Mason Hayes was trying to be good.

Really. He was.

The kind of good that kept his hands slow and respectful, that let her curl into him without pulling her closer just because he could. The kind that whispered "ten more minutes" when what he really meant was forever, if you’ll let me.

And for the most part? He was doing okay.

Until she said that.
Until she whispered that.
Stay as long as you want, Mase.

His brain, already teetering on the edge of decent boyfriend and feral boy with a goddess in his bed, short-circuited for a half second. And the thing was—she hadn’t even said it like a line. It wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t calculated. It was just… honest. Soft. Bare.

And God, he loved her for it.

Which only made things worse.

Because now she was looking up at him with those tired, unguarded eyes, and her leg was tangled with his in a way that absolutely did not respect his sanity. And her fingers were brushing under the hem of his hoodie like she didn’t even realize what she was doing.

Or maybe she did.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes shutting briefly as he tried to focus on literally anything else—global warming. String theory. The vaguely threatening tone her mom used when asking if he’d “like another scone.”

But then she shifted closer. Pressed a kiss to his collarbone. Sighed into him.

And yeah, no. He was toast.

His hand, still tracing lazy circles along her back, dipped just a little lower—still innocent, still sweet, but definitely leaning into dangerous territory. His other hand slid to her waist, palm warm and slow, fingers splaying wider like he was trying to memorize the shape of her again.

“Rowan,” he murmured, half a prayer, half a warning. “You’re making it very difficult for me to be the good guy right now.”

She didn’t respond, at least not with words.

But her body leaned in. Her hand slipped under his hoodie. Her thigh hitched just enough to make him lose his last thread of composure.

“Okay,” he whispered, his grin pressed into the space behind her ear, “new plan. You lay there and keep being perfect, and I’ll try not to ruin the wholesome morning vibes by accidentally making out with you for the next hour.”

His thumb brushed just beneath the band of her sleep shorts.

Just once. Light. Testing.

Then he cleared his throat like a man on the brink.

“I need a cold shower.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t make any real effort to get up.

He just sighed, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “In a minute.”

Because truthfully? There was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than tangled in her arms, desperately clinging to his last thread of restraint, and falling harder with every breath.

Rowan felt it the second he shifted—just the slightest change in the air between them. Not urgency. Not tension. Just heat. Slow-building, unmistakable, him.

And God, the way he was trying to hold it back. The way his breath stuttered and his hands hesitated like her skin was something breakable and sacred, like she wasn’t already half-draped over him and melting from the inside out just because he existed.

He was trying to be good.

She could feel it in every inch of him.

And it was adorable.
And infuriating.
And deeply unfair.

His voice was hushed and reverent, saying her name like it was a sin and a sacrament in the same breath. The one who kept touching her like his hands didn’t know how to stop learning her. Like he didn’t spend last night wrecking every coherent thought in her brain with that exact same mouth currently whispering about “being good.”

She blinked up at him, dazed and amused and utterly undone, and tilted her head just enough to catch his eye.

“Why,” she murmured, voice low and wrecked in that slow, golden-morning kind of way, “are you suddenly trying to behave?”

Her hand slid a little higher beneath his hoodie, fingertips pressing lightly against the small of his back.

“Because if I remember correctly…” She leaned in, lips brushing the corner of his jaw, “you were very naughty last night.”

Her teeth grazed lightly against his skin, more tease than bite, and she felt the shiver roll through him. Felt the way his fingers tightened slightly against her waist.

“And now you want to pretend we’re wholesome?” she whispered, smiling against his neck. “Now?”

She let out a quiet, breathy laugh and shifted closer, her leg wrapping around his again, dragging them just a little deeper into the tangle of blankets and each other.

“You’re already failing, Hayes,” she added softly. “Might as well stop pretending.”

Her hands flattened against his back, pulling him in with deliberate ease. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just welcoming.

Because she didn’t need the heat.
Not yet.
Maybe not for a while.

