Before Him

This isn’t the body of the girl from Vegas.

This one has battle scars.

“I wish I’d been there.” Before the words have sunk in, before I can make sense of their meaning, Roman presses his lips to the scar below my bikini line. “I wish—”

Please, no more, I think, pressing my finger to his lips. I can’t talk about this, not now. Having a child changes you, physically and emotionally. I battled my way through those changes alone. I don’t want him to whisper lies and tell me I look the same. But I realise Roman isn’t looking at my scars because those midnight eyes are intent on mine. And what I see there isn’t wishful thinking. It isn’t pity, and it isn’t regret. It’s desire, plain and simple. It’s need, pure and unadulterated.

He kisses the tip of my finger, then swiftly takes it between his teeth, my body reacting beneath him with a jolt. Oh, God, the feeling as he bites, soft at first but then less so, his tongue flicking over the tip. Everything inside me pulls tight as he bites.

“You’re obscene,” I whisper, or maybe whimper, as he sucks on the digit, as he fellates. Teeth and tongues and lips were surely never put to such wicked use as his tongue flicks downward, tracing over the sensitive V between my fingers.

“You love it.” He’s right. It’s such a visual, visceral prelude. “Obscene is only one of the ways you make me feel.” He slides my panties the rest of the way.

Splayed and bare before him, his eyes take me in. His hands roam and touch as he appraises me with those twilight eyes, their intensity a little hard to take.

And then I glance down.

“What’s with the face?” he asks, trying not to give in to an expression of his own.

Is it a smile or a smirk?

“I’m kind of naked.” I bring my forearm across my eyes to hide from my ridiculous sock-covered toes. So not sexy. “Can you take them off?” I mean, I would, but for how undignified that would look. Can’t bend sinuously and suck in my belly pooch.

His gaze is full of heat as he lifts my arm. “Call me kinky,” his low voice rumbles as he presses his lips to my cheek, “but I think you should leave them on.”

“You’re the worst,” I complain, but I say nothing else as he presses my knees wider, and a hungry arousal licks its way through me.

“That must be why you’re so wet for me.” His praise makes my insides clench, and as his thumb paints a slide of heated pleasure over my clit, I cry out. Every nerve ending seems to gather there as he circles and pets. It’s a learning, a tease. My hips arch—my desperation should be embarrassing, but desperation trumps unease. I need this. I crave this percussion of the sweetest tortures and his compliments of the sweetest of filth.

You’re so slippery.

So pink and fucking delicious.

I want to eat you. Slowly. Savour you.

Eat you in small bites.

“Yes!” I twist under him, imagining his dark head bowed.

I want to swallow you down whole.

My skin is on fire—I’m hot and ready to explode. And I almost do at the first brush of his tongue.

“Oh, God. Oh, Roman.”

Deft flicks and teasing swipes leave me writhing under him. My cries have no real meaning, though I feel like a person might on finding religion. Euphoria, I think it’s called, a swell of pure bliss. How did I not know that the filthiest of noises make the best compliments? The wet sound of his tongue, licking and sucking, the gust of his hot breath, overlaid by such masculine growls of appreciation. His fingers spread and spear as though he means to annihilate me. And he does, lick by lick, flick by flick, he owns every inch of me.

“You’re so fucking delicious,” he growls, opening me with his long fingers. Thrusting, devouring, the vibrations of his words making my insides twist. Sweet Lord above. Is this how addictions begin? “Come on, little love, give it to me. Let me feel you come all over my tongue.”

I don’t register much else as I anchor my hands in his hair at the very moment I turn to liquid. I press myself into his face as an almost violent pleasure spreads through me, my orgasm an intoxicating burst of blinding light and ecstasy.

Bang. Splash. Sploosh. Poor, poor Kennedy. All that’s left of her is a splattering of girl over the walls.

An hour or a year later, I sense Roman above me. Not that I can see, given my eyes are closed. My breathing is shallow and kind of noisy. I feel totally wrecked, like if I’m ever to move from this pose, all those liquid particles will need to be gathered and poured into a Kennedy-shaped vase.