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Heyyyy ! how are you doing? Feeling better? I hope the move went well. 🥺

I know your orders are closed, but I had to ask you before I forgot, lol

Please don't rush or feel obligated to write anything yet 🙏🏻 Get yourself together first, take your time, and feel better. ❤️‍🩹

I was wondering if you could write a story about what Lewis and the reader's first time together would be like. Something like they've just officially started dating and are starting to experiment and discover what they each like in sex, and Lewis unknowingly hurts her.😅 I honestly feel that Lewis is too (too😮‍💨) experienced a man🤭😂. And for that reason he gets a bit carried away.

If you don't feel comfortable going into sexual detail, that's fine, no problem. It's more how Lewis makes the reader feel, always thinking only of her well being and fulfilling what she likes.

Thank you in advance and I hope you make a full recovery very soon. 🫶🏻🫶🏻

𝐹𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝒯𝒾𝓂𝑒

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Thank you so much for all the kindness. I’m still sick somehow (it’s been rough), but the move went well. Don’t worry at all about sending this request in, I’ve been working on something else but I was more than happy to do this. This is my first ever smut hopefully it’s okay! Lots of love, xx

Summary: A tender, emotionally charged exploration of intimacy and trust unfolds between you and Lewis.

Warnings: sexual content, swearing

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The rain doesn’t just fall it cascades, a silver veil wrapping the city in a liquid hush. From this rooftop vantage, the storm feels alive, each drop a whispered secret against the sharp edges of vents and antennae.

You watch the slick pavement below glisten, neon signs blurring into long, trembling streaks of electric colour. Somewhere beneath this watery curtain, the city breathes: engines roar, muffled cheers rise, but up here, the sound is a distant pulse, a muted heartbeat beneath the storm’s symphony.

Inside the suite, a sanctuary from the storm, the glow is soft and golden. A single amber lamp casts a pool of warmth, spilling honeyed light across the deep grey sofa you sink into. The walls, glass and steel, reflect the lightning’s dance each flash setting the rain-dotted windows aglow like tiny stars caught in a prism.

The low hum of a vintage record player fills the room with cherry-red jazz the breathy wail of a muted trumpet, the sultry scrape of a stand-up bass like a lover’s heartbeat just beneath your skin.

The air smells like cedar smoke from the fireplace mingling with the subtle tannins of the Cabernet resting in your glass. It’s rich, dark, and alive - an anchor in your hand, cool with beads of condensation that you trace absentmindedly as you steal a glance at Lewis.

He’s across from you, relaxed but alert, a study in contrasts. His white tee clings damply to muscles you’ve come to know, and his posture - legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the back of the sofa exudes casual confidence.

But his eyes don’t rest. They study you in that quiet, intense way that makes your skin tingle, like he’s memorising the subtle curve of your smile, the way your fingers wrap around the glass, the slight dip of your collarbone when your cardigan slips just enough.

“This is nice,” you say softly, the words almost swallowed by the soft percussion of the cymbals in the jazz track.

He smirks, a slow, knowing tilt of his lips. “Nervous?”

You laugh a sound a little too sharp, breaking the spell. “A little.”

He swirls the wine with a lazy flick of his wrist, watching the liquid catch the light like a small galaxy. “Me too,” he admits, voice low. “Not usually. But this - you, it’s different.”

You blink, surprised by the bare honesty.

“Usually, I’m all control, all calm,” he says, voice dropping further, like a secret meant only for you. “But with you... I want to be honest. I want you to know the real me, not the guy behind the helmet or the headlines.”

The space between you seems to grow, but it’s a good space a breathing space.

You curl your legs under you, your cardigan slipping from one shoulder, exposing warm skin. The wine glass feels heavier, grounded, steady in your hand. “I’ve been thinking about this night. About us. What comes next.”

Lewis nods, inviting you to go on.

“I want it,” you say, voice stronger now. “But I’m scared too. I haven’t done this before. Not like this. Not with someone I care about.”

He reaches out, his hand brushing the cushion near yours an unspoken offer. You place your glass down, your fingers trembling just slightly before you slide your hand toward his. The space between your hands shrinks, knuckles brushing. His palm is warm, steady, reassuring.

“Let’s be honest,” he says, eyes searching yours. “No pressure. Just truth.”

You draw in a deep breath, letting the words fill you.

“I haven’t been with many people,” you confess, voice barely above the rain’s rhythm. “And when I was, it was always rushed, never real. I want slow, discovery. Connection. I want to feel every moment.”

His gaze softens, the tension easing from his frame.

“I’ve had partners,” he begins carefully, “but it never felt like this. I want to know you. Not just your body, but your mind, your fears, your desires. I want to give, not take.”

His fingers twitch lightly, as if craving the connection.

“I like to lead, but gently,” he continues. “Like steering a dance, not forcing a step. I want to hear your breath catch, see your skin flush, feel your heartbeat quicken. I want trust, the kind that makes you forget everything else except us.”

