s
remain dark.
And I don’t know if it’s because he made love to me
this morning, and I mean really made love to me, gently,
sweetly, or if it was his impassioned declaration—yes . . . I
do—but I don’t feel embarrassed at all. I want to be sexy
for this man. He deserves sexy—he makes me feel sexy.
Okay, it’s new to me, but I’m learning under his expert
tutelage. And then again, so much is new to him, too. It
balances the seesaw between us, a little, I think.
I am wearing some of my new underwear—a white
lacy thong and matching bra—a designer brand with a
price tag to match. I step out of my jeans and stand there
for him in the lingerie he’s paid for, but I no longer feel
cheap. I feel his.
Reaching behind I unhook my bra, sliding the straps
down my arms, and drop it on top of my blouse. Slowly, I
slip my panties off, letting them fall to my ankles, and step
out of them, surprised by my grace.
Standing before him, I am naked and unashamed, and
I know it’s because he loves me. I no longer ha一ve to hide.
I know it’s because he loves me. I no longer ha一ve to hide.
He says nothing, just gazes at me. All I see is his desire, his
adoration even, and something else, the depth of his need
—the depth of his love for me.
He reaches down, lifts the hem of his cream-colored
sweater, and pulls it over his head, followed by his T-shirt,
revealing his chest, never taking his bold gray eyes off
mine. His shoes and socks follow before he grasps the
button of his jeans.
Reaching over, I whisper, “Let me.”
His lips purse briefly into an ooh shape, and he smiles.
“Be my guest.”
I step toward him, slip my fearless fingers inside the
waistband of his jeans, and tug so he’s forced to take a
step closer to me. He gasps involuntarily at my unexpected
audacity then smiles down at me. I undo the button, but
before I unzip him I let my fingers wander, tracing his
erection through the soft denim. He flexes his hips into my
palm and closes his eyes briefly, relishing my touch.
“You’re getting so b
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