Page 55 of Graciously His

“Grace…”

His arm tightens around my back, and I feel his erection against my belly. Trying to distract myself, I trace more lines, this time down his trachea, over his Adam’s apple, to his jugular notch. Beautiful lines, vulnerable when he swallows. There’s an answering caress along my back that ends with Nate pressing his fingers into the spaces between my ribs.

I freeze, going stiff.

An echo of Nick’s voice rings through my mind: You’re too skinny, Graciously. You have to gain weight if you expect a guy to want you.

“Hey,” Nate says, and I realise he felt me tense up. His hand shifts to my hip. “Are you okay, love?”

When he draws back to look at me, I shrink. He’s fully awake and I can hide nothing from him. I nod anyway, pretending I’m fine.

He frowns, his features much too alert, considering how deeply asleep he was just moments ago.

“I did something you didn’t like, and you’re going to tell me what it was.” He retraces his movements, fitting his fingers between my ribs. I can’t suppress my flinch. “Is this a spot my Grace doesn’t like on herself?”

He traces my ribs and I try not to cry. Mine is the kind of skinniness that hides well in clothing; few people realise I’ve never been able to get within a healthy height-to-weight ratio. Even Mother stopped commenting on it. But Nick… his test had nothing to do with a bathroom scale or a dress size or a medical chart. All he had to do was cup my ribs. Now Nate is touching me the same way, his hand proprietary, his voice cool.

“We talked about how Nick rejected you.” He moves away from the spot, his breath in my hair as he pulls me close. “Was your weight one of his health metrics, Grace? Were your ribs something he liked to count against you?”

I breathe through the grief, the emotion tied to the death of my marriage, which started long before Nick died.

“He used to put his hand just where you did, and then…” I leave the sentence incomplete.

“You are underweight.”

I swallow, wanting to push out of Nate’s comforting hold. But I stay, waiting as he draws a slow breath. His other hand, the one supporting me from beneath, traces the same path down my other side.

“But,” he continues, “I think this is all going to fill in very soon. Safe food will make these ribs smooth, these thighs soft, and bring an extra curve to these cheeks.” He nudges my hair aside to kiss the hollow of my jaw. Chuckling softly, he moves his hand to my ass, which he squeezes. “And these cheeks, too. You’re beautiful, Grace. You’ll keep being beautiful while I make you healthy.”

“I’m not too skinny for—for that?”

He looks into my eyes with a frankness that's almost harsh. “Too skinny for what? My cock?” He thrusts against my belly. “This fucker wants you, Grace. You. Not just the meat suit you happen to live in.”

That startles me into a giggle and Nate smiles.

“Now, since you’ve woken me instead of sneaking away,” his eyes darken, “I think we should start our day with a reward.”

I shrug, unsure of what he means.

He shows me by flipping me over, spreading my thighs, and worshipping me with his tongue.

***

The morning was beautiful. After giving me more orgasms than I could count, Nate brought me breakfast outside on the floating deck. I enjoyed the peaceful sound of the tide rolling out while I ate, Shep at my side, Nate having excused himself to get some work done in his home office.

After breakfast, the dog and I head down the cliffside stairs for our walk with Mihi. She’s brought her usual grocery bag to collect beach rubbish—and a burlap drawstring pouch for me to collect sea glass in.

Between finding bits of treasure, I realise that it’s impossible to have a casual chat with Mihi; she tends to get right to the heart of all matters—and then she stays there, listening to every single beat. This morning, we start by chatting about plans for the day, which quickly becomes an in-depth discussion of all things autoimmune. I tell her Dr Gowan will be coming to the house later, and she nods knowingly.

“You know, I brought up my thyroid problem one time—one time—and Hadley had that doctor lady calling me the next day.”

“Really?” I don’t bother to hide my surprise. “Did you accept her help?”

“After the shock of a random doctor calling me? Yes. I was thick as anything,” she gestures at her curvy frame, “and not in the proper way I am now. It was all heaviness and cold. But my old doctor said my thyroid bloods were perfect. Everything was perfect.”

I feel myself smile as I bend down to pick up a piece of sea glass—a beautiful turquoise square to add to the pouch.

“Perfect, even though you felt terrible?”