I didn't rush to take her jeans off. That wasn't the point.
The point was to make her feel it. Every second. Every inch. Every breath.
So, I rose up from my knees just enough to bring my mouth back to her breasts, claiming them with the kind of focus that made time feel irrelevant. My hands slid up her sides again—slow, steady, warm—palms mapping the curve of her ribcage before cupping the full weight of her chest once more.
God, the way they filled my hands.
Soft and heavy, like they were meant to be held. Touched. Worshipped.
I kissed the underside of one breast first—right where her skin was still damp and warm from the steam. My lips grazed it slowly, following the curve, letting her feel the heat of my breath before my tongue flicked across her nipple again—wet, teasing, deliberate.
She cried out, the sound raw, needy, like I'd just tapped into something deeper than arousal. Like her body didn't know what to do with itself anymore.
