Page 167 of Tag

He set the brush down with care, then gathered my hair again, running his hand from crown to tip like he was memorizing the strands by touch.

“I love your hair,” he murmured. “Like woven silk.”

I blinked at him in the mirror, watching as he shifted it over one shoulder, exposing the slope of my neck.

“Know what else I love?” he asked, his eyes never leaving mine.

“What?” I whispered, heart already starting to throb.

“These eyes,” he murmured. “You’ve had me by the throat with them since we were kids. Still do.” He moved closer, and his fingers ghosted over my cheek. “These. The way they flush when you’re embarrassed… or turned on.”

He trailed lower, brushing his thumb along my lower lip. “Your mouth. Drives me fucking crazy.”

Lower, fingertips grazing the hollow of my throat as he traced the jagged half-heart charm that still rested there. “This gets an honorary mention.” His tone dipped darker, rougher. “You still wear it.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

His hands continued their slow descent, brushing lightly over my chest until his palms curved fully around my breasts, thumbs teasing once over the peaks.

“These,” he murmured, giving them a slow, appreciative squeeze, “are perfection. Look how they fit in my hands. Like they were fucking made for me.” He lowered his mouth to my neck, dragging his lips across the skin before planting a kiss just beneath my ear. His hands slid lower, ghosting down my sides before flattening over my stomach. He held it gently, his thumb sweeping across the center. “This is where our babies will grow someday. Right here.” His palm lingered, protective and possessive all at once.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Then his hands reached my waist. “These hips,” he said quietly, “I’ve imagined holding onto them more times than I’ll ever admit.”

His breath brushed the back of my neck. “When you ride me, when I bend you over, and when you sit on my face, these are what I get to hold onto.”

Lower still, he ran both palms over my ass, squeezing once, hard enough to make me gasp. “This,” he growled, “has been mine since before you even knew what I wanted it for.” He slid one hand down the outside of my thigh, coaxing it gently open. Then the other, he guided my legs apart, pressing until I was bared to him completely.

“You’ve always been a work of art,” he marveled, voice husky. “But like this, you’re a fucking masterpiece.”

His hand drifted lower, between my thighs, until his fingers brushed over my center—light at first, just a teasing glide as he traced the length of my slit. Up and down. Barely pressing. Barely touching. But every pass lit another fuse.

“You wanna know why I love this?” he murmured, his voice pitched low against the shell of my ear. “Because it’s always soaked for me.”

Another slow pass, more deliberate now.

I bit my lip, breath catching. My body trembled under his hands, the pressure of him behind me, the mirror in front of me, reminding me how utterly exposed I was. And how much I liked it.

“You know what I love most?” he asked, still stroking, torturing me with just enough to make me close to begging.

I swallowed hard. “What?”

“You,” he said simply. “Every inch. Inside and out. Every thought. Every scar. Every twisted, fucked-up thing you hide from the world—I love it. I love you.”

My eyes fluttered shut.

“Rye…” I whispered, voice raw.

He kissed the spot just below my ear again, one hand still between my thighs. His fingers slowed… then one slipped inside me.

“Fuck,” he breathed. I didn’t imagine it.

I braced a hand against the marble countertop, breath shuddering. His body remained solid behind mine, his chest to my back, hips just barely touching. Then his other hand rose and wrapped around my throat. Not tight. Just enough to hold me still.

He added a second finger, then a third, eliciting a moan from my chest. His hand on my throat tightened just enough to make me arch, the curve of my spine pressing my ass flush to him. His fingers began to move, thrusting in and out in a slow, torturous rhythm that had my knees threatening to buckle. Each glide sent heat curling deep in my belly, my breath fogging up the glass as I held his gaze in the mirror.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice gravel and smoke. “How can’t you see how beautiful you are?”

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