I let that thought go before I get too angry for this moment and release the book. Instead of perching on his lap like I’d love to do, I take a seat on the edge of the coffee table in front of me and watch as he pries the album open.
Evie didn’t pull punches with her layout of my photos. The first page features two photos, including a zoomed-in shot of me on my back, the studio floor covered in a thin white sheet beneath my posed body. My black lingerie cups my boobs andholds them higher than they’d sit otherwise. I have my fingertips teasing the band of my panties, with two tucked beneath it. The sheer fabric features black lace designs that offer just enough coverage for my pussy to stay hidden in the shot.
There’s an intimacy to this moment that I wasn’t expecting.
My stomach jumps to my throat, filling the gap I need to breathe. Self-doubt rears its ugly, monstrous head when I focus on the collection of loose skin not tucked beneath my panties. The silver marks that I asked Evie not to touch up or smooth are obvious in the lighting, spreading from where I once had wide, round love handles, across my now-flat stomach and spidering up and out.
I’m proud of those marks and the skin that I once debated having removed. They tell a story that I don’t share often, and I knew seeing them this way would only intensify those feelings. Yet right now, it’s not pride causing my pulse to quicken.
It’s nerves. Fear that Roman’s interest in me—his attraction—could be altered in a way that I didn’t properly prepare myself for. I’ve spent a decade healing and working on loving myself and every inch of skin that’s stretched and shrunk and changed over the course of my life.
One man’s opinion shouldn’t matter to me.
“Say something,” I order forcefully.
His eyes jump from the page. I swallow and blink, struggling to hold such a ruthless gaze.
“Don’t make me be a bad uncle, Brielle.”
“What?”
“Don’t make me tell you that the last thing on my mind while staring at that photo is my niece’s talent.”
I grip my bare knee. “That’s why I wanted to show you them.”
“The skills are hers, but the muse was you. The woman in that photo isyou.” The album falls to the cushion, abandoned. I blink at the photo one last time before forcing myself to look athim, lips parted around nothing. “You have stories written over every inch of you. I want to hear them.”
“Is that what we’re calling them?” I whisper, holding my breath.
Roman spreads his legs wide while leaning forward. Dark, rich cologne washes over me as I sway in his direction, hanging off the table. One soft, warm breeze would be enough to have me falling into his lap.
“That’s what they are, sweetheart. The same way my tattoo is.”
“I want to hear yours, too. Whenever you want to tell me.”
His Adam’s apple pulls. Instead of answering verbally, he slides his hands behind my knees and pulls me to my feet. They remain in place as he shifts me between his legs and then slowly, almost teasingly, guides each one over his thighs until I’m straddling him.
He trails his touch up my legs and around to the curves of my ass, squeezing. I gasp, reaching forward and gripping his shoulders. The back of his head finds the couch as he watches me react, his heated gaze travelling over every inch of my face.
“What I want right now is to fuck you, Brielle,” he says, drawing me closer.
I lean down and drop my mouth to his in a soft kiss of agreement. We both know what this is, but if he needs to convince himself otherwise, then that’s what we’ll do. For now, I’ll agree because I’m not ready to speak it, either.
His tongue snakes between my lips, distracting me. I reach down and begin to pull my shirt up my body before he’s taking my hands and bringing them to his chest instead. He replaces my touch with a calloused one. Our lips part long enough for him to guide the fabric over my head before he’s kissing me again.
It’s been hours since he arrived at my place, and there’s a desperation to the way I’m folding myself against his body thatdoes little to convince me that I’m ready for him to leave anytime soon. I shove my hands up beneath his Havoc sweatshirt and scrape my nails up and over his abs, feeling the coarse hairs that cover them.
Heat blasts between my thighs when he parts my pussy with two fingers. He runs his knuckles through my wet lips before rubbing them in circles over my clit. I glide my lips across his jaw to the space beneath it, sucking hard.
“Don’t mark me,” he groans, but makes no move to pull me away when I carry on instead of pulling back.
His fingers push deep inside me, and my suction fails. I moan into his slick skin, my hips driving forward as I chase the pleasure. He grinds his palm against my mound and works his fingers in a steady, hard rhythm, forcing me to listen to him.
There’s no way I could concentrate enough to give him a hickey when I’m already close to coming.
“I leave in two days, baby. Give me something to think about while I’m gone. Please,” he begs, chasing my mouth when I loop my arm around his neck and lean close.
There’s a needy, pained noise trapped in my throat that I work to keep there. I don’t want him to leave. Not tonight, not tomorrow.