But she did want the closeness.
The weight of him.
The way her name tasted in his mouth when he lost a little bit of control.

She pressed a kiss just beneath his ear, slow and reverent and unhurried.

And then, barely above a breath:

“Stay in bed with me. Be good later.”

She didn’t say please.
She didn’t have to.

She knew he was already hers.

Mason swore, if the universe had a switchboard, his name just lit up under “Emergency: Failing to Be Good.”

Because Rowan Starling, tangled in his arms, sleepy and golden and impossible, was not playing fair.

She wasn’t even trying to.
And God help him, he didn’t want her to.

“Okay,” he said, voice low and strained, his forehead pressing against hers like he needed the contact to stay tethered. “I was trying to be sweet. Gentle. Adorably well-behaved. You know, boyfriend of the year.”

Her hand on his back did not help. Her mouth on his jaw definitely did not help.

“But you’re over here doing this,” he muttered, fingers skimming down to her hip like they had a mind of their own. “And saying things like ‘be good later’ with your leg wrapped around mine like you’re trying to ruin me before breakfast.”

His breath hitched as she shifted, her skin brushing his beneath the covers like she knew exactly what she was doing.

He didn’t move for a second—just looked at her. Really looked.

And what he saw?

Soft lips. Drowsy eyes. That slow, sly smile that curled when she knew he was unraveling under her hands.

“Do you have any idea,” he whispered, letting his hand slip beneath the hem of her sleep shorts, just resting there—warm, careful, not pushing—“what you do to me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He wasn’t sure he could handle one.

So instead, he kissed her.

Not the playful kind. Not teasing. Not even the slow, reverent sort he’d memorized the night before.

This was the kind of kiss that said I’m all in. That said I’m yours, and you know it, and I don’t care if the world burns as long as I’m here.

And then, when he finally pulled back—barely—he grinned against her mouth.

“You know,” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers, “if you keep making it impossible to behave, I’m going to do the very responsible thing and blame you.”

His thumb stroked slow circles along the bare skin of her hip, and he laughed softly, low and affectionate.

“But yeah,” he whispered, tucking her even closer, “we can be good… later.”

Because this? Her skin against his. Her laugh tucked under his breath. Her body curled into his like he belonged there?

This was already everything. And Mason wasn’t going anywhere.

Rowan felt him unravel under her hands and didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull back.
Didn’t apologize.

She leaned in.

Because he looked at her like she was wrecking him—in the best way—and she wasn’t sure she’d ever been looked at like that before. Not like something to chase. Not like something to tame. But like something real.

And maybe she was being unfair.
Maybe she was pressing all the right buttons with bare legs and sleep-mussed hair and a grin that knew exactly how far it could go.

But he started this.
With the ten minutes.
With the staying.
With the way his hands mapped her like she was something holy and his.

So when his forehead pressed against hers and he whispered about trying to be good, her smile only widened—slow and satisfied, but softened by the love pulsing behind every breath.

“I like you sweet,” she whispered back, brushing her nose along his. “But I love you like this.”

Her fingers splayed wider against his back, anchoring herself in the curve of him. “Wrecked. Dramatic. One bad decision away from blaming me for something you clearly want to do.”

His breath hitched again, and she felt it—low in her stomach, high in her chest—the full-body awareness of what they were doing. Of what they could do. Of how safe it still felt to want him this much.

And then he kissed her.
Really kissed her.

And everything in her went quiet.

Not blank, not uncertain—just still. Like her body had been waiting for that exact moment and finally got the answer it needed.

When he pulled back, just enough to grin against her mouth and joke about responsibility, she laughed—low and wrecked and his.

“Fine,” she whispered, breath catching as his thumb swept over the edge of her hip again. “Blame me. I’ll take the fall.”

She kissed the underside of his jaw, slow and indulgent. “But I’m not the one who said ten more minutes and then melted the second I put my leg over yours.”

She felt him twitch under her fingers and smiled.

