Page 75 of A Taste of Vanilla

His eyes look up at me. “Don’t hide from me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

I force myself to breathe. To stop sucking in and trying to flatten myself into some edited version of a woman who does not have a body, or pain, or scars, or too many feelings or too much skin.

His hands spread over my waist. “There you are,” he says.

“Don’t be nice to me now.”

“I’m not being nice.”

“No?”

“No.” His mouth lowers, brushing over my ribs. “I’m being honest.”

I have no defense against him. None at all.

He eases me down onto the mattress, covering me with his body but holding enough weight off me that I never feel trapped. The mattress drops with our weight, and the blue bee pillow falls off the side like it’s decided to give us privacy.

Somewhere outside, a siren’s wail fades.

He kisses me until my hands shake and my breath breaks. Until want turns hotter than any memory.

When his mouth moves down my body, my thoughts scatter. He’s still careful. Infuriatingly so. Attentive in a way that makes it impossible to turn my brain off. Every sound I make changes something in him. Every arch, every gasp, every yes puts more heat in his eyes, more roughness in his breath, and more proof that control costs him.

I want it to cost him more. I want him wrecked. As undone as I feel.

His fingers hook into my underwear, and he looks up.

I nod.

He does not move.

“Yes, please,” I cry.

“Say it.”

My thighs press together automatically, and his gaze drops before lifting back to my face. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not.

“Yes,” I say. “Take them off.”

He does. Slowly.

Then his mouth is on me, and the room dissolves.

I grab the sheet with one hand and his hair in the other, ruining the bun completely. Dark strands come loose around my fingers, thick and softer than anything about him looks.

He groans against me when I pull, the sound and vibration hitting me like heat lightning.

I moan loudly. Once, twice, and then I lose count.

He doesn’t rush. He takes me apart carefully with his tongue, with the kind of focus that makes me feel like I’m the only thing he ever wanted to do right.

His hands hold my thighs open; his mouth is filthy, patient, and perfect.

I am going to die above this bar, and the police report is going to be humiliating.