Your pulse quickens. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, cheeks warming. “I like kisses that take time slow and searching. I like being touched like every inch of me matters. And I like hearing what’s happening. Words keep me present.”

He smiles, a tender, knowing smile. “Noted.”

You study the faint scar near his eyebrow, the curve of his jaw dusted with stubble, the veins along his forearm. Your fingers itch to explore, to memorise.

“I don’t want to rush,” you say. “I want to explore. Feel everything, every whisper, every heartbeat.”

His hand moves to yours, fingertips barely grazing skin but setting your nerves alight.

“Me too.”

The silence between you thickens, full and alive.

He asks, voice barely more than a murmur, “Is there anything you don’t want?”

The respect in his question wraps around you like a shield.

You breathe out, steadying. “Nothing too rough. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll tell you.”

“Promise me you will,” he says, eyes locking with yours.

“I promise.”

“I’ll stop the moment you say,” his voice firm and gentle. “Tonight is about you - your comfort, your pleasure.”

His sincerity breaks something open inside you. You lean in, lips brushing his soft, tentative, tasting of wine and something new. His hand comes up, cradling the back of your head, thumb tracing your hairline.

The kiss deepens, slow and patient, every movement an invitation. You feel the heat of his body draw closer; your knees part, settling on either side of his hips. One arm encircles your waist, pulling you gently against him: the other anchors behind your back, fingers spreading like roots.

Your cardigan slips further, baring your collarbone to his lips. He trails a feather-light kiss there, breath warm against your skin. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs.

A thrill races through younot fear, but raw, aching anticipation.

“I want you,” you whisper.

He presses his forehead to yours, breaths mingling, unspoken promises passing between.

“Then let’s make this ours.”

Outside, the rain continues its endless dance. Inside, the world contracts to this moment of soft lamplights, jazz notes curling around you, two hearts learning to move as one.

Time stretches, slow and pliant, as you explore every new inch of trust, every whispered yes, every soft boundary met with care.

This was not the kind that crashes over you in a rush or sweeps you away in a wild storm. This was a slow unraveling, deliberate and controlled like he was reading your body’s every secret, peeling you open breath by breath, layer by layer.

You’re still perched on his lap, his weight steady beneath you, your fingers tangling into the tight braids at the back of his neck. His hands rest on your lower back, spreading wide, grounding you, even as your pulse quickens under the weight of his touch.

His lips move over yours with a softness that holds so much promise not frantic or desperate, but deep, filled with intention. The way he kisses you makes your breath hitch, your heart stutter, and every nerve ending scream. He’s here. Right now. And it’s enough.

Your thighs squeeze instinctively around his hips, a silent plea, a signal that you want more - want to feel him fully, close, pressing into every inch of you. He’s hard beneath you, the proof of his own restraint and need.

When he pulls back, the flush on his cheeks is unmistakable. His eyes are heavy-lidded, lips swollen and parted, as if savouring the taste of you still lingering on his tongue.

“Bedroom?” he asks, voice low and rough, a quiet question that doesn’t need answering because you’ve already nodded, your heart pounding so loudly it feels like it might betray you.

He lifts you carefully, wrapping his arms around your waist, and the warmth of his body against yours makes your breath catch again. The door shuts softly behind you, sealing out the rest of the world, leaving only the two of you, suspended in this charged silence.

Once inside, something shifts not in the mood, not in the respect he shows, but in the weight of the moment. He sets you gently on the edge of the bed and stands, looming just in front of you, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his pants, eyes dark with anticipation.

He leans in, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that seems to wrap itself around you like silk and fire all at once.

“Undress for me.”

It’s not an order, not a demand. It’s an invitation soft, intimate and threaded with something raw and magnetic you can’t quite put into words. His gaze holds you captive, burning with quiet reverence and desire.

Your fingers tremble just the slightest bit as you reach up, your pulse thrumming through your veins, a mix of anticipation and shyness tingling across your skin.

You pull the hem of your shirt slowly over your head, savouring the way his eyes follow every movement, tracing the lines of your body as the fabric slips away. You catch the way his breath hitches subtle but unmistakable and it makes you want to pull back and forth between boldness and vulnerability.

His hands hover near your hips but don’t touch. He’s letting you own this moment, this act of revealing yourself to him, piece by piece, in your own time. The power is yours. The control is yours.

You let your bra come next, your fingers deft and gentle as the delicate lace slips down your arms and falls away, exposing the soft swell of your breasts. You catch the almost inaudible intake of his breath, and your skin flushes, warmth blossoming low in your belly.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and thick with emotion, a reverence bordering on worship that sends a shiver sliding down your spine.

