“But I do not want you to—“
“You do not want me to see you?” Claire scoffed softly, arching a brow. She released Mirela’s hand, her own beginning a slow, reverent exploration of her skin. “Never—ever—feel ashamed of your marks, Mirela.”
She cupped her face then, her thumb brushing tenderly over the scar along her right cheek. “They are proof of your will to live. A trophy for surviving. You are perfect.”
Mirela’s breath hitched. Her gaze searched Claire’s face desperately, hunting for doubt, for pity or anything that might betray a lie. There was none. Only warmth and devotion.
“Perfect?” she whispered.
Claire nodded, taking Mirela’s right hand in her own. “Your hands are perfect,” she said softly. “Even without experience, they are gentle. Kind. Willing.” She pressed a kiss into Mirela’s palm before placing both of Mirela’s hands on her waist. She then traced her fingers slowly along her forearm. “Your arms are strong. They make me feel safe when you hold me.”
Her hands moved higher, now touching her breasts. Claire inhaled sharply, her lips parting as her hands covered Mirela’s taut nipples. Claire took her time there, squeezing and taking in their weight before shuddering and continuing her journey further.
“Your body tells the story of your strength.”
Mirela’s stomach tightened at the words, and Claire’s brows lifted in quiet appreciation before she smiled as her hands traveled further.
“You have strong, thick thighs too.” Claire added with a soft laugh, “and your ass is strong as well.” She chuckled before reaching for and squeezing Mirela’s butt playfully.
Mirela let out a surprised yelp and arched instinctively, and Claire shifted, slipping from her waist to sit beside her instead.
Relaxing at the playfulness, Mirela let her knees part just slightly. Her heart, however, hammered inside her chest—so strong, so loud she was almost certain Claire couldhear it. As quietly as her heavy breathing allowed, Mirela looked up at her.
She felt exposed. Yet Claire’s face above her was calm and… loving.
Was that what love looked like?
Mirela did not truly know. And yet it had to be. There was no other explanation for the peace in Claire’s expression, for the gentleness in her gaze.
Claire touched her again, this time at her hipbone, her eyes drifting from Mirela’s face to her legs.
“May I touch you some more, Mirela?”
“God, please do…” The words slipped out before she could stop them. Mirela did not wish to sound desperate, yet all she wanted—needed—was the warmth of Claire’s hands against her skin.
Claire let out a soft laugh, breath brushing against her. “Oh, Mirela,” she murmured. “I am far from being God.”
She leaned closer, her voice lowering.
“But before this night ends,” she added, “I will have you saying my name as if it were the holiest prayer.”
Before Mirela could say anything, Claire clutched her face and pressed their mouths together. The sudden roughness was welcome, but it dissipated as Claire melted onto her. Her lips moved over hers, washing away all her doubts, all her uncertainty, replacing it with a burning need to melt against the woman next to her. Resting onher side, Claire pressed her body to Mirela’s side, hooking one leg with Mirela’s, spreading her wider.
“I am going to need you to relax,” Claire said, as her hand found Mirela’s breast once more. All the tension on Mirela’s body melted as Claire massaged her breast again.
Closing her eyes, Mirela pressed her head to her pillow as Claire began to explore her body. Her hands worked their way from her breast, slowly down her stomach. Mirela’s skin prickled with goosebumps, and she shuddered. As Claire’s hands went further down, Mirela spread her legs farther apart.
Mirela’s eyes drifted shut as she shuddered in a breath, Claire’s hands curled over her core, and she fought the need to keep her eyes open, just to see Claire pleasure her. Her stomach rolled and Claire’s eyes shone with a hunger matching Mirela’s.
One of Claire’s hands touched her thigh, the other moved to spread her pussy. A tender, shy finger ran alongside her opening, gathering her wetness.
“Have you ever touched yourself before?” Claire asked, slipping one finger through her folds, watching Mirela intently.
Mirela nodded. Mirela never thought she would be that wet, not with someone at least. She had pleasured herself before, but she never dreamt it would be someone’s hands other than her own touching her most private part.
“Yes, but your hands feel so much better than mine.” So much better. She wasn’t about to ask Claire if she had been with others before; whatever happened in her past, it was done and finished.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Claire pressed her fingers to her clit. Mirela gasped, the sensation was too much too soon. Her hand shot down and she grabbed Claire’s wrist, stopping her all together.
