Aimee

The bedroom was golden with that four-o’clock light — the kind that softened edges and slipped between the blinds like syrup. The laundry was done. The bed was made, loosely. And Aimee, with her hair pinned half-up then left to fall, sat at the edge in pale black lace.

Not posing. Not performing. Just being — in that skin, in that slip of lingerie she’d bought weeks ago and never quite worn for him.

She didn’t hear the front door.

Didn’t hear the sound of shoes kicked off. Didn’t know he’d come back early until—

“Jesus.”

His voice, low from the doorway.

She turned, but didn’t cover herself. The lace was sheer, high at the hips, hugging the soft curve of her belly, cupping her breasts with a tender lift. One strap had slipped down her arm. She hadn’t fixed it.

“You weren’t meant to see it yet,” she said lightly, though her heart had already kicked.

“Right,” Robert said, eyes still fixed. “Sorry. Should I… leave and come back in?”

She smiled. “No. You’re already here.”

He moved toward her slowly, like she was a painting in a gallery he’d only just realised was real.

“You wore that for me?” he asked.

“Eventually,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But first… I wore it for me.”

He was still, drinking her in. Not just the lace, but her — the flush along her chest, the damp ends of her hair, the way her thighs parted slightly without intention.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, fingers brushing her hip.

“I’m not,” she replied, soft. But she didn’t move.

“Come here,” he said.

“No,” she countered gently. “Just… stay there. A second.”

So he did. Letting her exist like that. Lit from one side, lace clinging to every curve, her hands resting on her thighs. A woman unhidden.

“If I don’t touch you soon,” he said hoarsely, “I’m going to lose my mind.”

Aimee lifted her eyes to his, and her smile deepened.

“Then touch me.”

He crossed the room barefoot. No hesitation now. And dropped to his knees.

His hands slid up her thighs, parting them. Thumbs grazing the softest skin. Fingers pressing just enough to anchor her.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I know.” Her voice was breathy. “Don’t stop.”

He leaned in. Kissed above her knee, slow. Then higher. The lace grazed his cheek as he breathed her in — the scent of her body wash, her warmth, her need.

Then he kissed again. Just beneath the seam of the lace. His hands cupped her backside now, lifting her gently, tilting her toward his mouth.

“I want you in my mouth,” he said, voice raw.

“Then take me.”

She didn’t mean it to sound like a command — but it landed like one. And he obeyed.

He pulled the lace to the side. Saw the slick wetness waiting for him and groaned. His mouth met her with hunger and reverence — open, hot, knowing. No rush. No teasing. Just devotion.

Aimee gasped, head tilting back, one hand gripping the edge of the bed. Her legs parted wider, trembling under his touch. Her body lifted instinctively, hips rocking against his mouth.

“Rob—”

She said it like a warning. Like a plea. His grip tightened.

Then she shattered. Breath catching, thighs clenching around his head, her release sudden and deep. Her whole body surged. Then stilled. Trembled. Sank.

He held her there, mouth softening against her, until her fingers found his hair, tugging gently.

When she opened her eyes, she was glowing.

“You really weren’t supposed to see it yet,” she whispered.

“Marry me again,” he said.

She laughed — breathless and messy and real.

“Get on the bed first,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”