His lips find yours again this time rougher, hungrier, more insistent. His mouth presses against yours with a fierce need that ignites a wildfire in your chest. His hands slide up your waist, cupping your breasts with care, thumbs brushing over your sensitive skin, sending sparks of heat swirling low and wild.

Your knees weaken, breath hitching, every nerve screaming for more. More touch, more closeness, more of him.

“Lie back,” he says softly, voice a command wrapped in velvet.

You obey without hesitation, sinking into the cool, soft sheets beneath you, every inch of your body alive with anticipation. Your pulse races, heart pounding against your ribs like a wild drumbeat as his body leans over you, the heat radiating from his skin a contrast to the fresh chill of the sheets.

His lips trail a path of fire down your throat, soft and teasing, each kiss a spark that sets your skin ablaze. His fingers find the waistband of your shorts, gentle but purposeful, and he looks up at you, eyes dark and searching.

“May I?” he asks, breath warm against your cheek.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice barely audible, but no less certain.

Slowly, reverently, he pulls your shorts down, following the curve of your hips with his lips. Kissing every inch of skin exposed - the delicate lines of your hipbones, the tender inner curve of your thighs, the sensitive crease where your body already begins to burn with need.

He settles between your legs, his eyes locking with yours, intensity shining like a beacon in the dim light.

“If at any point it’s too much, you stop me. Okay?” he murmurs, voice soft but unwavering.

You nod, voice fragile and small but sure: “Okay.”

His mouth descends on you with a worshipful tenderness that steals your breath away. It’s slow, deliberate with each movement filled with purpose, reverence, and a hunger that’s more than physical.

His lip's part to reveal the warmth of his tongue, which traces delicate, teasing circles along your sensitive skin, mapping out every curve and hollow as if you were the most precious secret in the world.

The first gentle flicks of his tongue send jolts of pleasure rippling through your body, spiralling from your core to your limbs, setting nerves alight with electric fire.

You clutch the sheets beneath you, fingers digging into the fabric as your hips twitch involuntarily, trying to meet the rhythm of his mouth without thinking. Every nerve in your body hums, alive with sensation sharp, soft, urgent and sweet all at once.

His tongue moves with practiced grace, swirling and flicking in patterns that speak of both deep desire and profound reverence. It’s like he’s learning you, memorising your every reaction and teasing out pleasure with a gentle, almost sacred patience. He explores the sensitive ridge of your folds, the slick warmth that welcomes him, lingering on the places that make you shiver and moan softly.

You arch toward him, pressing yourself closer, breath coming in ragged gasps that fill the quiet room. Your heart pounds so loudly in your chest, so wildly, you’re certain he can hear it beating just for him.

The taste of you sweet, salty, utterly intoxicating fills his senses. His mouth deepens its exploration, lips parting to engulf more, tongue flicking faster now, but never losing that careful worshipful attention.

His fingers slip inside you then, slow and gentle, pressing against the soft warmth that welcomes him. A sharp gasp escapes your lips raw and needy, electric and urgent.

The combination of his skilled mouth and tender touch sends waves of pleasure rippling and building inside you, cresting higher and higher until your whole-body trembles with the force of it.

He holds you through it all, lips soft against your skin, eyes half-lidded and glazed with something fierce and tender at once - a mixture of admiration, hunger, and pure devotion. His hand moves in sync with his mouth, curling and stroking inside you, drawing out every moan and shudder.

Each time you think you can’t take any more, he slows down, grounding you with gentle kisses along your inner thighs, a whispered promise lingering in every touch.

Then he starts again slow, teasing, patient coaxing you back from the edge and up again, higher and higher, until you’re trembling in his arms, a shuddering wave crashing through every fibre of your being.

You’re lost in him, in the way he makes you feel seen, worshipped, utterly desired. You realise there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right here, under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his fierce, tender love.

“You taste so fucking good,” he breathes against your skin, voice thick with desire and awe.

You reach up, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer.

“Come here,” you whisper, voice rough with want.

He climbs onto the bed, his lips claiming yours hard and hungry, hands cradling your face, thumbs tracing lazy circles beneath your jaw in a slow, intoxicating rhythm.

“Still good?” he asks, searching your eyes for any sign, any hesitation.

“So good,” you breathe back, your voice thick with need. “I want you inside me.”

His forehead presses against yours, breath warm and steady as he murmurs, “Let’s take our time. We’ve got all night.”

You watch him undress with deliberate care, and its torture, the sweetest kind. Each motion is slow, unhurried, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. The shirt is the first to go, peeled off in one fluid motion that reveals golden-brown skin stretched over hard-earned muscle, a body carved by years of control and precision.

And you can’t look away.

Your mouth parts slightly without meaning to not in surprise, but in pure, helpless awe. Your lips go dry, eyes fixed, hungry.

There’s a heat low in your belly, coiling tighter with every new inch of skin he reveals. His shoulders roll back as he tosses the shirt aside and the motion sends a ripple through his chest, through the sculpted muscles of his arms.

