Then I'm over her. Weight on one elbow, my other hand on her ribs, looking down at her. Her hair is fanned out on the pallet, her chest rising and falling fast.
I kiss her again.
Slower this time. Working into her mouth. Letting her open. My hand at her waist sliding under the hem of her shirt, palm flat against her bare skin, and she gasps and arches into the touch.
"Off."
She sits up. I pull her shirt over her head.
The room is dim, her skin glowing pale gold. Scattered with freckles. The small scar on her left shoulder. Her chest rising and falling fast.
I look. Long. Properly.
"What?" She's flushed. "What is it?"
"Looking at you."
"You're—Keer, just—"
"Let me look."
Her hands drop from where they were halfway to covering herself. She holds still.
I take my time.
My mouth drops to her throat. Her collarbone. Her shoulder where the small scar is—I press my lips to it without thinking and she makes a sound that breaks in the middle.
I lift my head.
Her eyes are wet.
"Nobody's ever—it's a stupid scar."
"It's mine now."
She closes her eyes.
I kiss it again.
Then lower. Down her chest. Mouth finding her breast. Her hand fists in my hair when I take her nipple between my lips—careful, slow—and her back arches up off the pallet and the sound she makes goes straight through me.
"Keer—"
"I've got you."
I work her like that. Mouth on one breast, hand on the other, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her thigh hook over mine, what makes her hips lift looking for more pressure.
So responsive.
Every place I touch she answers. Her hand in my hair tightening and loosening and tightening again.
My own body's a problem I'm ignoring. Hard since she said stay.
But not yet.
Her first.
I move down to her stomach. Her hip. The edge of her trousers. My hands on the waistband, working them down without asking, slow, watching her face.
