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How I’ll always be his after tonight even if he isn’t mine.
His best nanny there ever was.
And it all goes to plan while he’s kissing me and letting me move against him — God, I can’t stop moving. I can’t stop rubbing up against him, twisting and writhing and dancing. It’s all fun and games as I get to explore his body with my fingers and my feet.
But then he starts removing my clothes and my determination to be good slips up a little.
He does it like he said he would too.
Unwrapping me like I’m his Christmas gift.
And from the looks of it, he must be one of those impatient kids growing up who rip into the wrapping paper. The ones who don’t care about the trappings; they just want it out of the way so they can get to the present inside.
In his case, the present is me.
His gift is my bare skin.
My pale and rounded curves.
And once he gets to me, he can’t stop himself from playing with me. From raking his fingers along the length of my body, or pinching me in places, tweaking my flesh, kneading it, squeezing it. And as much as I try to be good, as much as I try to let him have his way with the gift that he’s wanted for half a year, it’s hard.
It’s hard to stay still when I’m this exposed.
When every inch of me isthisexposed.
Every inch that I’ve come to accept — yes — but still feel some shyness over. Every inch that’s either too rounded or too pale. Too jiggly or sagging down to the sides because of their weight.
It’s my boobs. My big, heavy boobs that are sagging to my sides.
Every inch that no one,not a single soul in this world, has seen naked.
I don’t like being insecure about my body, not after how hard I’ve fought to win that battle, but in this moment, I still do. I still wonder what he’s thinking. I still wonder if I’m good enough for him.
For the man I love.
And I didn’t know that my turmoil on the inside is also translating outside, in the way I’m squirming and putting my hands up to hide myself, until he presses his weight down on me — his fully clothed weight — and jerks my arms up, holding them prisoner between his fingers.
“If you don’t stop,” he says, his voice hoarse and raspy and oh so commanding, “I’m going to have to do something about your hands.”
“I just…”
My words trail off on a gasp.
Because every time I take a breath, my bare curves rub against his fully clothed planes and I shiver. A current runs through me when I feel his buttons flickering over my hard nipples and when my belly button rubs against the steel buckle of his belt.
He flexes his hold around my wrists. “You just what?”
I look into his dark eyes, digging my heels into his butt, trying to control my reactions at all the rubbing and friction. “I’m not… My body… I-I’m okay with it but I… it’s not —”
“If this is one of those times where you say absolutely ridiculous things about your fucking magnificent body, I have to warn you that I won’t be happy.”
My heart skips a beat at his phrasing.
I still try to warn him though. I mean, he goes out with girls like Tara and even though he said he’s wanted me for so long, thinking about it and actually seeing it in person are two different things and I just… I don’t want to disappoint him I guess.
“But, Riot, I’m not —”
He presses his weight on me, holding my wrists even tighter. “You are.”
