I nod again.
He opens the door.
His bedroom is warm and masculine, dark wood furniture, soft amber lamps, a huge bed with a thick quilt, a rug beneath it. A large mirror leans against the wall.
He brings me to it, stands behind me, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders.
“I want to erase the memory you just had,” he murmurs.
My throat tightens.“How did you know?”
“Your eyes,” he says gently.“They went from blue fire to scared. And I never want you to feel that way again.”
His hand finds my zipper again, but he waits.
“Trust me?”
“Yes.”
He pulls the zipper down slowly. His hands are reverent as he slides my sleeves off, exposing my bra.
His eyes, reflected in the mirror, show nothing but hunger and love.
He kneels, removes each boot with care, then rises and stands behind me again. His fingers slide my jumpsuit down, inch by inch.
My stomach, my stretch marks, my soft curves… all of it comes into view.
Still, his gaze remains hot. Hungry. Tender.
Not a flicker of disgust.
When I close my eyes, he murmurs,“Baby, open those baby blues for me.”
I inhale and do.
He looks at me like I’m a miracle.
“My Venus,” he whispers.
His hands glide over every part of my body with reverence, neck, shoulders, chest, waist, before stopping at my stomach.
“This body is made to be worshipped.”
His voice is low, reverent, almost broken.
He presses his lips to my neck.
“Look at us, Summer,” he whispers. His hands cup my breast and hip, pulling me back into him.
“Do I look disgusted?”
I shake my head, tears slipping free.
“Do I feel uninterested?” His voice is rough, heated.
“N… no.”
He kneels in front of me.“Eyes up.”
