Eighty Two

His hand lifted my chin, and this time, his kiss did not attack. It did not demand. It pleaded. As if he knew that what he was touching tonight was not just lips, but a heart that had been locked away for so long.

His kiss traced a path from my lips to my cheek, then down to my neck and collarbone, leaving behind gentle marks like a painting that only the skin could understand. His fingers glided down my back, slowly untying the satin knot, as if uncovering a secret buried deep for years.

“You can still say stop,” he whispered again.

I looked at him. “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t regret it, because I won’t be able to hold myself back,” he murmured hoarsely.

His hands, lips, and body moved in rhythm, dancing along every curve of mine. And when he began to touch the most vulnerable part of me, I winced. But he didn’t stop. He continued with tenderness until he reached the depths.

Hugo went still. He looked into my teary eyes, and in them, I saw surprise.

“You’ve never been touched?” he asked. I