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At least, they used to be.
That thought is jolted from my brain when his fingers slide over the jagged scar in the valley between my breasts. I don’t know how I forgot about its existence. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t thinking about the mortification that eats away at me at the thought of someone staring at it. Other than the doctors, my parents, and Viola, no one else has seen the ugliness that mars me.
The puckers and ridges of the flesh painstakingly stitched back together again before healing in a jagged line six inches in length. Maybe there was a time when I enjoyed wearing bikinis, but it’s been years. When I shop for a swimsuit, I’m careful to buy ones that cover as much of my cleavage as possible. I don’t want people staring or asking questions with morbid fascination, wanting a retelling of the accident.
That’s not a day I want to mentally relive.
It was hard enough the first time.
“I have a scar,” I blurt in a raspy voice.
The thought of him studying me is enough to have my arms rising to shield the old wound from view. Before I’m able to do it, his hands lock around my wrists, halting my movements. Not a sound escapes from either of us as he gently returns my arms to my sides.
He gives me a gentle squeeze before releasing them. Then his fingertips settle at the top of the jagged line before sliding downward, tracing every suture that held my skin together. Fifty of them in total because of the depth of the wound.
I shift, only wanting to dislodge his hand, and choke out, “Please don’t.”
His fingers stall, pausing over the old wound. With a shift, he looms over my upper torso until I can feel the heat of his breath ghosting across the area. At this point, I’m panting. Any moment I’ll hyperventilate as my chest rises and falls in quick succession.
Everything inside stills as he presses his lips to the ruined flesh. His tongue darts out to lave the skin until every millimeter has been touched. He continues to lick and kiss the imperfection as his hands play with my breasts, toying with the nipples. It doesn’t take long before they’re both erect little points that beg for his attention. He palms the softness until I’m writhing beneath him, seeking out more of his gentle touch.
When he finally pulls away, I almost grieve the loss. His hands drift from my breasts down my ribcage before pausing at my hipbones. I squeeze my thighs tightly together, only now becoming aware that the robe is completely parted.
It’s been that way for a while, and I didn’t notice.
His fingers ghost over me, sliding to my inner thighs before carefully prying them apart. It’s tempting to put up a fight, but this man has been so gentle and giving. I force myself to relax as he presses them wider. On a shaky exhale, I allow them to fall open. For a long, painful moment, there’s no movement. My ears strain, attempting to pick up the slightest sound, but there’s nothing.
Nothing but the harshness of his own labored breathing.
It almost matches mine, which seems strange.
One hand rises from my inner thigh, and everything in me stops, waiting for him to finally touch me. It’s almost a surprise when the backs of his knuckles brush across the top of my mound. Electricity explodes within my core, and I can’t help but shift restlessly beneath him.
Am I trying to wiggle away?
Or get closer?
I don’t know.
There are so many conflicting thoughts that are racing through my muddled brain.
When he repeats the movement for a second time, a whimper escapes from me and I realize that I’ve widened my legs, wanting more of his soothing touch. Even though I’m blinded to the world around me, I feel the heat of his stare searing my naked flesh.
No one has ever looked at my body so intensely.
Not even me.
His hands glide across my inner thighs. They’re not soft or pampered but calloused. When he squeezes them, the fingertips sink into my flesh. I can’t help but wonder if bruises will be left in their wake. He gently forces them further open until the cool air of the room caresses my bare pussy. I’ve never felt more exposed in my life.
On display.
There’s something about having the blindfold partially covering my face that stops me from being eaten alive with embarrassment.
I’m unable to see him.
I have no idea who the man is touching me.
It allows me to feel removed from the situation at hand in a way I didn’t expect but is entirely welcome.