That lion tattoo on his pec bold, regal, defiant stares back at you like it knows exactly what it's guarding. You’re drawn to it, to the way it rests over his heart, like a mark of pride and strength and something untamed. Your gaze lingers there too long, and he notices. He always notices.

But then your eyes drift lower, and that’s where your breath catches.

The compass tattoo inked in sharp, clean lines sits just low enough on the centre of his chest that your imagination races to fill in what’s hidden just beneath the waistband of his briefs. It draws your attention like a magnet, like a secret map that only you are meant to follow. The ink is stark against his skin, a piece of him etched so close to where you already burn for him.

You swallow hard. Your thighs press together without thinking.

“Jesus,” you whisper, barely audible.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He heard you. Of course he did.

He steps toward you slowly, and it’s like watching something inevitable come closer gravity itself bending to him. His hands move to his waistband, and you can’t tear your eyes away. You’re practically drooling now, breath shaky, pupils wide with anticipation.

But it isn’t just lust. It’s reverence.

Because the way he looks at you steady, dark, focused makes your chest ache. Like he sees everything. Like he wants everything. And he’s not in a rush. Not tonight.

He drops his briefs and your breath stutters. He stands before you, unapologetic, bare and beautiful and strong. His skin glows under the soft lamplight golden, warm, like sun-kissed bronze and the sight of him makes something deep inside you clench and flutter.

But still, it’s the way his eyes lock onto yours that undoes you. Steady. Focused. Like your hunger doesn’t scare him like it feeds him.

“I can feel you staring,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice like velvet over gravel. “You like what you see?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod. He smiles slow, cock and so achingly warm. He leans in close enough for your breath to hitch against his.

“Good,” he murmurs against your lips. “Because I’m yours.”

He settles between your thighs again, completely bare and slick with heat, every inch of him alive beneath your fingertips. The weight of his body presses down, solid and grounding, yet somehow featherlight in the electric tension that crackles between you.

His lips find yours once more and the taste of him, a little salty with sweat and sweet with longing, floods your senses. When he pulls back just enough to whisper into the quiet space between you, his voice is low, unwavering.

“I’ve got you.”

The promise lands inside you like a steady flame, warm and certain, anchoring you in this moment where everything else falls away.

His arms brace on either side of your head, framing your face like pillars of strength. You can feel the taut muscle beneath his skin, every sinew controlled and ready, yet patient as if his whole being is focused solely on you, on this perfect, fragile moment of union.

His gaze pins you, intense and fierce, but filled with something softer too something that reveres you, worships you, even as desire burns hot in his eyes.

Slowly, reverently, the head of him nudges your entrance, a tentative question without words. The heat of him presses gently against your slick skin, humming through your nerves, waking every inch of your body.

His breath fans across your cheek, warm and intoxicating as he asks quietly, “This, okay?”

Your voice trembles with need and certainty, barely a whisper but full of invitation.

“Yeah I want you.”

And with infinite care, inch by inch, he presses inside you deliberate, unhurried, the exquisite stretch, memorising the subtle flutter of resistance and welcome beneath him.

The fullness of him inside you is overwhelming, a thick, pulsing heat that steals your breath away and sends an electric current racing through your core.

“Fuuuuck…” he groans, jaw clenched tight, veins pulsing along his neck as he fights to keep himself grounded.

He stops midway, forehead resting gently against yours, eyes squeezed shut as a subtle tremor of restraint ripples through his arms. It’s a raw, aching tension, the kind that screams how badly he wants to lose control but won’t not yet.

He doesn’t want to rush. He wants to give.

The feeling of him filling you is intense and alive warm, pulsing, like you’re both suspended in a private universe where nothing else exists but the breath between you and the press of skin against skin. Your fingers dig lightly into the taut planes of his biceps, nails tracing delicate crescents, grounding yourself as he sinks deeper.

He holds you there, still and utterly connected, every slow breath between you charged with unsaid promises and fierce devotion.

His lip's part against yours again, breath shuddering softly in the space between you, trembling with everything left unspoken.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, voice shaky but sure. Your hand rises to cup his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his beard in a gentle, grounding caress. “You can move, Lew.”

He pulls back just enough, then begins to move slow, steady, deliberate each deep thrust dragging molten heat through every fibre of your being. Every stroke is a slow, relentless pull that coaxes waves of pleasure to ripple and curl inside you, making your back arch instinctively, skin crawling beneath his touch.

His mouth leaves yours to find your neck, lips brushing, sucking softly each kiss a spark that ignites the fire burning low in your belly. The taste of him, the warmth of his breath, the scent of sweat and something more intimate wrap around you, shrinking the world to the space where your bodies collide.

“You feel” he moans, voice ragged and raw, nearly breathless. “Fucking unreal.”

His words fall like worship against your ear, soft affirmations that make your heart swell with a tenderness you never expected.

