He takes my face between his hands, and I still don’t say it.
Seconds tick by with his eyes on me, his warmth on my cheeks, and I can’t bring myself to say a goddamn thing.
And when his lips brush mine, I know:I was never going to say no to him.
21
SIMA
This is such a bad idea.
His hands are at my waist, then at my back. Soon, I’m flush against him until there is no space left. I feel the weight of his chest pressing into me, the steadiness of his breath turning unsteady with mine.
We stumble toward the sink counter, still kissing. Like we’ve both been starving for it all this time.
Maybe we have.
He tugs at my blouse and pops the buttons one by one until the fabric slips from my shoulders.
I should stop him, say something, but the words won’t come. My skin burns under his touch. Every move he makes is careful but firm, like he’s claiming what he already knows is his.
When his hand slides across my belly, I tense.
Heat shoots to my face. I grab his wrist. “Don’t look,” I whisper.
His brow furrows. “Why not?”
“I’m so big now,” I whisper. “My skin’s stretched. I have marks everywhere. I’m not the same as before.”
His eyes move over me, then lock back on mine. He runs his hands over my belly, slow and deliberate. His fingers trace the stretch marks as if they are something to be admired, not hidden.
He watches me with that dark hunger in his eyes. His chest rises harder with each breath. “You’re always beautiful to me,” he says. “Every inch.”
The shame I felt a moment ago eases, replaced by heat that spreads low in my stomach.
I still feel nervous, aware of every change in my body, but his blunt certainty shakes me. For the first time in months, I feel wanted without conditions.
His hands slide over my sides, down the curve of my stomach, up to my breasts. He touches me like he means it, like nothing about me has changed for the worse.
I can’t help it—I lean into his touch, craving more. My bra is gone in seconds, tossed aside. His mouth finds the top of my breast, warm and insistent. My hands dig into his shoulders, holding on as my knees weaken.
The steam from the shower thickens the air around us. My back presses into the counter, cool against the heat of my skin. He kisses me again, harder this time.
My body responds to him without thought, every nerve alive under his palms.
I want more. I want all of him. And I can see in his eyes that he wants the same. My doubts and fears are still there, but they drown under the weight of how much I need him right now.
Steam fogs the glass and beads of water run down my skin. Petyr’s hands roam over me, hot and insistent, and I can’t think straight.
Every stroke of his palms over my shoulders, down my arms, over the swell of my breasts overwhelms me. I gasp at the feel of him, my body already trembling.
I’ve missed this—missedhim—more than I want to admit. The ache of wanting him again mixes with the relief of finally feeling his touch.
I reach for him. I slide soap over the planes of his chest, across his hard stomach, over the scarred lines of his hips. His skin is firm beneath my hands. Every place I touch makes me ache more.
There’s no rush, though. Only the weight of each second as we take each other in again for the first time in months.
When his fingers trace down my spine, I shiver. He presses closer, his chest solid against my back.