“And I’m definitely not the one who whispered forever with my hands all over your back last night,” she added, her voice quieter now, but no less certain.

She looked at him then—really looked—and everything in her settled.

Because this wasn’t about heat.
Not really.

It was about the way he touched her like he never wanted to stop.
The way he let her take up space.
The way he held reverence and want in the same breath and made her feel like neither of them had to choose between soft and more.

She tucked herself in again, their legs still tangled, her body flushed and full and content.

“We can be good later,” she whispered, her voice curling around the promise. “But right now? I just want to be yours.”

And God, she already was.
In every way that mattered.

Rowan didn’t wait.

Didn’t overthink.
Didn’t hesitate.

She leaned in and kissed him—really kissed him—like the words she’d just whispered weren’t enough. Like the only way to prove she meant them was with her mouth on his and her hands sliding up his back and her entire body curving into his like it was instinct.

And maybe it was.

Because the second their lips met, everything else disappeared.

The teasing. The restraint. The clever back-and-forth they both loved so much.

This wasn’t that.
This was more.

It was slow but deep, the kind of kiss that melted straight through her chest and pooled behind her ribs. The kind that stole her breath even as it gave something back. Her fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie like she needed to hold on or risk floating away.

He tasted like warmth and sleep and every good thing she’d ever been scared to keep. And when she opened her mouth to him, it wasn’t about heat—it was about belonging. About saying I’m here. I want this. I want you.

Her leg hitched a little higher over his hip, not for leverage, but closeness. Her hand slid into his hair, slow and gentle, and she kissed him again—longer this time, deeper. Like she couldn’t get close enough. Like the space between them didn’t deserve to exist.

When she finally pulled back, just far enough to breathe, her lips were parted, her eyes half-lidded, and her voice nothing but air and honesty.

“You,” she whispered, her thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You’re it for me. I don’t want anyone else. Ever.”

Then, quieter:

“I just thought you should know before we start being good again.”

She kissed him once more—quick, soft, sure.

Then let herself stay right there, forehead resting to his, her breath still catching on the edges of his mouth.

Because if this was what it meant to be “bad,”
she never wanted to be anything else.

Mason didn’t say a word.

He couldn’t. There wasn’t language for the way she looked at him—like he was both the fire and the match, like she was willing to burn slowly if it meant keeping him close. There wasn’t a sentence in existence that could hold how she felt beneath his hands: warm, pliant, real. Entirely his and entirely herself all at once.

He didn’t try to be good anymore.

Not when her leg hitched higher around his hip. Not when her breath hitched against his neck. Not when her mouth was right there—flushed and parted and already kissed into something soft and sinful.

He reached for her.

Both hands, now—bolder than before. One splayed low on her back, pulling her into the shape of him, the other sweeping up, knuckles grazing the side of her breast, brushing her ribcage like he was still reading her—page after page, again and again, like he hadn’t memorized her already in the dark.

His lips found her throat.

Not gently this time.

Open-mouthed. Hot. Possessive without being unkind. Tracing the curve where jaw met neck, dragging lower, tongue flicking over pulse points like he wanted to taste the rhythm she only ever gave to him.

She moved under him—closer, needier—and he followed, always. His hips pressed against hers with slow, deliberate pressure, the drag of skin on skin making the edges of his control blur.

He kissed down her collarbone, then back up—claiming ground and then surrendering to her completely. His hand cupped her jaw, tilting her just enough so he could kiss her the way he needed to: deeper, dirtier, like the sweetness of before had been a promise and now he was keeping it.

She moaned softly into his mouth and his whole body went still for a beat—just one—like he needed to lock that sound somewhere in his chest before he could breathe again.

His hands slid lower.

Along her thighs. Over the curve of her hip. One hand hooked beneath her leg and pulled, shifting her fully beneath him now, the blanket falling around their bodies like a second skin.

He didn’t rush.

