There is nothing careful about this kiss.
It is hot. Deep. Hungry. His tongue strokes mine, and I feel the groan he holds back in the hard grip of his hands on my waist. Last night, he kissed me like he was asking permission. This morning, he kisses me like he already knows I’m his to please.
He keeps one hand at my waist and slides the other up my back, under the shirt, warm palm over bare skin.
“You sore?” he asks against my mouth.
“A little.”
His hand stills.
I kiss him before he can pull away. “Not too sore.”
“Need truth.”
“That is the truth.”
His gaze searches mine.
Whatever he sees makes his grip turn firmer.
“Then you tell me if that changes.”
“I will.”
He lifts the shirt slowly, giving me time, giving me choice. I raise my arms, and he pulls it over my head, dropping it somewhere behind him. Morning light touches my skin, and every insecurity wakes at once. My belly. My thighs. My softness on display in his lap.
Ace sees the flinch.
His hands stop.
“No hiding.”
My throat tightens.
He bends and kisses the top of one breast. Then the other. “Beautiful.”
I close my eyes.
“Look at me when I tell you.”
I do.
“Beautiful,” he says again. “Mine to touch.”
My body melts around the words.
His hand slips between us. He touches me gently at first, checking, coaxing, making sure the ache from last night softens into heat. It does. Too fast. My fingers dig into his good shoulder, and he smiles against my throat.
“There she is.”
“Ace.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
He frees himself from his briefs with one hand, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he grips my hips and lifts me just enough to position me over him.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Take what you can.”
