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“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, we’ll try.”
He leaned me back onto the table. “I’m going to make you feel good.”
“Is that a promise?”
“It’s a guarantee.”
His hands slid up my inner thighs. “I’ve been thinking about this. About tasting you. Making you come. Hearing you cry my name.” Braced over me, he kissed down my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breast over the lace. “Can I take this off?”
“Yes.”
He reached around and unhooked my bra one-handed. It fell away, and his breath caught. “Beautiful.”
Then his mouth was on my nipple, and I arched into him, gasping. His hand came up to cup my other breast, his thumb circling until I was making sounds I didn’t recognize.
“Brashe…”
“I’m here. I’ve got you.”
He kissed down my belly, and my hands moved automatically to cover myself. Old instinct. The kind that came from years of being told to suck it in, stand up straighter, and wear the right shapewear.
He caught my wrists. “Don’t.”
“I’m just—”
“Beautiful.” His eyes met mine. “Every part of you is beautiful.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it to be nice. I’m saying it because when I look at you, I see someone who’s perfect exactly as she is. Soft where you’re meant to be. Strong where you need to be strong.” He kissed below my navel.
My throat closed up.
He hooked his fingers in my panties and tugged them down, his eyes holding mine the entire time. “Still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I won’t want you to stop.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He dropped to his knees, eye level with my core. “Spread your legs wider.”
I did.
“Fuck. Look at you.”
“Brashe, please.”
“Please what?”
