"Twenty minutes, huh?" I step closer, sliding myself between his legs until there's nothing but heat and electric tension between us.

My hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the ripple of taut muscles beneath my palms, still warm from playing. His calloused hands—rough from years of football and hard work—instinctively find their way to my hips. His eyes darken to amber in the dim light, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that makes my heart stumble.

"What are you doing?"

"What two people who want each other do." My voice carries more suggestion than I intended, my lips brushing dangerously close to his, close enough to share breath.

"You want me?"

I nod.

"How do you want me Nora?” His smirk deepens, his hands tightening slightly on my hips, fingers pressing into soft flesh through denim.

"In all the ways that matter, Nathaniel." I draw out his full name deliberately, savoring how his jaw twitches.

"Nathaniel?" He looks up at me from underneath dark eyelashes, those hazel eyes turning liquid amber in the fading light. There's a question in them, mingled with something darker, hungrier.

"People only call me that when I'm in trouble." Slowly, with aching deliberation, he leans forward. His warm breath fans across my stomach as he presses a kiss just above my navel. Then another, slightly higher. A third, just below my ribs. Each touch of his lips burns through the thin fabric of my shirt.

"Am I in trouble, Nora?" he murmurs against my skin, his voice low and rough around the edges, sending shivers racing down my spine.

"Maybe," I whisper.

My breath catches when his fingers graze the sensitive skin just above my jeans. In one fluid motion, he stands, closing the distance between us until we're sharing the same air. My hands find the waistband of his shorts, fingers hooking through the belt loops, pulling him closer still. The hard planes of his body press against mine, and I can feel his heart hammering in perfect rhythm with my own. A low groan rumbles from deep in his chest. He catches my hands in his, halting my exploration. My heart stutters, expecting rejection, preparing for him to pull away.

“I don't want to rush this—or you," he says, his voice low and steady as bedrock, laced with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. "I don't ever want you to feel like you have to. We've got time. I just want you to be sure. Of this. Of me. Of… us."

Us.

The word hangs in the air between us, heavy with promise, wrapping itself around my heart like ivy. My throat tightens under the weight of his sincerity. I lean in, resting my forehead lightly against his.

"I've been sure about you since I was eight years old," I whisper, my voice trembling with raw honesty.