Page 129 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
We entered his room, and this time I noticed the clean lines, the low, wide bed dressed in beige linens, a denim blue comforter, and navy accents that matched the color of the shiplap wall behind it. It was just like the rest of the house—minimal and intentional.
But on the nightstand was my lip balm. I must have dropped it without noticing.
He’d put it there. Never mentioned it. And hadn’t dropped it in a drawer or given it back.
Just kept a small place for it like it belonged on his nightstand.
I didn’t say anything. I kind of loved that a piece of me had been living in his bedroom without me there.
He kissed me just inside the doorway—unhurried, one hand sliding under the hem of my shirt—and I made a conscious effort to stop inspecting his room and just be here, present in my own body.
Marc was not, as it turned out, in any kind of rush.
He tugged my shirt over my head, unhooked my bra with the practiced efficiency of someone who had thought about this many times, and laid me on the bed. Then he stood at the foot of it and looked at me with the singularly focused attention of a man who considered what was happening a privilege.
It was a lot to be looked at like that.
He removed my shoes. Then my socks—which should not have been as intimate as it was, but somehow he made it so before he took off my pants. Then he shifted up to lay half beside me, half over me, and started at my throat. His kisses were light. Deliberate. A flick of his tongue here. A slow drag of his mouth there, down to my collarbone. A suck at one nipple, then the other—careful, attentive, interpreting every sound I made and adjusting accordingly, like he was memorizing the manual.
I was already an inferno, and he’d barely started.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” I moaned. I so badly wanted him to undress, lay his full weight onto me, and fuck me until I couldn’t remember my name.
“Doing what?”
“Going slow. It’s a wholethingwith you.”
“Mm.” He placed a kiss on the soft skin below my hip bone. His breath feathered across the lace of my underwear, and my brain stopped working. “And?”
“And you know exactly what you’re doing.” I managed to keep my voice mostly even. “You smug, methodical?—”
“I do,” he said, and continued.
Fuck me.The absolute nerve of him.
He slid my underwear off and then stood.
“No,” I whined. “Where are you going?”
He reached down for my bag sitting at the end of the bed, and I remembered. We’d planned for this. I’d packed for this. And now watching him unzip it with the same calm, deliberateenergy he applied to everything, anticipation coiled low in my stomach.
I sat up, reaching for him.
“Wait.” The word was quiet. The slow uptick of his mouth said “patience will be rewarded.”
I didn’twantto be patient. “Marc.”
“Wait,” he repeated, softer this time. That one word, in that frequency—low and certain— hit a chord within me. He settled me back against the pillows with one hand and gently but firmly said, “I’ve got you.”
Three words. So simple.
My whole nervous system just … exhaled.
And I felt safe, cherished.
He pulled out my purple vibrator—my contribution to the evening, packed when I had not thought tonight through. I was trying to play it cool at seeing it in his large, capable hands.
He turned it over, finding the buttons with a calm curiosity. The toy buzzed to life. His eyes flew to mine. Then he touched the other button, and the thrusting function engaged. It began its upward pumping motion, and his expression shifted into something I could only describe as intrigued.
