“But I’m too heavy,” she starts.
That right there just burns something deep inside my chest.
Like it’s branding me with pure determination to do better by her.To always do better.
And I will.
“Not for me, Honey.”
Her blue eyes go wide.
And I like that.
I like that I’m the one putting that stunned look on her face.That I’m the one shifting her world a little.
She’s probably got a hundred doubts running through that head of hers.
About aging.
About her body.
About whether she’s too much or not enough.
Absolute fucking nonsense.
I’ve been with women.
I’m more than old enough to know what I like.
And I swear on everything that matters, I have never seen a more beautiful woman than the masterpiece that is Kelly McCrae naked in my bedroom right now.
Her blonde hair is a tangled mess across her shoulders.
Her skin is deliciously flushed.
Her breasts are pink where my mouth was and where my beard left its mark.
I’ll shave more regularly.
Not because I mind marking her up—but because I want her to be comfortable.
I want her glowing, not sore.
But goddamn, she looks perfect.
Soft and glowing.
She looks well-fucked.
Mine.
She looks like mine.
The thought hits deep.
“Feet down,” I instruct when we reach the bathroom.
She obeys without argument, which does something to my insides I don’t bother naming.
