Now here I was. Four months postpartum, standing in front of a full-length mirror, trying to squeeze into a dress that fit different than it used to.
“This don’t look right,” I muttered, turning to the side. My stomach wasn’t flat anymore. Wasn’t even close to flat. I had this soft pouch that no amount of waist trainers or tea detoxes was gonna fix because I grew two whole humans in there and my body was forever changed.
My hips were wider. My thighs touched in places they didn’t used to. Stretch marks ran across my belly and my sides like lightning bolts, silver and angry and impossible to ignore.
“I need to find something else,” I said, reaching for the zipper. “This is too tight. I look?—”
“You look like the finest woman on the planet and I need you to stop playing with me.”
Prime was leaning against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Eyes doing that slow sweep from my feet to my face and back down again, like he was memorizing every inch.
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that. I have to leave in an hour.”
“That’s plenty of time.”
“Prime.”
He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward me, slowly. He knew what he wanted and had already decided he was getting it. I backed up until my thighs hit the edge of the dresser.
“You know what your problem is, Goddess?” He stood in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne and the shea butter on his skin. “You keep looking at yourself through old eyes. You see stretch marks. I see proof that you carried my children. You see extra weight. I see more of you to hold onto.”
His hands went to my waist. Slid down to my hips. Gripped.
“These hips gave me twins.” He pulled me closer. “This body did what most bodies can’t do. You created life in a jail cell with no help and you and my babies survived. You’re a goddamn superhero and you’re standing here worried about a dress fitting the same way it would’ve before you had superpowers.”
“You always know what to say.”
“Because I always mean it.” He kissed my neck. That spot right below my ear that made my knees stupid. “Now take the dress off.”
“I just put it on.”
“And now I’m taking it off.” His fingers found the zipper. Slow. I felt the fabric loosen around my body, felt the air hit my skin, felt his hands replace the dress with warmth. “Essence can wait.”
“They really can’t?—”
He kissed me so deep, and so urgent, that every argument died in my throat and every reason I had to be anywhere other than right here just evaporated. His tongue slid against mine and I made that sound, the one I couldn’t control, the one that came from somewhere deep and primal and only he could pull out of me.
“One hour,” I breathed against his mouth.
“I only need thirty minutes.”
“You’re so?—”
“Shh.” He lifted me onto the dresser. My perfume bottles rattled. Something fell off the edge and I didn’t care what it was. His mouth was on my collarbone, my chest, the tops of my breasts spilling over my bra. He unhooked it with one hand because of course he did.
“These got bigger,” he said against my skin.
“Everything got bigger.”
“I noticed.” He took my nipple in his mouth and my head fell back against the mirror. “I’m grateful for it.”
His hands were everywhere. Stomach, thighs, pulling my panties to the side instead of taking them off because thirty minutes meant no time for formalities. I reached for his sweats and found him already hard, already ready, already done pretending this was going any other way.
When he pushed inside me I grabbed the back of his neck and held on. He groaned against my throat. Deep. Guttural. Like coming home after a long trip and finally sleeping in your own bed.
