Just focused.
Like I’m the center of his gravity.And God, I want that to be true.
His hands slide around my waist and pull me against him.And then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is deep.Possessive.Demanding in that way that always makes my knees weak.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth like he’s claiming territory, and the sound that escapes me is embarrassingly needy.
His hands roam over my curves, my breasts, my hips, my soft belly.But he likes that about me.He likes my body.
And, God, I can hardly believe it, but he says he always has.
For years—decades—I lived in a marriage where desire felt like something I had to apologize for.
Where my body was something barely tolerated.Scorned, really.Taken for granted.
It was never celebrated, and sure as shit, never worshipped.
And then J.T.came crashing into my life like a storm through the mountains.
And suddenly, everything changed.
He touches me like I’m treasure.
Looks at me like I’m fire.
And somewhere along the way I started feeling something I hadn’t felt since I was a girl.
Free.
Alive.
Myself.
“Turn around,” he growls.
My pulse jumps.
“What?”
“Turn,” he repeats, voice darker now.
“Hands on the tile.”
The command sends a shiver racing through me.
There’s something about the certainty in his voice.
The way he assumes I’ll listen.
The way he knows I trust him enough to.
And the truth is, I do.
Completely.I turn slowly, placing my palms against the cool tile wall.
Behind me I hear him shift closer.Feel the heat of his body.
