Page 102 of Trust

My consent feels like a distant, abstract concept. Underneath the fear, a tiny spark of curiosity stops me from backing out. The whiskey helps too, its warmth blurring the edges of my nerves, giving my voice the steadiness to ask, “Are you going to tie me up?” The question slips out smaller than I intended. I’m not sure which answer I want.

Cash reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb stroking across my knuckles. His eyes hold mine. “No,” he says gently. “Not tonight. We’ll work up to it. Trust me, okay?”

I nod and take a sip of the whiskey, barely reacting to the burn.

“So, we’re staying down here?” I ask, my words laced with uncertainty.

“Yes,” he says, smiling affectionately. “I think the couch suits us better. Fire’s going. That’s us.”

The answer sets me at ease. He’s right. The living room and the memory of yesterday fit. It’s ours.

He keeps my hand in his while the other is occupied with the whiskey. The rhythm of my pulse thrums against his fingertips.

When our glasses are empty, he stands. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Everything inside me is light, too light, like I might float or fall, or both.

He stops in front of the flames and turns to me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His kiss is slow and tender and quiets the storm within me. There’s no rush, no urgency. As if we had all the time in the world.

His hands trace the hem of my top, grasp it at the sides and lift it over my head. My hair falls down my back as the fabric hits the floor.

I follow his lead with his shirt, but it rides high and I can’t pull it over him. He helps, tugging it free, and it joins mine. I can’t get used to how unreal he looks. My hands press to his chest, sliding lower over the hard ridges of muscle, following the lines of the ornate patterns of his tattoos, taking in every inch.

“Pull my sweats down,” he coaxes when my eyes finally lift back to his.

My fingers tremble as I reach for the waistband. I ease them down, keeping my focus on his face, not brave enough to look anywhere else. The intensity of his stare sears into me, as if he can see right into my soul. He steps out of his pants, completely bare now. His erection brushes against my belly as he draws me back into his arms.

There’s restraint in how his mouth meets mine, a deliberate softness that speaks of patience and intention. Skin to skin, I melt into him, hands roaming his back. His palms trail down my sides before sliding my leggings away, leaving me exposed in front of him.

He steps back slightly, his eyes sweeping over me. Pure appreciation shines in his gaze. “You’re insanely gorgeous,” he murmurs. His hands glide over my arms, a ghost of a touch, leaving goosebumps in their trail.

I lower my head, my shy smile disappearing as I glance away.

His palms cup my face, thumbs moving along my jaw as if trying to memorize the shape. “Don’t worry, I’ll fit.”

Another kiss, more intense now. He takes my wrists and places them at his neck. “Hold on,” he says, and lifts me with effortless strength, arms hooking under my thighs as though I weigh nothing. He carries me to the couch and sits, settling me across his lap so I straddle him.

The fire flickers at our side, the world narrowing to the feel of him beneath me and the way he holds me.

His kisses grow more urgent, his hand cradling my nape, keeping me close with a steadily growing need. The other holds me firmly at the small of my back, keeping me pressed to him. Heat rolls off him, the intensity of his desire, and a pulsing need deep inside me answers.

His hand drifts lower, sliding between my thighs with mindful care. I tense at the shift, but his touch stays gentle. He’s tracing a new path, fingers slick with my arousal, spreading it with a tenderness gripping my lungs. A sound escapes my mouth, torn between uncertainty and wanting.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. “Let me in.”

I pull in a shaky gasp as he eases a finger into the most private part of me. The pressure is strange, new, but his patience is soothing. He moves so carefully it almost calms me, each stroke coaxing my body to soften around the sensation. The unfamiliarity begins to change, teetering toward pleasure.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “You’re perfect.”

The nerves haven’t gone away. I’m unsure of what’s ahead, but I don’t want him to stop.

He reaches under the blanket next to us, and a plastic cap pops open. “This will make it easier.”

Liquid drips between my cheeks from the bottle he’s holding. He smears it further down and slides a second finger in. The pain ebbs as I settle into the stretch. Then he rubs his fingers against each other. I can hardly contain myself and push back against his hand.

“Ready for more?” The question is a hush between us.

I nod vigorously.