Page 82 of Mine to Worship

I press my forehead on his and brush my nose against his.

“You are lovable and so damn strong. Despite everything, you became a great man.”

He wraps his arms around me. We have never been closer, as he lets me see all his wounds, all that vulnerability.

After breakfast, we wave my parents goodbye and stroll to the backyard. I lie in his arms on the lounge chair outside. His confession still echoes in my brain and seeing him torn by turmoil twisted my insides. I can’t believe his own father would do that.

How could Kian believe enough in my love when all he has known is rejection and abandonment? If I could bathe him in my love, to hug him and never let him go, to shield him from everything, kiss every scar and help him heal, I would.

We’ll both heal by seeking refuge in the arms of each other.

His hands glide down my chest, and over my belly and there it rests. He caresses the small protruding belly. I tilt my head up and he takes my lips for a kiss filled with love.

When the sun dips below the trees, he carries me into the shower. Under the spray, he slides the loofa over my body while he nibbles on my neck. He presses it between my legs, and I part them.

“More,” I say, the raspy breath I let out carrying unadulterated need.

He drops the loofah and he slides two fingers inside me.

“So wet, angel.”

I smile at the awe I detect in his eyes, and I say playfully, “We’re in the shower.”

He slaps my pussy, and I buck, moaning. “Wrong answer.”

I tilt my head. “Let me think.”

Another slap on my pussy and sensations rips through me as he holds me with his other hand around my stomach. He strums my clit, and his fingers make my body combust.

“It’s always wet for you,” I gasp, my breaths coming out in pants. “What was that for?”

His hand finds its way to my pussy once more. “I can do whatever I want. It’s my pussy to love, to fuck, to lick, to eat.” His teeth nibble on my skin, and I shudder.

“More.” I’m greedy for more, for everything only he can give me.

I bite down on my lip and slap my hand against a wall to support myself as he slips inside me, and I cry out in maddening satisfaction.

Our skin slaps together as he thrusts in and out of me and kisses the corners of my lips.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he says on a rasp. “Come all over my cock, like the good angel you are.” The praise is the final match and I erupt. My climax shoots through me, lighting up my body. The shower walls fog with our heated breaths.

“We’re not leaving this shower before you come a second time.”

“Kian.” The first orgasm was so powerful; I am afraid the second will liquefy my limbs.

He lifts me by my ass and leans me against the shower wall. Eyes locked, we remain suspended in pure intimacy. I play with the ends of his hair and his features turn soft. With utter gentleness, he pushes inside me. He kisses me, holding me to him as if to glue us together––a tenderness in every touch, in every pillowy kiss and with him making love with me, I climb towards my release again.

His muscles pull taut as he empties himself inside me, coming with a stuttered groan. He steadies me and cups my face.

“I love to fuck you, I could also spend the rest of my life making love to you.” His words spark a fire in my chest I doubt will be extinguished.

Two weeks go by. With each passing day, the hurt I feel dims, my walls crack and crumble, one after the other. Love is also about forgiving, healing, moving on, about working on the relationship. I can’t remain immune when I feel his love for me in every glance, in every touch, in every breath, restoring my trust in him, us, our love, and future together.

“Your father is coming to see you, today,” I say and lean my cheek against his palm.

My relaxed and happy husband starts brooding again. We’ll get past his demons, with patience, in time. But they need to talk.

The sun dips lazily over the horizon. We’re snuggled on the couch with snacks, watching an MMA fight when we hear the rumble of an engine. Kian’s head snaps to the door and he groans, his body stiffening.

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