But there was urgency in him now, a simmering, reverent need coiled low in his spine. His mouth found the underside of her breast, his teeth grazing, not biting. His hand moved between them, fingers dragging against skin he already knew and still wanted to relearn like it was the first time.

She arched.

And God, he was gone.

Because this wasn’t about being good anymore. This was about worship.

Not from a distance. Not in metaphor.

But with his body. His mouth. His hands. Every part of him that had ever wanted to say I love you, I want you, I’m yours—he said it now, without a single word.

Just skin. Just breath. Just heat.

He kissed her again—slower this time, lips parted, breath shallow—and let his body press her deeper into the mattress. His hand slid lower again, testing the edge of what she wanted, what she was ready for, what she would let him give.

And when she met him there—hips lifting, breath breaking—he made a silent vow with the way he moved against her:

There would be no pretending.
No restraint.
No “later.”

Just now.
Just this.
Just them.

And the way he was going to learn every last way she said yes again.

Rowan didn’t speak.

She couldn’t, not with the way he touched her now—like he’d stopped holding back. Like the quiet reverence of earlier had given way to something deeper, heavier. Still tender, but burning beneath the surface.

Her breath hitched as his hands moved—bold, sure, no longer asking permission, just knowing. Knowing her body. Knowing her. The press of his mouth against her skin sent sparks skittering down her spine, and when he dragged his lips along her neck—open, unhurried—she tipped her head back and let the sound escape her throat without apology.

He answered it without a word.

One hand found her waist again, firm and anchoring, while the other slipped beneath the soft fabric clinging to her hips. She arched instinctively, her leg curling tighter around him as the warmth between them built, slow and deliberate.

It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t frantic.

It was a rhythm they already knew.

The weight of his body settling against hers. The give of the mattress. The rustle of sheets as they shifted, closer and closer, until even air felt unnecessary between them. She met him with equal pressure—hips, hands, heart. Her fingers laced into the hair at the nape of his neck, grounding him when the rest of the world fell away.

His lips caught hers again—deeper now, almost reverent in their intensity—and she kissed him back with everything she didn’t have words for. Every breathless promise. Every I want you. Every yes.

And when he moved against her—when he pressed into her with care and heat and everything she’d quietly hoped for—Rowan didn’t just feel wanted.

She felt chosen.

There were no jokes now. No clever distractions. Only heat. Only him. Only the sacred way his touch made her feel like the most honest version of herself—unhidden, undiluted, utterly known.

And when she whispered his name against his mouth, broken and sure, she felt the way he held it.

Carefully. Completely.

Like it was something worth worshipping.
Like she was.
Like they both were.

And everything else—the minutes, the morning, the rest of the world—faded.

Because this moment?
This was theirs.

Raw. Gentle. Real.
And she didn’t want it to end.

Her breath caught as his mouth found hers again, deeper this time, laced with all the things they hadn’t said but were speaking anyway—in the way he touched her, in the way she let him.

Her hands slid up his back, fingertips tracing the slope of his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine beneath fabric that suddenly felt like a barrier. Something unnecessary. Something that didn’t belong between them anymore.

Without a word, Rowan sat up just slightly, her body still wrapped in his, and slipped her hands beneath the hem of his hoodie. She paused—just for a breath—her eyes meeting his with something open, something sure.

And then, slow and unshaking, she pulled it over his head.

His curls fell messily back into place, his skin warm and flushed in the soft light, and for a second she just looked at him. Let herself see him—not just the lean lines and familiar freckles, but him. Mason. The boy who had whispered patience into her skin. Who kissed her like a vow and touched her like a prayer.

She brought her hands to his chest, palms flat, absorbing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

And then she leaned in, pressing her lips just below his collarbone—slow, deliberate, full of the quiet kind of worship he had given her all morning.

“You,” she murmured, her voice low and rough from emotion, not sleep. “I want this.”

Not later.
Not eventually.
Just now.

