Page 17 of Chosen By the BRATVA Grump

I set her on her feet by the end of it. She reaches straight for the hem of her t-shirt.

“Wait.” I put my hand over hers, and she stops. “Two things first, and then I don’t want to talk about paperwork again tonight.”

“Oh, God. Is this a health and safety briefing?”

“The floor of your gallery. I finished inside you without asking you first. I’ve never done that with anyone. That’s not an excuse, it’s information. I need to know you’re okay with it, or I won’t do it.”

Her face softens in a way I feel down the length of my spine. “I know. I was thinking about it at three this morning. I’ve had a full panel since Craig. Everything’s clear.”

“There’s been nobody since I first saw you. Before that I was careful, every time, and I have the tests to prove it.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Here’s the second.” I take her chin between my thumb and finger and tip her face up. “Tonight you tell me what you want out loud, in words, and I’ll do it. Any of it. If something isn’t good, you say so and I stop. You’re not a lot. You’re not too much. You’re perfect exactly as you are and I want to spend the rest of my life showing you that.”

Her eyes go glassy and her chin moves in my hand.

“Don’t cry, Kimmie.”

“I’m not crying, I’m having a large feeling.” She wipes under her glasses with her wrist and then takes them off and puts them on the nightstand with great care. “Right. Take that shirt off, because I’ve been thinking about your abs so much I’m beginning to think I imagined them.”

I take the shirt off. She looks at me with the frank, delighted attention she gives a painting she’s decided to hang, and then she reaches out and puts her palm flat on my stomach, and my whole body goes tight.

I pull her t-shirt over her head. Underneath it she is naked. Her breasts are heavy and full and marked with the pale lines of a body that grew into itself, and I put my mouth on her before she has time to think about any of that, my hand taking the weight of the other one, my thumb dragging over her nipple until she moans towards the ceiling.

“Tell me,” I say against her skin.

“Harder. With your teeth, a little—” she breaks off on another moan.

She goes back onto the bed with her hair everywhere, and I follow her down. I take my time. Her ribs, the crease at the top of her thigh, the soft place under her arm that makes her jackknife and laugh and then swear at me. Her legs open around my shoulders and she is already slick, and when I get my mouth on her she says my name in the exact register I’ve been desperate to hear again. She talks the whole way through it.

Faster, no, like that, God, Natan, don’t you dare stop, and then a stretch of language that stops being words at all, when her thighs lock either side of my head and she comes with her fist in the sheet.

I work her down slowly and then come up over her. She is loose and flushed and grinning at me like a woman who has won something at a fair.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello.” I get out of my jeans. Her eyes travel down and her mouth opens slightly, and my cock is so hard it aches. “Tell me.”

“I want you on top of me.” She pulls at my shoulders. “I want to be able to see your face, and I want it slow enough that I can be smug about it later.”

I take myself in hand and push into her carefully, because she is small and I’m not, and because I want to watch every stage of it cross her face. She lifts her knees and her breath comes out ragged, her hands flatten on my back.

“All right?”

“Yes,” she says on a breath, like she is overwhelmed and eager all at once.

I sink the rest of the way and hold there, propped over her, with her heart going against my chest. Then I move. She meets me on every stroke, and she keeps talking, and I keep answering. Somewhere in the middle of it I tell her things I have never said to another living person; that I want her in my bed and in my car and in my life and she can have every hour I own.

“Yours,” she gasps. “I’m yours, I’m yours, just don’t stop.” She arches against me then, pressing her tits against my chest.

I get my hand between us and find her clit with my thumb, and she comes apart underneath me, gripping me so hard that my rhythm goes to pieces. I bury my face in her neck and drive into her and finish with a sound I don’t recognize as mine, filling her, shaking with it, holding my weight off her on one forearm because even now I know exactly how big I am.

Afterward she lies half across my chest with one leg thrown over both of mine and her hand splayed under my collarbone. The lamp is still on under its scarf. She yawns and it turns into a laugh.

“Ask me something,” she says, mumbling it into my ribs. “Your turn. Fair’s fair.”

“What’s the orange dab on the boat picture for?”