Page 74 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“You’re no longer fascinated with boobs?” Playing the role of vixen, she undoes her bra clasp and lets the lacy fabric hit the floor.

The sound I make is savage. “I can’t explain it. You’re fucking beautiful, but I feel wrathful when I look at you. Angry I missed ten years of this.”

“You’re angry?” She takes fistfuls of my shirt and yanks it up and over my head. Her sigh as she palms my abs undoes me. “You’ve been tormenting me with these for weeks. Being this hot should be illegal.”

Loving her as much as I do should be outlawed.

I tug her to me, groaning at the skin-on-skin contact. “Bet they feel better like this, rubbing all over you.”

Her body trembles against me, and I can’t get enough of my hands on the velvet-soft skin of her back, the hard crush of her breasts against my chest. My dick throbs with the pressure of all this desire. I wasn’t joking earlier. I’ve never been this hard. The desperation to be inside Delilah flays me with its ferocity. Like I’ll wake up any moment, too late, and she’ll be out of reach again.

Forcing myself to slow down, I dip my head and take one beautiful breast into my mouth. I’m rewarded with a sensual moan. I lavish her with my tongue, coax more sounds from her throat, stroke that pretty pink nipple. Relearn the weight of her, the soft give of her flesh. She’s a woman now—fuller, softer, fiercely addictive. I kiss her sternum, her ribs, on a mission south.

She cups my jaw and stops my descent. “E . . .”

Her hesitancy breaks through the lust clouding my thoughts, leaving room for a sliver of anxiety. Instead of kissing my way lower, I drop to my knees and gaze up at Delilah in all her glory, worried she’s having second thoughts. “Do you want to stop?”

She shakes her head. “It’s just, I have a scar. I don’t want you to be surprised, and I don’t want you to ask about it.”

Here we are then. The crossroad of the promise I made: Don’t ask me to talk about that time. There’s only one answer. “Scars are beautiful. They mean you’re a survivor, and I promise I won’t ask.”

She bites her lip and nods, then pops the button on her jeans. An invitation. Confirmation she wants this as much as I do.

I take over, slowly unzip her fly, part the material, and freeze. “Delilah.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t an angry line on her abdomen, running from hip to hip. The type of scar that implies surgery . . . or, fuck. My mom has one of these, from her C-section with Lennon. She used to remind him of it when he’d do something stupid like getting caught skipping class, saying things like “I have scars from giving birth to you. Why do you have to add emotional scars?”

It can’t be that. Delilah would have told me something so important.

She’s so rigid, I’m not sure she’s breathing. As usual, I’m breathing too hard. I run my thumb over the puckered skin, force a rough swallow and look up at her. What happened? I’m dying to ask.

Her jaw stiffens, like she knows how much this is killing me, how close I am to breaking my promise. Whatever type of surgery she had, it hurt Delilah deeply, and I’m not sure how to stay silent. I sit back on my heels, fist my hands. Try to figure out how to love her the way my body’s urging me to, while ignoring this scar when it scares the shit out of me. I grip her hips, press my forehead to her abdomen, can’t help the tortured sound that escapes.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice breaking. “I know it’s ugly.”

Jesus. Is that what she thinks? That anything about her body’s ugly to me? Instantly, I know. I don’t have a choice. I can’t break my promise. I need to worship her body the way she deserves, show her how gorgeous she is, scars and all. And I can’t risk losing her. Not again. I need Delilah like I need art and oxygen and running and my family—the life rafts in the turbulent waters of my life. She promised me time. In return, I owe her this.

I give the terrifying scar a kiss and look back up at her. “You’re the most beautiful thing in the world to me, all of you, inside and out.”

Her eyes well. “You must not get out much.”

“A hermit for ten years,” I say, both of us smiling sad smiles, but we’re smiling, and I’ll take that over tears. “All of you is gorgeous, Delilah. These tits, though.” I lift up enough to pull the tip of one lush breast into my mouth, showing her how much I love her body. “These make me downright furious.”

She arches with me, her hands dragging through my hair, her nails scraping along my scalp, sending shivers down my spine as I worship her. I don’t pause at her scar this time. I know it’s there. There’s trauma in her past. Our past. There’s also blazing attraction, two bodies and souls meant to merge, best friends under all this passion. I help her out of her jeans and underwear, and yeah. I have to pause again. I need a second. A wrinkle in time so I can memorize Delilah like this, her body bared to me: the soft curls covering all that wet heat, wider hips, fuller thighs, creamy skin that begs for my hands. She’s the definition of feminine allure.

I’m the definition of dumb male.

I no longer remember either of my names. I’m here for someone’s wedding, but I have no clue whose. I’m moving, one hand molded to Delilah’s ass, the other dipping between her thighs, spreading her open, teasing her with little circles as I walk her to the bed.

She doesn’t let me take her over the edge.

“Get these off.” She’s fussing with my jeans. Fly. Briefs. Denim. It all goes down.

I somehow step out of the tangle without getting a concussion. Then naked Delilah Moon is on her knees, holding my steel shaft, stretching her lips over the head of my dick, and I buck. It’s uncontrollable and rough. I think I grunt too. Or scream her name. I sink my hands into all that thick hair and move with her. Not forcefully. I let her lead. There’s too much pleasure twisting at the base of my spine as I watch my rigid flesh sinking into that mouth I love so much, making me angry again. So in love and angry at all I’ve missed I’m worried I’ll be too aggressive.

“Not like this,” I choke out. “I need to be inside you. Please.”

I’m not above begging.