Maybe he's asleep.
The door swings open.
Nico stands there in low-slung sweatpants and nothing else.
"Took you long enough."
Before I can respond his hand shoots out, fists in my shirt, and pulls.
I stumble across the threshold. The door slams behind me. My back hits it a second later, his body crowding mine, and then his mouth is on me.
This isn't like the kiss on the couch. That was testing. Exploring.
This is claiming.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I moan against him. An embarrassing, needy sound that would mortify me if I could think straight. But I can't think. Not with his hands sliding down my sides, gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him so I can feel exactly how much he wants this.
Wants me.
"Been thinking about this all day," he growls against my lips. His fingers find the hem of my cardigan, tugging it down my shoulders. "Couldn't focus. Couldn't work. Just kept seeing you underneath me."
The cardigan hits the floor.
Oh God.
Then his hands go to the sweater underneath—the thin, worn cotton I layered because I'm perpetually cold and also because?—
I grab his wrists.
"Not that one."
He pauses. Tilts his head. "Why?"
Because underneath is the map of everything wrong with my body. Because Jack used to trace those marks with his finger and tell me they made me look "damaged." Because I've spent four years hiding them under clothes and in the dark.
"I have..." I swallow hard. "Stretch marks. From Lily. They're on my stomach and they're... they're not pretty."
Nico's expression doesn't change. Not pity. Not disgust. If anything, his eyes darken further.
"Let me see."
"Nico—"
"Kristen." His voice drops, rough and commanding. "If you want me to fuck you, you're going to be naked. All of you. No hiding."
My face flames. "That's not—you can't just?—"
"I can." He leans in, lips brushing my ear. "And I will. Because those marks? The ones you're so ashamed of?" His teeth graze my earlobe. "They're proof you created life. They're proof your body did something incredible." A pause. "That's kind of hot."
I laugh because this is absurd. "You're insane."
"Probably." His hands find the sweater hem again. "Now let me see."
This time, I don't stop him.
The sweater comes up and over my head. My bra follows seconds later—he unclasps it with one hand like he's done it a thousand times, and maybe he has, and I can't think about that right now because I'm standing half-naked in front of Nico Sartori and his eyes are burning.
"Bed," he commands. "Now."