The version of them that was stripped of everything except want and trust and the sacred hush of morning tangled in limbs and linen.

Her arms slid around his bare back again, and she pulled him in, her body already molding to the rhythm they were building between them.

Because she wasn’t afraid anymore.
Because he had made her feel safe enough to want fully.
Because he was here.

And she didn’t want a single part of him hidden.

Mason didn’t move at first.

Not when she pulled the hoodie from his frame with slow, sure hands. Not when her eyes swept over his bare chest like she was tracing every place he’d ever ached to be touched. He just watched her—breath shallow, pulse pounding—not from nerves, but from the way she looked at him like he was already hers.

When she pressed her mouth to his chest—just below his collarbone, soft and reverent—his eyes fluttered closed. Her lips were warm, her breath a steady bloom against his skin. And it unraveled something inside him. Not in a sharp, breaking way—but in the slow undoing of a knot that had lived in his ribs for years.

He let his hands find her again—bare skin now, his fingertips sweeping slowly along the curve of her back. Down to her hips. Back up again. He didn’t push. Didn’t take. Just mapped her with the kind of devotion he used to reserve for dog-eared books and unfinished songs.

But this was better.

This was real.

She moved against him, wrapping herself around him again, and he breathed her in—every inch, every shift, every subtle invitation. Her leg curled tighter around his, her chest pressed flush to his, and the heat that had been building all morning stretched like a flame licking up his spine.

He kissed her shoulder. Then her neck. Then lower.

No rush.

Just discovery.

He took his time reacquainting himself with her body—the press of her waist, the hollow of her throat, the shiver that moved through her when he dragged his mouth along the edge of her ribs. She was warm beneath him, soft and strong, every sigh from her lips like fuel.

His hands grew bolder, sliding along her thighs, her sides, her back, his touch slow but hungry—like she was a story written in a language only he could read.

And he wanted to read it all.

He wanted to memorize the sounds she made when he kissed the inside of her knee. Wanted to learn how her breath hitched when he rolled his hips into hers—slow and purposeful, fully clothed and still unbearable in its intensity.

He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t rushing. He just needed her to feel it—the full weight of his need, quiet and reverent and impossibly deep.

The sheets twisted around their legs, the light from the window stretched long and golden across her skin, and his mouth found hers again—open and warm and deep enough to leave them both gasping into the quiet.

Her hands roamed too, tentative at first, then confident—sliding over his bare back, fingertips trailing heat like brushstrokes. She touched him like he was something worth keeping. And he was helpless to do anything but sink into her completely.

The space between their bodies was gone now.

Heat layered over heat.

And as he moved against her, slow and careful and so full of want it threatened to burn through his skin, Mason knew without question:

He could live in this moment.

In the sound of her breath. The press of her hands. The way she said yes without needing to speak at all.

And if she let him—he’d spend every morning learning how to love her better.

One touch at a time.

Rowan felt him everywhere.

In the heat of his breath against her throat. In the drag of his fingertips along her ribs. In the way he kissed her like she was the only thing in the world worth slowing down for.

And God—he wasn’t rushing. He could’ve. She wouldn’t have stopped him. But instead, he was treating her like a secret he didn’t want to fumble. Like she was precious even when she was pressed against him, wanting, breathless, wrecked.

She pulled in a sharp, quiet inhale when his hips rolled into hers, slow and steady and maddeningly clothed. It wasn’t even about friction—it was about the way he knew. The way his body answered hers without either of them having to ask.

And when his mouth found hers again, deep and open and almost too much, she kissed him back with everything she didn’t know how to say. Every yes. Every stay. Every don’t stop.

Her hands moved without thought, sliding down the strong lines of his back, the flex and curve of him beneath her fingers. He felt so good, so real. And when she reached the waistband of his boxers—bare skin meeting hers all the way down—she hesitated. Just for a beat.

Not from doubt.

From reverence.

She looked at him then, gaze flicking up beneath the weight of their kiss, and her fingers curled gently under the band of cotton at his hips.

