Not performatively good or porn-good and the rehearsed choreography of a man who'd learned technique from screens instead of skin.
He was good the way a master surgeon was good — because he paid ruthless attention, because he cared about the outcome more than his own ego, because Luna's pleasure wasn't a happy byproduct of his own. It was the entire objective.
Peter whispered something against Luna's neck. Maria couldn't hear the words, but she watched Luna's mouth fall open, her eyes squeeze shut tighter, and her fingers drag from his shoulders down his chest, tracing him through the fabric like she was mapping sacred territory.
The look on her daughter's face was pure worship — overwhelmed, unfiltered, almost disbelieving. The worship of a woman who still couldn't believe she had permission to touch a body like his.
Luna's hand slid lower, down his stomach, fingertips tracing the sharp V-line below his abs through his shirt in a slow, deliberate drag.
