Page 91 of Shades of Grey & Gold

I have apparently become the kind of woman who hears a man say he loves her and immediately forgets how knees work, because mine wobble.

And Cal notices—because of course he does—and both of his hands find my thighs. Then, I’m in the air. I twirl my fingers in his silky curls and hold on. His mouth is still pressing kisses into my clavicle as he carries me like I weigh nothing, like the entire world has narrowed down to the places our bodies touch and this moment.

The bedroom is behind him. I know it is as we walk through the hallway and I see the edge of the bed as he walks us inside, every step sure. The dark sheets are turned down, the city is glowing through the window beyond it.

But he stops.

His forehead drops to my shoulder, and his breathing is rough against my skin.

“Cal?”

He shakes his head once.

He lifts his face, and whatever I thought I saw there before—heat, want, possession—it’s still there. God, it’s still absolutely there. But something else is threaded through it. Something softer and deeper and terrifying in a way beautiful things can be terrifying when you might actually lose them.

“I’m taking my time with you this time.”

Oh.

“Is that so?”

My hands loosen in his hair and he carries me past the bed.

“If I don’t slow down, I’m going to lose my mind.”

“That sounds like ayouproblem.”

A laugh moves through his chest as he walks us into the expansive bathroom. “It is very much a me problem, Sims.”

The bathroom is all marble and low lights and glass. He sets me in the middle of the double vanity like I’m fragile and precious andhis. His hands bracket my hips. Not my waist. My hips. The full curve of me, the part of my body that takes up space and always has. And his eyes trace every line like he’s memorizing the shape of me in front of him.

Reverent.

That’s the word my brain finds as his thumbs move over the outside of my thighs, slow and worshipful.

“I love you,” he says again, quieter this time.

“I love you, too,” I whisper.

His eyes close for half a second, like he needs to survive hearing it.

“Don’t move.”

I listen to this order like it’s one of the many rules he’s begged me to follow since arriving.

He steps into the glass shower that is probably as big as my entire bathroom back home to turn on the water. It starts soft at first, then two waterfall showerheads on the ceiling let the water fall heavy.

He lifts his sweater over his head with one hand, throwing it aside.

The water steams against the glass and as he makes his way back over to me, the room begins to blur around the edges.

He comes back to me slowly, before his fingers find the zipper at the back of my dress and pause there.

“Tell me yes.”

I swallow. “Yes.”

His knuckles brush the back of my spine as the zipper lowers inch by achingly slow inch. The dress loosens around me, and I stop breathing.