The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient 3)

She kisses me harder as she trembles in my arms. I feel the press of her nails on my shoulders, feel the moisture flooding my hand, the tension in her body. She’s close. But unable to fall.

“What do you need?” I ask her. I’m down for trying any kind of kink as long as it involves her and me together. I just need to know what it is in order to give it to her.

“I need—” She hides her face against my neck without finishing.

I whisper in her ear, “Ass play?”

“No,” she says in surprise. “I need . . .” But she presses her face closer to my neck. “Why is this so hard?”

“Should we shut the blinds? So it’s like before?” It’s a little wrong, but I want her to say yes.

She looks up at me, and tears gather in her eyes as she shakes her head. “I want to do this when it’s not dark. I want to be able to tell you when I—but I—I’m still so afraid—” Her chin wobbles, but she draws in an unsteady breath as a fierce light shines in her eyes. “I need—” She draws in another breath. “I need—” She wraps her arms around my neck and hugs me tight for a long shivering moment.

“I promise I’m down with it,” I say.

She kisses my jaw and whispers in my ear, “I need you to fuck me.”

Her words send a shock wave through me—that word in particular, because I know how difficult it is for her to say. My skin flashes with heat before an odd sort of hyperawareness claims me. It feels like everything’s been leading to this moment, now.

I pull away from her, and I bring my hands to the towel around my waist. She’s let me in all the way. I need to do the same. This broken body of mine isn’t what it was, but it’s what I have. It took me into hell and back. I can’t be ashamed any longer.

Keeping my eyes on her face, I bare myself to her.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Anna

Quan’s body is ink and lean runner’s muscles and masculine lines. He’s beautiful.

His arousal juts out proudly, and it pleases me at an elemental level. That’s a response to me. I’m the one he desires. The other part of him, the part that causes him so much self-consciousness, looks more or less the same as other ones I’ve seen in real life and in pictures. Perhaps it has a more uneven appearance. But I accept it, just as I accept him. Just as I accepted my imperfect violin.

I didn’t expect this. I wasn’t trying to make him do this, though I should have realized this was the natural consequence of what I was asking.

His trust humbles me and honors me. It makes me love him more.

“Can I touch you?” I ask, reaching toward him but stopping before I get too close.

“Always,” he replies.

When he takes my hand in his, I expect him to wrap my fingers around his sex. But instead, he guides me to a small raised line on his inner pelvic area, one of the places on his body that isn’t covered with ink.

“That’s the only visible scar left from the surgery,” he says.

I run my fingertips over the two-inch mark. It’s difficult to believe something so small had such a large impact. Because of this cut, because of that surgery, he’s here with me now.

Bending down, I press my lips to his scar. I want him to know that I’m not disgusted, that I’m grateful for this scar, that I love it, that I love all of him. I brush my cheek against the firm length of his sex so he can witness my affection, then my other cheek. He’s soft as velvet but burning hot. I press a chaste kiss to the head.

“Anna, you don’t have to do that,” he says in a gravelly voice. “I know you don’t like—”

“This isn’t a blow job. I’m just kissing you,” I say, but then my lips part and I run my tongue over him. Once I’ve gone that far, it’s the most natural thing in the world to take him into my mouth.

He flinches like I’ve electrocuted him. His chest billows. His stomach muscles ripple and tense, making the waves inked into his skin roll like real waves in the sea. But when he touches my face, his fingers are unbearably gentle.

As I suck on him, teasing the tip with my tongue before taking him deeper, his gaze doesn’t waver from me. I’m pleasuring him, but we’re doing this together. Neither of us is alone. I’m not just an accessory for his masturbation.

And unlike the other times I’ve done this, I find myself enjoying it. His hoarse sounds excite me. The barely contained violence in his body excites me. His every response excites me.

He didn’t push my head down and take from me, knowing I couldn’t refuse. He let me choose. And because of that, I could choose to give. That completely changes things.