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His gaze fixes on the place where my neck meets my shoulder. He goes completely still.

“Grimm?”

His fingers tighten against my waist.

I feel another low rumble.

Different this time.

Rougher.

Almost a growl.

And suddenly I understand that whatever is happening between us is affecting him far more than he's admitting.

His eyes close.

“Tell me to slow down.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

The answer is immediate. I smile.

“Good.”

His eyes open. I touch his face.

“Because neither do I.”

The kiss that follows steals every remaining thought from my head.

Words become increasingly inconvenient. So does thinking.

But Grimm never rushes past me.

Every time things change, those glowing eyes find mine. Every time I pull him closer, he follows. Every time I whisper his name, another piece of that impossible control disappears.

And somewhere between laughter and kisses and touches and magic flickering through my bedroom, I stop feeling nervous.

I feel wanted.

Not tolerated. Not accepted despite my curves.

Wanted because I'm me.

Grimm looks at me like he's been starving for something his entire life and somehow I've become the answer.

“Agatha.”

The way he says my name makes my heart ache.

“What?”

He brushes my hair away from my face. For one brief moment, the hunger in his expression gives way to something achingly tender.

“You have no idea how long I've waited for you.”