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"Tell me about these," he says.

"They're stretch marks."

"Do they feel different?"

"Like..." I swallow. "Like silk, a little. Smoother than the rest."

"I'm going to be thorough," he says.

"You'd better be."

"I'm very thorough."

His mouth moves along one line. Then the next. Slow. His beard rasps against the inside of my thigh, and heat gathers low in my belly. I can't sit still. My hips shift. My breath comes faster.

He moves to the other leg. Rolls the stocking down just as slow. Kisses the same path. Ankle, calf, knee. The inside of my thigh. Every silver line.

By the time he sits back on his heels, I'm shaking.

I pull him up by the shirt. I undo his buttons with fingers that fumble. The fabric falls open. He shrugs it off. He's broad and solid and dusted with dark hair that narrows toward his belt. Across his left shoulder and ribs there's a scatter of small pale scars.

I put my mouth on the nearest one.

His breath catches. "It isn't pretty," he says, to the ceiling.

"It's you." I kiss another. "I'm looking."

His chest rises under my lips. I take his left hand, the scarred one, and I lift it and lay it flat on my breast, over the lace.

His breath hitches. "That hand feels everything," he says. His voice has gone to gravel. "Everything. It's... a lot."

"Then let it."

He lets it. His palm curves around the full weight of me, slow. His thumb drags across the lace. I arch into him. A sound escapes me, low and unguarded. He reaches around and unhooks the clasp with one hand. The plum lace falls away.

He lowers his head. His mouth closes over my nipple, hot and wet, and I gasp. My hands knot in his hair. He takes his time. His tongue circles. His teeth graze. His other hand cups my other breast, his thumb stroking until I'm squirming against him.

"Ben," I whisper.

He lifts his head. "Tell me what you want."

Heat climbs my neck. Five years with a man who never asked. I hear the words in my own voice, low and unsteady and mine.

"Your mouth. On me. Between my legs. Please."

"Good," Ben says, hoarse.

He lays me back on the quilt. He kneels between my knees, one big hand on each hip, and looks at me. The way a man looks at something he's been waiting years to see.

He hooks his fingers in the lace at my hip and draws it down, slow. He kisses my stomach, just below the navel. The full soft curve of it. He kisses the inside of my thigh.

And then his mouth is on me.

Hot. Sure. Patient.

I forget how to be quiet.

His tongue moves in slow circles. He listens to my breathing. When I gasp, he does it again. When my hips lift, he holds me down with one hand flat on my belly and keeps going.