Page 281 of Wicked Brutal

“I mean it.” I kiss the corner of her mouth that isn’t cut. “Look at you. Coming over here in my clothes. Letting me take them off. Trusting me with all of this after the day we had.”

I kiss her throat next. Then the place where her neck meets her shoulder. I slide the tank up the same way — slow, checking her face — and when it joins the sweatshirt I have to swallow.

The bruises are still there. Changing color. Finger-shaped. I don’t put my mouth on them. I kiss the unmarked skin beside them instead, like I can draw a new map over the old one.

“I hate these,” I whisper. “I hate that he put them on you. I love every other inch of you so much it doesn’t even make sense.”

Her fingers find my hair. “I’m here.”

“I know.” I kiss the top of her sternum. “That’s why I’m going this slow. I want to remember it. I want you to feel me remembering it.”

The leggings come next. I hook my thumbs in the waistband and look up. She nods again. I peel them down, kneeling to help her step out, and I press my mouth to the small curve of her stomach before I stand.

“Hi,” I say against her skin, the same way I always do. “Dad’s here. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Ally’s breath stutters.

I rise and kiss her mouth again, deeper now, still careful of her lip, and walk her backward until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. I lower her onto the bed like she’s something I don’t get to drop. She looks up at me from my sheets — hair messy, tank gone, bruises hidden again by shadow and the way she lies, that tiny swell I would burn the world down for. I stay standing one second, just looking.

“God, Ally.” My voice is rough. “You’re it. You’re the whole thing. Let me look at you for a minute.”

Then I follow her down. The bed dips under my knees. I kiss her mouth once more, then her jaw, then the unhurt side of her throat. Slow. Like I’ve got all night even though the clock in the other room is lying about that. No bra. I already knew. Still wrecks me. I kiss the top of one breast, then the other, open-mouthed and careful.

“So pretty,” I murmur against her skin. “Soft. Warm. Mine. I love these. I love how they’re changing. I love that you let me have them after everything.”

Her fingers slide into my hair when I take one nipple into my mouth, gentle, then the other. She makes a small sound and I feel it all the way down my spine.

“Just feel it,” I say against her.

I kiss lower. The line between her ribs. The place above her navel. Then the small swell of our baby, both hands framing it while I press slow kisses there like a promise I don’t say out loud this time. She already heard it in the other room.

“Ryan—“

“I know.” I kiss the inside of her hip. “I’m going. I’m not rushing you.”

I hook my fingers in her panties and look up. She lifts her hips for me. I draw them down her legs and toss them aside without looking where they land. Then she’s bare on my bed and I have to sit back for a second just to see her.

“Fuck.” It comes out wrecked. “Look at you. Laid out for me. Carrying my baby. Trusting me with this body tonight.” I kiss the inside of one knee. “I’m going to take care of you. That’s all this is. Let me.”

I settle between her thighs. The first kiss is soft. Just my mouth against her, breathing her in. Then I lick a slow stripe up her center and her hips twitch.

“Easy.” My hand spreads over her stomach, grounding her. “Stay with me.”

I take my time. Long, lazy strokes of my tongue. No rush to the spot that makes her shake. I kiss her inner thighs when she starts to tense, then come back, circling her clit without giving her enough. She tastes like her. Like home. I make a sound I don’t mean to make.

“You taste so good,” I tell her, low against her. “I could do this for hours. I want to. I want this in my head when I close my eyes.”

“Ryan—please—“

“I know, baby.” I slide my hands under her thighs and hold her open, still going slow. “Not yet. Stay right here. Let me have this a little longer.”

I suck her clit gently, then back off, licking around it, kissing, breathing on her until she’s wet and restless and her fingers are tight in my hair. I don’t let her go over. I just keep her there — mouth on her, praise against her skin, memorizing the way she sounds when she wants me and still trusts me to decide when.

Then I give her more of the same. My tongue flattens over her clit in long strokes, then circles, then sucks just enough that her thighs jump around my head. I slide two fingers into her when she’s ready for it, curling them deep and unhurried, matching the pace of my mouth.

“Let me hear you.”

She does. The sounds start small. Then they don’t. Soft moans. Little broken sounds that go straight through me. My name, wrecked and quiet, like she doesn’t have enough air for anything else.