Part 7: First Touch, First Hunger

Blake’s apartment was wrapped in a kind of hush that didn’t feel like silence.

It felt like anticipation.

Warm, low lighting spilled across rich wooden floors, casting soft golden shadows that flickered and shifted with every movement we made. And there, on the couch, he sat beside me. Close. His thigh against mine.

That cologne—spiced bourbon and something darker—drifted between us. God, it wrapped around me like hands.

I was no longer thinking about the drink in my hand. Or the fact that we’d just left a rooftop dinner that felt like a dream.

I was thinking about how good he looked with his shirt undone at the top, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. I was thinking about how his eyes held mine. Focused. Dark. Wanting.

And then he touched me.

A single hand, rising slowly, deliberately, until his palm cradled my cheek. His thumb grazed just under my eye, slow and reverent. Like he was memorizing me.

My breath caught—but I didn’t pull back. I tilted my head, just enough to give him my answer.

And that was all he needed.

His mouth met mine.

Soft at first. Testing. Tasting. Then deeper. Fuller. Like he’d been starving. Like he’d waited too long to do this properly.

His lips moved with precision—slow but certain—commanding in that quiet, maddening way he did everything. And when his tongue brushed mine, I made a sound—small and unguarded—and felt the moment shift.

He pushed forward. I leaned back.

Until I was against the couch cushions, lips parted, chest rising fast beneath the fabric of my shirt.

Then he broke the kiss.

But only for a second.

He stood—his body all lines and heat and height—and looked down at me with something that made my heart punch against my ribs. Then he bent down, hands sliding under me, and lifted me clean off the couch.

I gasped. “Blake—”

“Shh.” His voice was soft, low, steady. “Let me.”

His grip was strong. Possessive. His forearms flexed beneath me as he carried me down the hallway like I weighed nothing. My arms clung around his neck, skin burning where it met his.

He nudged open the door with his foot.

And then he laid me down.

The bed was massive—sheets a dark slate gray that shimmered faintly under the bedside lamp. Soft. Silky. Cool against the back of my thighs.

He stood over me, shirt half open, belt hanging undone.

I could see the outline of him. The shape of his chest beneath the maroon fabric. The line of his stomach. And lower— The thick swell beneath his waistband.

My breath caught. My thighs pressed together.

He began to unbuckle, slow and sure. The sound of the leather sliding free was deliberate, intimate. It sent a pulse straight through me.

But before he could finish— I sat up and pressed a hand to his chest.

“I want to,” I whispered, eyes flicking up to his.

He paused. And then nodded. “Go ahead.”

God, the way he gave over control so easily ... it only made me want him more.

My fingers found the buttons of his shirt and undid them one by one, slow and trembling, revealing smooth, warm skin.