Page 128 of The Myths of Ophelia
The air in the room sizzled with each inch I lowered, and this waiting game almost felt symbolic, torturously so. Like all these weeks we’d been hiking the path of recovery together had finally led us to the summit.
And dammit if the view wasn’t spectacular as she stood before me in nothing but white lace undergarments and those gold cuffs.
I pressed a kiss to her hip, the bottom of her ribs, between her breasts, until I stood and skimmed my hand up her side. “You’re perfect,” I whispered, brushing my thumb across her peaked nipple, and I nearly groaned when she inhaled, arching into me.
I stepped closer, keeping that hand toying with her breast and cupping her cheek with the other, and kissed her with a searing intensity that said,we survived. The sound of the fire crackling through the room filled the space between our rushing breaths and her soft moans.
She writhed against me, and I was ready to sink into her, but there was one more thing we needed to discuss.
Pulling back, I lifted Mila’s hand and looked at her wrist. I wouldn’t push this. Not if she wasn’t ready. A nervous waver flickered across her face.
“You can keep them on. It doesn’t change anything,” I promised. “But when you’re ready, I want all of you.”
She swallowed, her pulse racing. “I know you’ve seen the scars, but I’ve never taken them off while sleeping with anyone.”
“You don’t have to.” I kissed her and muttered against her lips, “One day, if you want, you can.”
Something in my words settled over her, and Mila studied the intricately carved ivy design. The gold shimmered in the firelight, such beautiful pieces to mark an ugly span of history.
Then, she looked squarely at me, cheeks flushed. “I’m ready.”
And somehow, those two words were more significant than any secret between us—than anything else we might do.
The heaviness of it settled on my chest. The audible click of Mila unlatching those cuffs and setting them delicately on theshelf beside the bed—her turning to me with her past on display—was a different level of vulnerability.
The scars along my back—both fresh and older—tingled as if in understanding.
As she stepped back to me, close enough that her lace-clad breasts brushed against my chest, she placed one hand on my shoulder. She looked right at the scars that would forever mar her skin and studied where they met mine.
After a moment she lifted her eyes to mine and said, “Thank you.”
My brows rose. “For what?”
“For making me feel safe.” My heart nearly cracked at the sincerity weighing those words. Like she’d needed that comfort but hadn’t realized it.
And a part of me thought I’d needed to be able to give that to someone again.
Gently, I brought her wrist to my lips and kissed her scars, holding her eyes as I did. Noting how her breath hitched.
“You’re so fucking strong, Mila.” I walked her back toward the bed, guiding her to the pillows, and her eyes sparkled. “So fucking strong for all you’ve survived.” I settled between her hips again, rocking against her core. Through the thin layers of her undergarments and my shorts, I could already feel how drenched she was, and fuck did I want her. But she deserved to be worshiped first. “Now—tonight—I want you to remember that.” I crawled back down her body. “And I want you tolet go.”
I started with the scars on her legs and worked up. The large one around the back of her ankle, the ones peppering her calves and thighs, and a jagged one slicing down from her hip. I pressed kisses into them to remind her she was a damn survivor.
“Every one of these scars is a sign of what you endured,” I said. “I love them.”
As I finally settled between her legs, I pressed a languid kiss over the silk covering her center. Dragged the sensitive bud between my teeth and her back arched off the bed.
“Please, Malakai,” she said as I repeated that.
“What?” I asked, holding her hips still. “Eyes on me when you ask.”
She lifted her head, looking me directly in the eye, but she didn’t ask. “Touch me.”
I nearly exploded. Hooking my fingers into her waistband, I dragged the silk down her toned legs. I took in every inch of her, stroking myself through my shorts to alleviate the ache.
“Fucking Spirits,” I breathed.
I ducked my head, tongue exploring exactly where I’d dug my teeth in. I stroked up her center, learning what patterns made her squirm the most. What had her back arching and hands kneading her breasts—a damn beautiful sight. Pushing two fingers into her, I pumped in and out.
