Page 36 of Inez

It's wonderful.

"Okay?" he whispers, lips near my ear, the words hot and hissing.

I nod. “Yes." I reach up and touch his hands with mine. “I am now. I’m sorry.”

His lips touch my ear. “Don’t apologize. All I want is to make you feel good. Anything that's not good, you stop."

“I’ll try," I whisper.

His hands ghost down my arms, and goosebumps cover my skin. I lean back a little, and feel his hot, wet, hard chest against my back. I give him more of my weight, and he accepts it, tucking his chin against my shoulder. I reach up and back, clasp the back of his head. His hands descend to rest on the upper swell of my hips. Each touch is slow and deliberate, giving me time to stop him.

I don't.

I don't want to.

I don't need to.

As long as I'm focused on Lorenzo, I can manage the fear and control the panic.

I grasp his wet hair, fingers dimpling into his scalp as he brings his hands around to flatten on my belly.

"Lorenzo," I murmur, squirming. "Don't. Not there. The skin—I'm not—it’s not—I don’t like it.”

His lips brush my ear. "Hush, my love.This—" he dimples his fingertips gently in the skin of my belly that never returned to its former tautness, “created life. It is a beautiful thing, to me. There is no part of you that isn't perfect and beautiful and sexy."

I rest my head backward against his shoulder. "I'm so scared, Ren.”

“Of what?"

"I don't know. Everything. That—" I hiccup a sob. "That I won’tbe ableto feel good like that ever again. That I’ll panic. That I'll have a flashback. That I…that I'm broken."

His hands slide down from my belly to my thighs—which I press tightly together, crossing one thigh over the other. I whimper, and his hands rise up to my waist once more.

"It's—" I force my breathing to slow. Force my eyes open. "It's okay. Just…" I let go of his head and drop my hands to his, covering them as they rest on my hips.

I guide his hands back down to my thighs, leaning back against him so I'm off-balance, forcing myself to trust him. His hands splay open and he grips my thighs, dragging his touch up to my hipbone and then back down. His fingers drift inward, slipping between my tight-shut thighs.

I exhale shakily and relax the tension in my legs.

"Okay?" he whispers.

I nod. "Good."

He turns us so we're facing the mirror—it's a large mirror in front of a rather low sink, so our reflection reveals my body down to mid-thigh.

Where his hands are.

Mere inches from my sex.

He's behind me, cheek to my ear, chin to my shoulder, arms around me. My breasts hang heavy, my nipples pebbled and hard, silver-dollar-sized areolae darker than the rest of my flesh.

I look at his hands. Press mine against them and guide his touch back up to my belly, and then to my diaphragm, and then higher, until they're brushing the undersides of my breasts.

"Your tits are incredible," he murmurs.

His praise makes me flush. "Ren," I whisper.

"May I?" He breathes, the words felt against my ear as much as heard.