And I see it in his eyes the second he believes me.
Something breaks loose in him then—something wild and reverent all at once. His hands cradle my face like I’m breakable, but his kiss is molten, fierce, desperate.
“Then look at me,” he rasps, pulling back just enough that I can see his green eyes burning like he’s supernatural. His hands come to my hips, and slowly, he turns me away from him to face the mirrors. “Look at us. Look how perfect you are.”
His hand brushes across my stomach, my shirt rising a little at the movement. My eyes watch intensely as he moves. As his other hand skims down my arm, washing goosebumps over my skin.
And it feels like a miracle. That for the first time, when a man is touching me, I’m not tensing. I don’t feel shame and humiliation and fear choking me.
It’s just him.
It’s just Lucky.
And every moment of devotion and love he’s shown me.
His hand skims the hem of my shirt. He pauses, and in the mirror, I see his eyes searching mine.
“Yes?” he asks, open, heady, lovingly.
“Yes,” I breathe out.
His fingers grip the fabric, and slowly, he lifts, slow enough that I feel every brush of his knuckles against my ribs. My reflection does the same in a dozen mirrors, a dozen Willows unpeeling shame and replacing it with fire. Lucky’s gaze fixes on me as he leaves me in just a black, lace bra. His eyes drop, and he groans low in his throat.
“Fuck, you’re stunning,” he says, like it’s a curse and a prayer. “Look at yourself, Willow. Look how incredible you are.”
I do. I look at myself in the mirror. My bare skin, flushed, lit by the moody lights, his hands steady on my waist. I see the rosy outline of my nipples through the lace. They’re hard, ready. I’m breathing hard, but it’s a good kind of panting.
I’ve never looked at myself this way before. Not broken. Not tainted.
Wanted.
He kisses down the side of my throat and whispers against my skin. “Tell me what you need.”
“To touch you,” I breathe out honestly. It’s terrifying to vocalize what I want. Because I haven’t wanted anything in so long. But I do want. No, I fuckingneed.
He turns me around, looking down at me with intensity as he grabs my chin, holding my gaze. “Shirt first. Take your time.”
I expect them to, but my hands don’t shake even the slightest when I grip the hem of Lucky’s shirt. My mouth waters with every inch I raise the fabric. There’s that four-leaf clover on his lower abdomen. Damn. There’s the abs themselves. The impeccable pecs. He lifts his arms for me and tugs at the back of his collar to assist when he gets too tall, and I can’t pull it the rest of the way off.
And it’s finally my time.
“I’ve fantasized about this for months,” I say, taking a moment to just appreciate him shirtless. In the flesh.
“I’m yours, Dagger Kitten,” Lucky says, his words low and sure. “Show me what you fantasized about.”
Oh fuck. That permission. The invitation.
My hands flatten against his skin. He’s warm. Soft. And rock hard. Lucky’s body is somethingI’mdamn proud of, and I contributed nothing to its making. I let my hands rise, appreciating every rise and fall. One hand slides down, and I brush my thumb over his tattoo.
I crouch, and before I can let myself feel self-conscious or embarrassed, I lap my tongue over it. I hear Lucky groan, and when I look up, his head tilts back up to the ceiling as his eyes slide closed.
I grin wickedly.
It’s exactly what I’ve fantasized about. I lap my tongue against that four-leaf clover once more, before tracing my tongue up the center of his stomach. Lucky curses and castsblessings as I go. When I straighten to my full height once more, I bite his right peck.
“Holy shit, Willow,” Lucky breathes, his words and breath ragged. As he looks down at me, his pupils are blown wide.
I think he liked that.
