The sound seems unnaturally loud in the quiet room, accompanied only by our accelerated breathing and the distant murmur of his brothers. Outside, the Brazilian afternoon continues—birds calling, cars passing, lives being lived—but in here, time suspends around this single moment.

Tiago doesn't remove my jeans, not yet. Instead, he presses a kiss just above the waistband of my underwear, visible now through the open zipper. His breath is warm against my skin, making the muscles of my stomach tighten in anticipation.

Then he moves lower, his mouth pressing firmly against the seam of my jeans, right between my legs.

Even through the denim, the pressure sends a pulse of heat through me. I gasp, one hand flying to his hair, not sure if I'm trying to pull him closer or push him away. He does it again, more deliberately this time, the heat of his mouth soaking through the fabric to the sensitive flesh beneath.

"Oh," I breathe, the sound barely audible.

He looks up at me, his eyes meeting mine over the landscape of my body. "Good?"

I nod, words deserting me as he repeats the motion, this time adding the slightest pressure of teeth. The dual sensations—his mouth hot and insistent, the rough texture of denim creating friction—build a tension low in my belly that makes my toes curl against the carpet.

His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as he continues to kiss me through my jeans. The intimacy of the act—fully clothed yet somehow more exposed than if I were naked—makes my cheeks flush. I close my eyes, giving myself over to pure sensation.

With my eyes shut, memories flicker behind my lids—Tiago and me on a Brazilian beach, salt drying on our skin; his laugh echoing in a crowded school classroom; the first time he took me in the hallway outside his bedroom. I force the images away, focusing instead on the present: the pressure of his mouth, the grip of his hands, the heat building between my legs.

"Look at me," he says, his voice rougher now.

I open my eyes to find him watching me, his expression intense with desire and something deeper that I can't allow myself to name. He holds my gaze as he presses another kiss to the apex of my thighs, this one slower, more deliberate.

My breath catches in my throat. The denim, damp now from his mouth, clings to me, intensifying every sensation. I shift restlessly beneath him, seeking more pressure, more friction, more relief.

"Patience," he murmurs, but his voice trembles slightly, revealing the cracks in his own control.

His fingers hook into my belt loops, tugging my jeans down just enough to expose the band of my underwear. He presses a kiss to the newly revealed skin, then another slightly lower, where cotton meets flesh.

"Tiago," I say, and this time it's definitely a plea.

He looks up at me, a question in his eyes.

"More," I whisper, lifting my hips in invitation.

The smile that curves his lips is equal parts triumph and tenderness. He rises slightly, still kneeling but now at eye level with me as I prop myself up on my elbows.

"You sure?" he asks, his hand resting on the zipper of my jeans. "We can stop."

The offer—genuine despite the evidence of his own desire pressing against his jeans—nearly undoes me. This is Tiago at his core: passionate but never pressuring, intense but always in control.

"I'm sure," I say, reaching out to trace his bottom lip with my thumb. "I want this. I want you."

The admission costs me something, a piece of the armor I've built around myself since leaving Brazil. But as Tiago's eyes darken with desire, as his hands return to my hips with renewed purpose, I decide the price is worth paying—at least for today.

He pushes me back gently, until I'm lying flat on the bed again. His fingers find the waistband of my jeans, and this time, he begins to slide them down my hips with deliberate slowness.

"Lift," he commands softly, and I raise my hips, allowing him to pull the denim down my thighs.

My jeans slide down my legs with a whisper of denim against skin. Tiago's hands follow the fabric, tracing the contours of my calves, my ankles, before tossing the jeans aside. The air hits my skin, cool against the heat building between my legs. Tiago's gaze travels down my body—taking in the simple cotton underwear I'd put on this morning with no expectation of anyone seeing them—and the appreciation in his eyes makes me feel more desirable than any expensive lingerie ever could.

"Beautiful," he says simply, and the word hangs in the air between us, honest and unadorned.

I reach for him, needing to feel his weight on me, needing to ground myself in physical sensation before emotion can take hold. He comes willingly, covering my body with his, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that promises more to come.

"You don't know," he murmurs, hands resting lightly on my knees, "how many times I dream of this."

I should stop him. Draw a line. Remember all the reasons we can't work. But his thumbs trace small circles on the insides of my knees, and rational thought scatters like dry leaves in a Colorado wind.

"Show me," I whisper instead, parting my legs slightly in invitation.

Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, desire, relief—before he lowers himself, positioning his broad shoulders between my thighs. The sight of him there, looking up at me from between my legs, sends a pulse of heat through my core. His curls are wild now, mussed from my fingers. His lips, fuller than mine, slightly swollen from our kisses. The contrast of his dark skin against the pale sheets creates a tableau I want to memorize.

He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, just above the knee. The touch of his lips, warm and slightly rough, makes me shiver. Another kiss, higher this time, his tongue darting out to taste my skin. My breath catches in my throat as he works his way up, alternating sides, creating a symmetry of sensation that has me shifting restlessly against the sheets.

I reach down, fingers tangling in his curls, applying the slightest pressure. Not forcing, just encouraging. His laugh rumbles against my skin.

"Always so demanding," he murmurs, but there's affection in the mock complaint.

And then his mouth is there, pressing against the cotton of my underwear. Even through the fabric, the heat of his breath, the pressure of his lips, sends a jolt through me.

His hands slide beneath me, cupping my bottom, lifting me slightly to meet his mouth. The position change intensifies everything—the pressure, the heat, the rising tension coiling low in my belly. He does it again, more deliberately this time, his tongue pressing against the fabric, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath.

"Oh God," I gasp, one hand flying to grip the sheets beside me.

I feel rather than see his smile against me. His fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear, tugging them down with deliberate slowness. I lift my hips to help, suddenly impatient to be free of the last barrier between us.

The underwear joins my jeans somewhere on the floor, and now I'm completely naked, vulnerable in the afternoon light. A moment of self-consciousness flickers—it's been months, my body has changed slightly, will he notice, will he care—but then Tiago is looking at me with such open desire that insecurity dissolves.

His hands gently press my thighs wider apart. "You’re perfect."