The bedroom was bathed in red light, the smart bulbs casting a low, sultry glow over the white sheets. The air smelled like warmth and vanilla, like clean skin and anticipation.

And in the background, chill reggae played, a steady rhythm—sensual, slow, and unhurried.

John took his time.

Because tonight wasn’t rushed.

Tonight wasn’t about urgency or reckless hunger.

Tonight was about them.

Candy lay back on the sheets, her dark hair spilling like silk over the pillows, her body already melting under his touch.

John hovered over her, watching her, memorizing her, letting his hands roam her skin with intention. He used his fingers like a magician, coaxing sensation from her body with impossible precision, like he’d spent his life learning her.

She was soft and smooth, every inch of her so perfectly warm beneath his fingers.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against her shoulder, then lower, trailing down the curve of her collarbone, tracing his mouth over the delicate lines of her body.

Candy shivered, arching into him, her breath hitching as he took his time.

“You taste better than I remember,” he murmured against her skin, his hands gripping her waist, holding her still as he kissed his way lower.

Candy’s thighs tensed beneath his hands, but she didn’t stop him. She let him explore, let him devour her, let him take her apart piece by piece.

Her moans were quiet, then louder, then breathless, her fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer, begging without words.

John held her hips down, keeping her in place, drawing it out, slow, deep, deliberate.

He wanted her to feel this everywhere.

He wanted to ruin her for any other man who might come after him.

When she finally came undone, her back arched, her fingers tightening in his hair, her breath breaking into pieces, he didn’t let go of her.

Didn’t stop touching her.