And with her beneath me, I draw the map of her body, kissing every inch of it.
“God, that feels so good,” she sighs as my mouth reaches her breast, her nipple between my lips.
“You’re beautiful,” I reply. I reach over to the bedside lamp and turn on the light.
“No!” she exclaims.
“What do you mean, no?”
“It’s more romantic in the dark,” she insists, stiffening.
“I want to look at you.” I try to make her relax again with a trail of kisses down her belly.
“I don’t think so.” And before I can get to her pubis, she brings her hands down to cover her lower abdomen.
I sit up. “What’s going on?”
“Not every part of my body is beautiful. Come on, trust me; it’ll be better in the dark. You’ll like it anyway.”
“Can you move your hands?” I ask her.
She looks up at the ceiling with a snort and doesn’t budge.
“Please.”
“Okay, you asked for it. This could ruin everything ...” she mutters, lifting them without looking at me.
About three inches below the navel, there’s a long, thin scar. “Is this what you were hiding from me?” I ask, running my finger over it.
“My C-section scar, yeah,” she moans.
“Why?”
“Because men don’t like it!” she exclaims. “My last year of university, I was messing around with a Spanish boy from the Erasmusprogram, and he, well, when he saw it ...” Elisa holds her index finger up and then bends it. “Instant downer.”
“Listen to me,” I say, leaning over her again. “I don’t know who that asshole was, but I can assure you that this”—I say, giving her a kiss on the far-right side of the scar—“is the best part of you.” I continue to kiss her along its entire length. “It’s your story, it shows how strong you are, and it makes you even more beautiful.”
“Doesn’t it ... depress you?” she asks in a small voice.
“On the contrary.” I would like to make her feel how not depressed I am right now, but it seems inelegant to wave such an exuberant demonstration under her nose.
“Kiss me,” she begs me.
“I already am.”
“On the mouth.”
She gets up on her elbows, but I push her back down. “I’m not done yet.” I go back between her legs and can’t help but smile when I feel her arousal melting on my fingers. As soon as she feels my tongue on her, she arches her pelvis, letting out a muffled cry.
I tease her with another slow caress, and this time she emits a full-throated moan.
The third time, Elisa digs her fingers into my hair, urging me to keep going, and I comply, as if I had no other purpose in life.
She pants, her breath getting shorter and shorter, moving beneath me in rhythm with each lash of my tongue until I feel her twitch against my lips and she announces her orgasm with an “Ooohhhh.”
I lie down next to her and look at her, sprawled out on the bed, her breasts rising and falling as she tries to catch her breath.
When she meets my gaze, I read the satisfaction in her eyes, and I can’t help but smile smugly. If I had that Spanish imbecile in front of me, I’d give him a good slap.