“So beautiful.”

“You take me so good.”

“I’ve dreamed about this…”

Heat coils deep inside, spreading outward in slow-burning waves, making you shiver in his arms. You’re caught between vulnerability and desperate need, the tension between needing to be seen and utterly losing yourself in him.

You move with him legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him closer hips rising to meet every slow, sure stroke, every pull and push. Your bodies speak without words, in a silent language of rhythm, trust, and shared surrender.

The pace builds relentless but patient like a tide rising and falling with perfect, inevitable precision. You feel something deeper than mere pleasure, something forged in quiet moments and whispered promises, something raw and true beneath the skin.

His hands find your waist again, thumbs drawing lazy, teasing circles over slick, heated skin, grounding you even as every sense ignites. His lips trail from your neck down to your collarbone and shoulder, leaving a trail of fire and claim in their wake marking you as his in the most intimate way possible.

You catch his gaze again wild, vulnerable, utterly yours. In that fierce look, you see everything: desire, devotion and the quiet certainty that no matter what comes next, you face it together.

And in the shared heat of that moment, the outside world falls away, leaving only the slow, burning rhythm of your bodies moving as one breath mingling with breath, skin sliding against skin, heart beating wild and sure in the timeless dance you share.

It’s perfect.

Until it isn’t.

You feel the shift before it fully settles a subtle change in the angle, almost imperceptible, but enough to turn what had been a slow, delicious fullness into something sharp, twisting unexpectedly inside you. The pleasure flickers and then vanishes, replaced by a sudden, jarring discomfort that coils tightly around your nerves, making your breath catch in your throat.

Your body stiffens, muscles tensing as a rush of sudden pain flares.

His eyes snap open wide, startled, searching your face as if trying to read the shift in your expression. For a moment, panic flashes across his features, raw and unfiltered.

“Shit. Shit did I -? Are you okay?” His voice is urgent, breath ragged.

Before you can say anything, he pulls out quickly, leaving you feeling empty, aching in a way that wasn’t there before. The sudden absence of him only sharpens the ache.

“I’m okay,” you manage to say, voice shaky but steady. “It just hit the wrong spot. It didn’t feel good.”

He backs up slightly on his knees, hands hovering uncertainly over you as if afraid to touch, eyes wide and searching like he’s trying to make sure you’re really alright.

“Baby fuck, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise. I thought fuck - I thought you were still okay.” His voice cracks under the weight of regret, thick with frustration at himself.

You reach up, placing your hand gently on his cheek, grounding both of you. “I was,” you say softly, voice tender but firm. “Until I wasn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just didn’t say anything soon enough.”

He lowers his gaze, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, thick with sorrow and self-reproach.

“No. I should’ve known. I should’ve felt it.”

You lean into his warmth, thumb brushing softly along his jawline, soothing the tension etched into his face.

“Hey. You stopped. The second I said something. That’s what matters.”

His whole body seems to sag with relief and remorse mingled together, the intensity in his eyes softening as he leans down slowly to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally the hollow between your collarbones each touch featherlight, as if trying to erase the sting of that moment.

“I never want to hurt you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with emotion. “I never want you to feel like you have to push through something for me. That’s not what this is. Not ever.”

You close your eyes briefly, tasting the sincerity in his words, the steady beat of his heart against your skin. “I know,” you whisper back. “I trust you. I still trust you.”

When you open your eyes again, his gaze meets yours dark, shimmering with unspoken promises and raw, aching tenderness.

You shift beneath the sheets, reaching out to trail your fingers along his collarbone, then whisper, “Maybe we try something else?”

His brow furrows for a brief moment, hesitant, searching. “Are you sure?”

You nod, thumb brushing his jaw once more in a slow, deliberate gesture of reassurance. “Let me ride you. I’ll control the depth.”

The change in him is subtle but profound. The tension that had gripped his body loosens, replaced by a softness that melts into reverence and complete surrender.

He reclines back against the pillows, arms opening wide like a silent invitation, eyes full of nothing but adoration and trust.

“Come here, baby,” he says gently. “We go at your pace.”

You straddle him slowly, your hands resting lightly on his chest as you guide him inside this time with a careful, deliberate tenderness. The moment he fills you again, the sensation is full and encompassing, a contrast to before.

There’s no rush, no jagged edges just a warm, satisfying stretch that settles deep inside you. His breath hitches, a low, guttural groan vibrating through his chest as you lower yourself fully onto him, inch by slow inch.

You feel every inch, every contour, every subtle movement of his body beneath you. It’s intimate, sacred almost, the way your flesh molds to his.

You’re stretched, sensitive, but this time it’s a good kind of full better than good, like the ache of a perfect muscle burn after a long run. The kind of ache that speaks of effort and reward.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers spreading wide to grip you gently. There’s heat in his touch, but no pressure. No urgent need to take over. Instead, he holds you close, his palms firm but patient, steadying you without a word.

