Blake kissed me—slow at first, just a whisper of contact, then deeper. He hovered over me, his hands braced on either side of my head, his body caging mine against the pillows.

The book slipped from my fingers as his flingers slid beneath my hoodie, a single knuckle brushing against my ribs.

Blake smiled against my lips. “Go on, B.”

My heartbeat quickened, but I grabbed the book again.

“His mouth trailed lower, down the column of her throat, lingering there as if memorizing the shape of her.”

Blake’s lips left mine, moving downward, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to my neck, my pulse betraying me beneath his mouth. I clenched my fingers in the sheets, barely holding still.

“Keep reading,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over my jaw.

“His hands skimmed up, pushing fabric aside, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of her dress⁠—”

Blake’s hand ghosted over the waistband of my shorts.

I stiffened.

His fingers paused, hovering there. “You okay?”

“Are you going to do everything I read?” I asked, half-joking, half-daring him to say yes.

“Maybe.”

I exhaled slowly, pretending to be unaffected, and continued, “Her breath came faster, chest rising and falling as he⁠—”

Blake shifted, snatching the book straight out of my hands.

“Hey—” I started to protest, but he was already flipping it shut, tossing it somewhere behind him.

“Change of plans.”

I blinked up at him. “You don’t want to finish the chapter?”

“I don’t need a book to know what happens next, Beverly.”

I should have been nervous. I should have stopped to think—just for a second.

But I didn’t.

Because this was Blake.

Because Blake was safe.

Because I trusted him.

I trusted him with the parts of me that still flinched at certain touches, that still remembered hands that weren’t his.

I had spent so much time being afraid. Of boys. Of their hands. Of the feeling of being trapped.

But Blake wasn’t them. Blake had never been them. Blake had always been careful—so careful. He was all patience and steady hands, all quiet restraint and whispered reassurances.

This was what I wanted.

This was Blake hovering over me, careful and patient, his hands cradling my face like I was something fragile but not breakable.

This was his lips tracing the curve of my jaw, a quiet question in his touch—asking, always asking before he took anything.

And it was me deciding.

His hands skimmed over my sides, and I let him.

I let him touch, feel, memorize, until my heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it.

Blake’s gaze softened as he looked down at me. “B…” he said, his fingers trembling slightly where they pressed into my waist.

Like he was scared to ruin this. Like he was scared to ruin me.

I could feel the question in his caress before he even spoke.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”