The first brush of your lips against his was tentative. Testing. Then, something in him broke.

And damn, he felt it.

He kissed you back slowly at first, but that careful pace didn't last. His hands found your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as he backed you against the kitchen counter. The hard press of his body against yours made you gasp, his grip tightening at the sound.

He needed to remind himself to slow down. Because you deserved that. You were untouched by the kind of life that ruined him. He didn't want to be the one to break you.

But the way you moved against him made it almost impossible to think. He lifted you onto the counter's edge, rough palms sliding up your thighs and under your dress to grab your hips. His mouth traveled down your neck, teeth grazing skin as he marked you. Each bite drew desperate sounds from you that had him pressing harder between you.

You were responsive—too responsive. Your body arched when he sucked marks into your collarbone, breath catching as his hands pushed your dress up to your hips. He knew exactly where to touch, where to bite, his experienced hands mapping every inch of exposed skin while his own body thrummed with barely contained need.

He could read it in every reaction. Every arch of your back. Every uncertain roll of your hips against his. The way you whimpered when his fingers teased along the edge of your underwear. You'd never been touched like this before.

The knowledge stopped him.

His grip loosened, though he couldn't let go completely. He pressed his forehead against your thigh, fighting for control as your scent filled his senses.

When he looked up, his eyes were dark with raw hunger. His thumb traced your lower lip.

"Not yet," he said, the words rough like they'd been dragged from him.

His lips brushed your temple—not quite a kiss.

"Not until you know what you're asking for."

His hands stayed on your thighs, steadying.

"When you're sure—you tell me."