“Take what you need,” he whispers, voice low and rough, thick with desire and trust.

You start to move, rocking your hips in small, slow circles a shallow grind that builds heat without pushing, coaxing pleasure in soft waves instead of crashing tides.

The friction between your skin, the slick warmth of your bodies pressed together, sends sparks of fire trailing along your nerves. The scent of his skin, faintly musky and intimate, fills your senses, grounding you in the moment.

You catch the tension etched in his face the tight line of his jaw, the twitch of his fingers that want to claim control but don’t. He resists, letting you lead, and in that surrender, his desire burns even fiercer.

“That’s it that’s my girl,” he breathes, voice raw and reverent. “Just like that. You’re perfect.”

You lean down, pressing your lips to his in a slow, lingering kiss. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palms. The rhythm of your bodies aligns entirely your own. Every movement, every breath, every shared sigh becomes a silent language spoken only by the two of you.

His hands slide to your ass, cupping and squeezing gently, guiding you with a tender insistence. They never force, never rush; instead, they invite you to explore the space between pleasure and patience.

Your second orgasm builds gradually, a deep, pulsing heat blossoming from your core like a slow-burning flame. It gathers strength, radiating outward until your thighs tremble with the tension, your breath catching and spilling into a moan pressed against his mouth.

He holds you through it all steady, unwavering. His lips trace a soft path along your jaw, then your neck, as you come down from the wave, shivering in his arms. When your body stills, he brushes your damp hair back, eyes shining with something fierce and tender all at once. Then, with deliberate care, he flips you beneath him, hands never hurried, every touch sacred.

“I need to come,” he says, voice rough and aching with need. “I need you.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. You nod, breathless but sure.

“I’m ready,” you whisper.

This time is different.

His thrusts are deep but gentle measured with a tenderness that makes every motion feel like a vow. His forehead rests against yours, eyes locked onto your face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every subtle smile, every breathless gasp. There’s an unspoken conversation in those dark, searching eyes a promise that he’s here for you, completely and utterly.

You feel the smooth slide of his skin against yours, the slick warmth of your combined heat, the subtle tension in his muscles as he moves with a slow, aching rhythm. The taste of salt and desire lingers on his lips when you kiss, a reminder of how close you are how much you belong to each other in this moment.

When he finally groans your name, raw and trembling, and comes deep inside you, his whole body shudders with the release. It’s not just physical; it feels sacred, as though you’ve woven your souls tighter with every movement, every shared breath.

He collapses beside you, arms wrapping around your trembling frame, holding you like the most precious thing in the world. And you rest your head against his chest, heart pounding in sync with his, knowing that this moment raw, tender, vulnerable is exactly where you belong.

It’s not just sex, it’s something more. Something true.

The afterglow wraps around you both like a warm, protective cocoon. His body presses against yours, steady and grounding, like an anchor in a swirling world. His arms come around you slowly, gently, pulling you close as if to make sure you’re really there, really safe. Your legs tangle naturally around his waist, the fit so familiar it feels like coming home.

He moves with deliberate care, his hands steady and tender as he cleans you both a soft touch here, a careful wipe there. It’s not hurried or clinical; it’s intimate, sacred even, a quiet ritual that speaks volumes without words. Every stroke of his fingers against your skin feels like a vow, a silent promise that he’ll always cherish and protect this space you share.

When he finally folds you into his arms, cradling you close to his chest, you feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. It’s a rhythm that seeps into your bones, making every breath easier, every worry quieter.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs softly into your hair, his voice thick with sincerity and something deeper a kind of fierce devotion. “I’ll learn you. Every inch. Every sound. Every want. Everything that hurts. I’ll never stop listening.”

His words curl around you like a warm breeze, soothing and exhilarating all at once. You tilt your head up, eyes shining with unshed tears and fierce trust. “I know.”

Outside, the storm has faded. The rain’s last heavy drops tap softly against the windowpane, a gentle rhythm that blends with the quiet sighs and murmurs between you. But inside, the warmth doesn’t fade. It lingers soft and fierce, a quiet blaze that fills the room with light and promise.

You trace lazy circles on his chest, fingertips lingering where your skin brushes against his. He shivers slightly under your touch, as if your presence alone sets him alight.

“This,” he says, voice low and sure, “this is only the beginning.”

You press your forehead against his, breath mingling, hearts beating a steady duet. In this silence, in this perfect closeness, you both know it’s true — something rare and precious is unfolding between you. Something that goes far beyond the physical, beyond the fleeting.

It’s trust. It’s hope. It’s a promise whispered in the stillness; a vow carried on the softest breath.