Not tugging.

Not yet.

Just touching.
Just asking.

The way she always wanted someone to ask her.

And she felt the moment he felt it. The way his whole body went still above hers, breath catching in his throat like she’d lit a fuse and kissed him while it burned.

She didn’t speak.

She just kissed him again, slow and deep and sure—her hands still right there, waiting for him to meet her in the silence.

Waiting for him to tell her without words:

Yes. I want this. With you. Now.

Mason didn’t answer with words.

He didn’t need to.

His hands slid up her sides, firm and trembling all at once, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold her tighter or slower. And then—carefully, deliberately—he settled them just beneath her ribs, grounding her. Grounding himself.

The look he gave her wasn’t wild. It wasn’t overwhelmed.

It was focused.

Like every inch of him was tuned to hers, every muscle coiled with purpose but softened by the impossible tenderness he only ever seemed to show her.

His forehead dropped to hers, breath stuttering against her lips as her fingers held him in place—not pulling, not pushing, just there. The weight of her touch was nothing and everything. A question. An invitation. A promise.

He kissed her again. Not with hunger. With certainty.

A deep, slow press of mouth to mouth that said: yes.

Then he moved.

Not quickly.

Not all at once.

But with the kind of precision that came from knowing exactly what she wanted—and what she didn’t even realize she was asking for. His weight shifted, settling deeper against her. His hand slid down to her hip, anchoring them as they found a rhythm again—not frantic, but closer now. Less room. Less pretense.

She breathed him in—his scent, his warmth, the press of his chest against hers—and let her hands trail across his skin with new purpose. She was learning too. The slope of his back. The tension in his shoulders. The tremble that gave him away every time she kissed just beneath his jaw.

Their mouths found each other again, and this time the kiss turned open, gasping, full of all the yes they couldn’t say aloud.

They didn’t rush it.

They just moved together—slow, sure, wrapped in linen and morning light, caught in the soft, burning hush of a moment that was all theirs.

No noise. No outside world.

Just touch.

Just breath.

Just the quiet, ever-growing truth between them that said:

We’re ready.

His hand reached down, fingers brushing lightly against the waistband of his boxers, pausing there.

Not rushing.

Not assuming.

Just asking—without words.

Rowan felt her breath catch, but not from nerves. From the way he looked at her in that moment: completely open, entirely hers. There was no pressure in his eyes. Only trust. Only quiet, aching hope.

She nodded once, and her hand moved to his, steady and sure. Together, they eased the fabric down—his boxers sliding past his hips, then his thighs, pooling silently at his feet. He stepped out of them, and for a moment, the world stilled.

Her eyes flicked down—not out of shock, but reverence. Noticing him. All of him. Then she looked back up, and there it was again—that silent gravity between them, pulling them closer than breath.

She reached for him, slow and deliberate, wrapping her fingers around him like she was learning him by feel, not just sight. Mason’s eyes fluttered shut, his chest rising with a sharp, unsteady inhale as her hand began to move. She watched him—watched the way his mouth parted, the way his fingers dug a little deeper into her hips like he couldn’t believe she was real.

But she was.

She was right there, with him, for him—every inch of her alive with the weight of this moment. Their skin was flushed. Their breath came faster. And still, it wasn’t about urgency.

It was about knowing.

So when she guided him forward—her legs parting, body welcoming—it wasn’t hesitation that passed through her. It was clarity. It was purpose.

He pressed into her with a breathless, aching care, and she felt her hands rise to his shoulders, clutching at him—not from pain, but from the overwhelming closeness. She gasped against his neck as he filled her, slow and steady, grounding her like no one else ever had.

They stayed like that for a beat—foreheads touching, eyes closed, hearts thudding out of sync until they weren’t.

And then they moved.

Together.

No rush. No fear.

Only the rhythm of trust. Of love. Of two people saying yes in every possible language.

And for once, the rest of the world could wait.