He moved to the nightstand. Took a small bottle—warmed oil, infused with a touch of spice and memory. He poured a line of it across her shoulders, down her back. It ran like liquid gold over her skin.
His hands followed, massaging, pressing, drawing pleasure from muscle and tension and surrender.
"You give so much of yourself," he said, low and reverent. "But this? This is mine. Right now, all of you is mine."
She trembled.
"And I will worship what's mine."
He rolled her gently to her back. Untied one wrist—then the other. Kissed each one again like they mattered more than the stars.
But her hands?
They stayed still.
She didn't move. Didn't reach. Didn't beg.
She waited.
"Eyes on me."
She obeyed.
He pressed a kiss to her stomach. Lower.
His voice rasped against her skin:
"Now, Asha…I'm going to ruin you."
"Slowly. Carefully. Thoroughly."
And then—He did.
She lay beneath him.
Warm. Open. Unbound—but not free. Not yet.
His body hovered over hers, not pressing her down, but weighing her in. Grounding her with every slow breath, every look that said:
"You don't have to do anything."
"You just have to be."
He trailed his fingers down her sternum, his palm flat over her heart.
"Still racing."
"You feel out of control?"
She nodded. Silent.
"Good."
He leaned down, kissing her ribs—one by one—like they were the foundation of a cathedral.
"That's what I'm here for."
His hands slid beneath her thighs, lifting and spreading her legs wide. She gasped, but didn't fight it.
"You hold yourself so tight, Asha."
His voice was a murmur. A prayer.
"You carry too much. You move like you'll shatter if you stop. So don't stop for them."
His thumb brushed her cheek. His eyes—sharp, golden, present—bore into her soul.
"Stop for me."
She choked on the sob that rose in her throat.
His hand moved lower. No teasing this time. No games.
Just pressure. Rhythm. Deliberate, focused pleasure.
She arched, trembling.
"Stay still."
"Let me take you there."
He kissed her—deep, anchoring, reverent.
"You don't have to give me anything. You've already given everything. Now take."
She moaned into his mouth.
"That's it. That sound? That's you. That's not your training. That's not your past. That's not what they made you."
"That's you. Wanting. Needing. Feeling."
She shattered. Not violently. Not loudly.
Just fully.
Her whole body arched into his. Her hands fisted in the sheets. Her breath hitched, and for a second—just one—
She let go.
Let it all fall.
And he was there.
Holding. Kissing. Whispering.
"That's my girl."
"So good."
"I've got you."
She blinked up at him, tears lining her lashes—not from pain. From the ache of being seen.
"I didn't know," she whispered.
"Didn't know what, my love?"
"That I could want like this. That I could need this."
He kissed her forehead.
"Now you do."
And he smiled.
"Happy birthday to me."
She stayed right where she was—on him, against him—his arms wrapped around her like armor, one hand still gently stroking the back of her thigh where she'd trembled the hardest.
Her cheek was pressed to his chest. Her lashes were damp. Her breath still uneven in that quiet, post-climax shiver that said: You didn't just touch me. You unmade me.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm not cold."
"I know."
Still, he reached for the blanket. Pulled it over her. Cradled her deeper into his warmth.
She melted into him with a soft whimper she didn't mean to make.
He smiled.
"That sound," he whispered, lips brushing her temple. "You have no idea what it does to me."
She didn't speak. Not yet.
Not because she didn't want to—because she didn't have to.
He could feel it in her body. The way she clung to him without clinging. The way she breathed like she was trying to memorize him from the inside out.
She shifted slightly. Her nose nudging his neck. A soft kiss to his throat.
"You okay?" he asked, tipping her face toward him, thumb brushing beneath her eye.
She nodded.
"You're safe," he said.
Her voice cracked on the whisper:
"I know."
And then, after a beat, even softer:
"I didn't know I needed this. Not like that. Not… not from someone who actually cared."
He cupped her cheek, guiding her gaze to his.
"You didn't just give me your body tonight, Asha."
"You gave me your trust. Your surrender. The part of you you usually hide behind sarcasm and steel."
He kissed her.
Slow. Deep. Possessive.
"You can fall apart with me," he said between kisses. "I'll hold you together."
Her eyes brimmed again, but this time, they were soft tears. Tears that didn't sting. Tears that healed on the way out.
He gently rolled them onto their sides, spooning her back to his chest. His fingers traced slow, grounding circles across her stomach, over the soft swell of her hip, until she relaxed completely.
"That was…" she murmured. "More than I thought it would be."
"It was never about sex."
"It was everything but sex."
"Exactly."
He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, voice low and reverent.
"You were magnificent. You are mine. And I don't just want your body—I want every version of you. Every past. Every wound. Every breath."
"That's the real fantasy, you know," he added. "Not the control. Not the chaos. Just… you. Wanting me back."
She smiled.
Sleepy. Content. Loved.
"I do."
He kissed her shoulder again, slower this time, breathing her in like she was something he'd fought for and finally won.
They lay there, quiet.
Breathing the same air.
He held her tighter, their bodies tangled in warmth and breath and something unspoken.
"You did ruin me a little, you know," she murmured sleepily.
"Good," he whispered. "Then we're even."
A pause.
Then, with a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth:
"Next year, I want cake and you crying my name."