He touched me like I was made of glass.
No — not even. Like I was a spellbook bound in human skin and liable to curse him if he turned the page wrong.
Which was flattering, in a nerdy, trembling sort of way.
"Gently," I whispered, reaching for his wrists, guiding them up.
He followed like I'd cast something on him.
"Now firmer."
He obeyed. Still hesitant. Still flushed all the way to his ears. But I felt the shift — hands going from unsure to hungry.
"That's better," I murmured, rolling my shoulders to press into his palms. "Not too much. They're boobs, not bread dough."
His breath hitched.
I smiled.
Nudged one of his hands lower, let it slide down the side of my ribs, tracing the edge of the lacing.
"You can untie it," I said, voice low. "If your hands aren't shaking too much."
They were.
But he managed.
Barely.
The neckline slipped just enough to give him a view he'd probably paint mental portraits of for the rest of his life.
I reached up, held his chin gently. Forced him to meet my eyes.
"Breathe," I said. "And don't look like you're about to apologize for being alive."
"I—sorry—I mean—yes—breathing."
Gods.
Adorable.
Hopeless.
I pulled his hand back to my chest and pressed it against me, letting him feel the heat, the shape, the way I moved with his touch.
"Don't ask," I whispered. "Just follow."
He nodded, awestruck.
I took his other hand and guided it down over the curve of my waist, past my hips, right to the edge of what was probably still decency.
"You wanted to grope," I reminded him. "This is what that looks like."
He let out a breath that sounded like a prayer.
"Now move," I said. "Slow. Just like that."
His hands responded — guided, clumsy, reverent.
"Good boy," I muttered.
That broke something in him.
He kissed me — wild, desperate, entirely too wet — and I bit his lip just enough to remind him who was leading. Then kissed back.
Hard.
It spiraled from there.
Scrolls fell. A chair toppled. My laughter echoed off the stone walls like a hymn to bad life choices.
Somewhere between the fifth kiss and the second moan, he got bolder. His hands wandered. His mouth followed. I let him. I encouraged him.
He wasn't the best.
But he listened.
And gods, that's rare.
I showed him where to touch, how to hold, when to slow, when to grab.
It wasn't elegant.
It wasn't clean.
But it was good.
Better than good.
Sweaty. Breathless. Slightly heretical.
We ruined a map of the Western principalities.
I have no regrets.