Page 34 of His to Destroy

His fingers skim beneath the hem of my shirt, brushing the bare skin of my waist.

He pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet mine.

I nod quickly, before he takes his hands off me.

And the world disappears.

But not the way it did before years ago when another man’s hands were on my body.

Gaspare undresses me slowly.

Like each inch of skin he reveals is a gift he’s never believed he deserved. When his fingers trail over the curve of my waist, I tremble.

Not from fear.

From want.

There’s something sacred in his touch. Not a man taking what he believes is his. A man cherishing what he’s been allowed to hold.

He kisses my collarbone, his breath warm and shallow. Then lower, to the swell of my breast. He pauses there, pressing his forehead against my chest, just for a second.

“Tell me if anything feels wrong,” he whispers.

It doesn’t.

It feels right in a way I never thought this could again.

When I was assaulted, it was pain. Shame. Powerlessness.

But this?

This is mine.

This is me choosing to feel.

I can ask to stop and he will immediately. I remember the night we kissed and I asked.

But why don’t I want this to stop right now?

He trails his mouth lower, his tongue tasting as his lips explore. I arch into him, gasping when he sucks softly, teeth grazing without ever hurting. I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging gently, guiding him.

He groans—low and rough—and it goes straight through me.

When he lifts his head and looks at me, I see it all. The tension. The hunger. The restraint.

“I want to be gentle,” he says hoarsely.

I nod again. “You are.”

He slides his hand between my thighs, parting me with careful, deliberate movements. His fingers find me already wet and throbbing, and the sound he makes is primal.

I let out a shaky breath as he circles slowly—light, teasing touches that make my body pulse. My hips buck, chasing him.

He doesn’t rush.

He draws it out.

He watches every reaction like it’s his life’s work to memorize them.

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