And as the first hints of dawn begin to lighten the edges of the night sky, you hold onto that promise tightly, knowing it will guide you both through whatever comes next.

morning light broke slowly across the room, brushing in like a whisper rather than a shout. It didn’t rush or demand attention. Instead, it seeped gently through the sheer curtains, folding itself around the edges of the furniture, pooling softly on the polished floorboards, and tracing delicate honey-gold patterns that danced with the quiet rhythm of the waking world.

The bed was a tangle of linen and warmth, the sheets twisted and half-forgotten kicked down to the foot, clinging lazily to a leg here, slipping off a hip there.

They smelled of heat and something intimately yours, the scent of skin meeting skin in that sacred place where barriers dissolve. Sweat mixed with the faint trace of his cologne, musky and comforting, weaving with the residual traces of passion and whispered promises that had filled the night.

There was something else beyond the physical. Something less tangible but no less profound.

Closeness.

You were the first to stir. Not because of a sound, not because the sun’s touch was harsh or urgent. You stirred because of the warmth pressed against your back a steady heat that felt like a tether to the world, a heartbeat just beneath your skin. His warmth.

Lewis was curled behind you, one long arm wrapping protectively around your waist, the palm resting just beneath your ribs. His body was steady, grounding, the slow rise and fall of his chest pressed intimately to yours like the ocean’s tide keeping time with the moon.

His breath ghosted over your neck in slow, even pulses warm and faintly damp with sleep and every so often, almost unconsciously, his thumb twitched, rubbing soft, half-forgotten circles along your side. It was a small gesture, but it said everything: you were his. You were here. You were safe.

You didn’t move right away. You let yourself feel the lingering ache deep in your muscle -thighs, lower back, and hips that whispered reminders of the night before. It wasn’t pain. Not really. More a soft echo, a carved memory, a testament to what had been given and taken, shared and held.

Eventually, you turned toward him, moving slowly so as not to disturb the fragile bubble between you. You shifted onto your other side, your eyes locking with his before your bodies fully settled. His eyes fluttered open almost instantly, heavy-lidded, those dark pools still swimming in the haze of sleep.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice low and roughened by hours spent speaking in sighs and gasps. That scratchy rasp should have sounded raw, maybe even gruff but on him, it was something intimate, something that slid under your skin and made your heart catch. Like the remnants of every moan, every whispered name, still echoed in the gravel of his throat.

You smiled softly, the corners of your lips lifting without hesitation because just looking at him felt like a balm. “Hey.”

Lewis blinked slowly, as if seeing you again was both expected and impossible all at once. His gaze searched your face - your eyes, still heavy with sleep but bright with something tender, the flushed bloom on your cheeks, the soft curve of your lips and for a flicker of a moment, something unspoken crossed his features. Worry. The silent check-in of a man who carries more than just himself.

You reached out without thinking, brushing your thumb over the edge of his beard, feeling the rough stubble beneath your skin. “I’m okay, Lewis,” you whispered.

His shoulders visibly eased, the invisible knot of tension loosening in his chest like it had just been unwound. He leaned forward, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to your lips.

It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t urgent it was deliberate, a silent thank you spoken through soft pressure and the warm slide of his mouth. When he pulled back, his thumb traced the line of your jaw with infinite care.

“You’re sore?” His voice was low, a careful question.

You hesitated a moment before nodding, cheeks warming with a shy, small laugh. “A little. But not in a bad way.”

Lewis’s brows furrowed, concern knitting into his expression instantly. His hand slid down from your jaw to rest on your hip, fingers spreading like he wanted to feel for any hidden hurt himself. “I can run you a bath. Warm water, Epsom salts. I’ll even sit right here, on the floor, while you soak.”

You laughed quietly, curling your hand around the thin gold chain that hung from his neck, tugging gently until he stilled and looked down at you. “I don’t want to move yet. I just want to lie here. With you.”

That soft smile the one that cracked open something guarded and deep behind his eyes spread slowly across his face. “Yeah. Okay.”

He pulled you closer, wrapping you tighter into his chest and tucking you beneath his chin. His hand moved slowly across your back, tracing lazy, intimate circles on your shoulder blade. There was no rush. No noise but the faint hum of the city below and the air conditioning whispering softly through the suite’s vents.

Silence held you both for a long time, wrapping around your bodies like a protective cloak.

Then his voice came, low and hesitant, as if he was not sure if he dared speak the truth out loud.

“Thank you for telling me to stop.”

You lifted your head, searching his face.

He wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, jaw working silently, the quiet battle of something unsaid twisting behind his eyes.

“I would’ve hated myself,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “if I’d kept going and you got hurt.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” you said softly. “You listened. That mattered more than getting it perfect.”

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “I’ve had partners,” he said after a pause, “plenty. But this is different. I’ve never cared like this before. Not just about how it feels but how you feel. If I’m making you feel safe. If you’re enjoying it, not just putting up with it. I used to think I was good at this. Sex. Being attentive. But that was just rhythm. Technique. This -” He exhaled slowly, “- this is something else.”

