Page 54 of Through the Storm

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. And you promised you’d kiss me until I couldn’t breathe once it wasn’t illegal.”

Ben groans immediately. “Jesus, Katy. You were such a brat that night.”

I laugh. “You even pinky-promised, remember?”

“Of course I do. You were becoming a serious problem for me.”

“And you acted like I had the plague. It hurt my feelings.” I smirk. “Now you have to make up for it.”

“I was eighteen and you were sixteen,” he shoots back. “Also, your brother would’ve murdered me.”

I shrug. “True.”

His expression softens. “I liked you then too, you know. That was kind of the problem.”

“Then get out of the car and show me.”

He gets out first and walks around to open my door like it matters. LikeImatter.

And as I lead him toward my front door, snow crunching beneath our feet, all I can think is how strange it is that something can feel this inevitable and this terrifying at the same time.

Like the world has shifted, and there’s no going back now.

Inside my room, the air changes.

His hands move over me slowly, reverently, like he’s discovering something precious. The kiss turns deeper, slower somehow even as it grows hungrier. His mouth coaxes mine open, unhurried, like he has all night to learn me.

Every touch feels startling and gentle all at once. When his fingers find the zipper of my dress, I freeze.

“Ben.”

He stops instantly. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I say quickly, my voice shaking. “I just… I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never been with anyone before.”

His expression softens so completely it makes my throat ache.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his forehead to mine. “That’s okay. We go slow. I’m an excellent teacher, remember?”

I giggle. And because it’s Ben, some of the fear loosens.

He reaches for the zipper again, slower this time. His hand trembles once before he steadies it.

“You’re nervous too?” I whisper.

He smiles against my mouth. “You have no idea. I want this to be perfect for you.”

The dress slips from my shoulders, and cool air kisses newly bare skin. His gaze follows it down, reverent. Like he can’t believe I’m real.

He checks in constantly after that, with his eyes, with the pause of his hands, with the way he gives me time to lean closer or pull back. When I choose closer, something raw and hungry breaks across his face.

I don’t feel exposed.

I don’t feel unsure.

I feel chosen.