“But you…”
“I wasn’t expecting it,” I told him. “I’m still getting used to the idea of another guy touching me.”
“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice subdued.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” I let him go long enough to touch his face, feeling the scars beneath my fingertips.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m not going to reassure you every ten seconds,” I said, cupping his cheek in my hand. I couldn’t. I was still too fragile for that, still in need of my own reassurance. I’d spent so much time telling him that it was okay that he hadn’t done much of the same. “Why aren’t you reassuring me?”
He stilled. The idea probably hadn’t even occurred to him. “I…”
“Tell me it’s going to be okay,” I ordered him as though I was the one in charge, not him.
Maybe I was.
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered against my lips before leaning in, kissing me more urgently. “I promise.”
“Okay,” I said, breathless as I drew back just enough to speak.
“Just okay?”
“You need practice,” I told him, kissing him again and trying to get used to the idea that I was being so intimate with a man.
But I’d chosen this. Against all odds, I’d returned to him of my own volition, where I was cuddled up against him — where it felt right to be so close.
I didn’t know why. Maybe I never would. I only knew that I wanted it.
This time when he slid his hand onto my ass, I arched into his touch, wanting to feel more. I felt like I was drowning for attention, affection,acceptance, and he gave me so much of what I needed as he pulled me above the surface.
Maybe it didn’t matter why I was there.
Maybe it only mattered that I was.
His lips met mine, more urgently this time, and I matched his passion with my own. One of my hands found his hair, my fingers lost in the strands, and I kept him close as he slowly explored my body. This wasn’t like before, when he’d touched me and I’d had no choice. I had every chance to say no.
I just didn’t want to.
His hand slid under my shirt, hot against my skin, and I pressed back against his touch. His fingernails dug lightly against my skin.
“I’m the kitten,” I whispered against his mouth. “Shouldn’t I be the one scratching you up?”
He let out a startled laugh. “Do you want to claw me up, kitten?”
“Maybe.”
Did I? I didn’t know, but it was an interesting thought.
He’d put on a shirt and boxers after he’d gotten out of the shower, and I was both grateful for the clothing and not. It was one thing to kiss him, another to let him touch me… and another entirely to think about taking his clothes off. I wasn’t sure I was ready to go that far, though the idea of him stripping me down was far from abhorrent.
I wanted him to.
His fingers found the hem of my shirt, tugging experimentally at it, and I pulled back.
He froze for a moment, but I took over for him. I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it aside. He groaned, sliding his hands along my chest. “You are so beautiful,” he said, reverence in his voice.
I blushed, unsure of what to make of another man calling me beautiful. It was flattering, though, and I settled on, “Thank you.”
