The stretch marks he traces with his fingers aren't flaws—they're proof I survived something incredible.
The softness he holds isn't weakness—it's strength made visible.
The scars he kisses—each one, slowly, reverently—aren't damage. They're the price of creating life.
"You're magnificent," he whispers against my stomach, and I believe him.
His mouth moves lower, and I tense automatically.
"Relax," he murmurs. "Let me show you how beautiful you are."
When his tongue finds me, I gasp. Everything is more sensitive than before—nerve endings rewired by pregnancy and birth, hypersensitive in ways that make me arch off the bed.
"Zane—"
"Shh. I've got you."
He takes his time, learning my new responses, finding what makes me shake. His fingers join his mouth, careful but insistent, and I'm coming apart faster than I expect—three months of nothing making everything too much, too intense, too good.
"Wait," I manage. "I want—I need you inside me."
He moves up my body, settles between my thighs. I can feel him hard against me, and suddenly all the nervousness comes rushing back.
"It's been three months," I whisper. "What if—"
"We go slow. We stop if it hurts. We figure it out together." He kisses me deeply. "I love you. All of you. Changed and perfect and mine."
When he enters me—slowly, carefully, giving my body time to adjust—it's different. Tighter than before, the muscles stillrecovering. A brief flash of discomfort that fades into something deeper.
"Okay?" His voice is strained with the effort of holding still.
"Yes. Just... give me a second."
He does, kissing my neck, my jaw, my mouth. Whispering how beautiful I am, how good I feel, how much he's missed this. And gradually, my body remembers. Opens. Accepts.
"Move," I tell him. "Please."
He does, and the angle is all wrong—what used to work doesn't anymore. I shift my hips, trying to find what feels right.
"Wait." I push at his chest. "Can we try—"
"Whatever you need."
I guide him onto his back, straddle him. This gives me control, lets me find the depth and angle that works with my changed body. When I sink down onto him, it's perfect—full and deep and exactly right.
"Fuck, Lena." His hands grip my hips. "You're so beautiful like this."
I move slowly at first, testing what my body can handle. The stretch is intense but good. Every nerve ending alive and firing.His hands roam—cupping my breasts that are fuller now, softer, sensitive from nursing. When he thumbs my nipples, I gasp.
"Is that okay?"
"More than okay. Don't stop."
I set the rhythm, taking what I need. Slow deep rolls of my hips that make us both groan. His hands guide me but don't control—letting me chase my pleasure while he watches like I'm the most incredible thing he's ever seen.
"You're so tight," he rasps. "So perfect. Missed this. Missed you."
"Show me." I lean down, changing the angle. "Show me how much you missed me."