You reached up, cupping his face gently, coaxing his eyes back to yours. “You got it right,” you whispered. “Even when it wasn’t perfect, you got it right. Because you heard me. Because you stopped.”

His lips parted, as if to say more but swallowing the words. You could see the weight of what you said settling inside him, softening the tightness in his chest.

“Tell me again what felt good,” he asked, voice husky, eyes flickering down to your lips.

You blushed, but you nodded.

“When you didn’t rush me. When you kissed me after. When I was on topI felt so in control, and you were just watching me like I was…” You trailed off, heart pounding.

“Like you were mine,” he breathed.

You swallowed hard.

“And when you called me your girl.”

His smile broke slowly, warmth spreading like sunrise across his face. “You are.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned in, your nose brushing his, legs slipping between his under the sheets. When you pulled back, your voice was quiet, vulnerable.

“We’re not done figuring it out, are we?”

“Not even close,” he said softly. “But we’ve got time. No pressure. No rush.”

Then more seriously: “Before we ever do anything again, we talk. What you like. What you’re curious about. What’s off limits. I don’t care how good it feels if it’s not good for you.”

Your heart thudded not from lust, but from something more profound. Love, or maybe something inching toward it.

“Can we keep asking each other stuff?” you whispered. “Even weird things?”

He nodded, eyes bright with quiet joy. “That’s how we get good at it. Us. That’s how we build this right.”

A pause.

“Do you want to know what I want next time?” His voice dropped lower, the teasing edge making your skin prickle with anticipation.

You lifted an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in your gaze. “Do I?”

He met your eyes, blunt and raw and utterly unfiltered. “I want you to ride my face.”

The words hit you like a sudden burst of heat, your breath catching in your throat. His honesty was disarming, vulnerable in its directness.

“Take your time,” he continued, voice thick with desire and something tender beneath it. “Grind down until you come. I want to see how you look when you’re the one in control again.” His eyes darkened with longing. “I want to be under you. Helpless.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity and openness the sheer weight of how much he wanted you.

“That’s a lot,” you whispered, heart pounding, voice barely audible.

He leaned in, kissing you slowly. His lips were warm, certain, asking permission in every inch of that kiss. It was an unspoken promise that this desire wasn’t just physical it was about trust, about connection, about being seen.

“That’s how much I want you,” he said softly, breath warm against your skin.

You wrapped your arms around him instinctively, burying your face in the nape of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath your fingertips. “Then maybe next time.”

His voice was steady, sure, a quiet vow you felt deep in your bones. “Next time.”

Later, you let him run the bath, but it was anything but rushed. He moved with deliberate care filling the tub with steaming water, the scent of lavender oil drifting through the air like a soft caress. He added Epsom salts, watching as they dissolved slowly, the surface rippling gently.

He rolled a plush, oversized towel and nestled it behind your neck, offering you a sanctuary of softness the moment you settled into the warm water. Then, with a gentle smile, he handed you a glass of water, a thin slice of lemon resting on the rim. “For hydration,” he said with a playful wink that made your cheeks warm.

But he didn’t leave you alone. Instead, he sat beside the tub on the cool tiled floor, one knee bent, his fingers trailing lightly along your shin.

His touch wasn’t hurried or lustful it was a steady presence, a quiet reassurance. Watching you relax, breathing in the warm, scented air, he seemed to find something healing in your peacefulness, as if your ease soothed some unseen ache inside him.

The water lapped softly against your skin, steam curling around you like a protective veil. Outside, the city hummed faintly, the distant sounds of life fading into the background as the two of you existed in this small bubble of calm.

When you finally slipped from the bath, chilled slightly as the warm water drained away, he was waiting with his oversized T-shirt, soft and worn, the fabric falling loosely around your body. He wrapped it gently around your shoulders, his hands steady and warm.

Then, taking the hotel towel, he dried your damp hair with an unhurried tenderness finger carefully combing through curls, mumbling something about heat damage and how beautiful you looked just like this.

You caught the softness in his eyes, the way he saw you in that moment bare-faced, hair tousled and damp, cheeks still flushed from sleep and the traces of last night’s closeness.

Without a word, he led you back to bed. The room was dim, the rain tapping a soothing rhythm against the windows. The city lights beyond the thick glass were muted, distant.

No distractions. No noise. Just the two of you.

He pulled you close beneath the covers, limbs tangling naturally, your skin warm against his. His fingers found yours beneath the sheets, their gentle squeeze grounding and familiar.

You breathed in the quiet, the comfort of the moment the steady cadence of his breath, the soft warmth of his body, the shared space between your hearts learning to beat in sync.

“Warmth,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Learning,” he answered softly.

“Love,” you breathed.

And in the hush of the room, wrapped in the quiet intimacy that only came from being truly known, you dared to believe in something more.

Forever.

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