It does now," Andy said, and kissed her again, a kiss full of aching, desperate tenderness, as if he could anchor her doubts to the bed with the weight of his mouth alone. "It does now, my sweet girl. You're not losing me to the morning."

  Summer tried to duck her head again, tried to bury her face in the pillow, but Andy caught her stubbornly, easing her back so he could see her eyes. "You don't know me," she mumbled, the words thick with shame, doubt, fear.

  Andy smiled a little, a wry thing. His thumb stroked along her cheekbone. "You don't know me either," he said, voice husky with feeling. "But you still hurt for me. In the middle of your own pain, when you could have been thinking only of yourself... you still saw me."

  Summer blinked at him, startled, her breath shaky.

  "I know enough," Andy said, and kissed the corner of her mouth like a promise. "And I'm not about to let a person like you slip through my fingers."

  She let out a shuddering breath, her hands clutching at his arms as if she could anchor herself in him — or maybe, as if she was afraid she might fall apart otherwise.

  Andy held her tighter, drawing the blankets up around her and gathering her close against his chest. "Stay," he whispered against her hair, the single word aching with meaning. "Stay with me. Let me stay with you."

  They lay like that for a long time, tangled together beneath the soft weight of the blankets. Andy's fingers traced slow, idle patterns along Summer's spine, never hurried, never asking for more than she could give. His heartbeat was steady against her ear, a low comforting rhythm that grounded her.

  Summer curled closer, pressing her cheek against the warmth of his chest, her hands fisting loosely in the soft fabric at his side. She breathed him in — rain and wine and decadence, and something that was just him.

  Neither of them spoke. There was no need. The silence between them was a soft, living thing, rich with everything they didn't yet have words for. Andy tilted his head now and then to kiss the top of her hair, his breath catching each time as if he couldn't believe he was allowed. Summer shut her eyes, letting herself believe, just for this moment, that maybe... maybe this wasn't something that would disappear with the sunrise.

  That maybe, somehow, they had already begun to belong to each other.