Ever hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating warmly against the slope of her shoulder as his gaze flicks toward the little barricades she’d noticed. "Creative roadblocks," he echoes, lips quirking faintly. In truth they aren’t random detritus but interlocking bits of wood Isla herself had commissioned for him, shaped from the marketplace sample they’d chosen together. They slot like miniature logs into tidy dams, built to soothe the part of him that couldn’t quite stop itself from interfering with the natural flow of water. A coping mechanism dressed up like craftsmanship, tucked into the corners of their routines.
His palm flattens against her stomach, the heat of it spreading in slow arcs as she shifts beneath his touch. Fingers curve instinctively around her waist, the other hand helping the zipper’s descent until fabric sighs away from her hips. He leans closer, his breath grazing the shell of her ear. "Have I ever told you how much I love your proportions?" It’s the most Everest way of confessing desire—half clinical, half reverent, utterly sincere. His hand slides higher, mapping her side in a slow, methodical sweep. Over ribs, brushing briefly across the swell of her breast, before finding its way to the delicate line of her throat.
Arms twined around her, he turns her neatly to face him, holding her steady with the quiet certainty of someone who plans each movement but feels it as much as he thinks it. One brow arches, eyes intent and searching. "Oh? And what kind of stress relief would that be?" His voice carries the faintest curve of humour, though he’s careful not to assume. The question lingers like a thread between them, pulled taut and waiting, before he bends lower to claim her lips in a kiss that starts careful but simmers with heat all the same.
I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through
but i'm grateful to get through
