Page 81 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“I absolutely did.” I think I'd been in love with her even back then. “Flynn had to elbow me because I was staring.”
She was full out laughing now, relaxed, present. Perfect.
“There's my girl. Can I touch you?” I asked. “Really touch you?”
“Yes.” Her eyes, already dark with arousal, sparkled for me. Just for me, as she whispered the word.
I started slow, hands skimming over her sides, her soft stomach, the silvery stretch marks I wanted to come all over. I mapped every inch of exposed skin, committing it all to memory for the inevitable lonely nights I had ahead of me. When I unclasped her bra, asking permission with my eyes, she nodded.
“Fuck,” I breathed, taking her in. Her nipples were the softest pink, hard, and calling to me to lick and suck them. “You're perfect. Every inch of you is perfect.”
“I'm not?—“
“You are. These curves, this strength.” I ran my hands over her breasts, watching her face for any sign of where she liked to be touched. “Do you know how many times I've thought about this?”
Shit. Too honest.
But she just arched into my touch, making a soft sound that went straight through me.
“Still good?”
“Don't stop.”
I took my time, worshipping every inch of her with my hands and mouth. Her breasts filled my hands perfectly and I swear to god above her nipples tasted sweet. The curve of her rib cage and into the dip of her hips would haunt me the rest of my life. When I got to her jeans, I paused.
“We can stop here,” I offered.
“No.” She didn't hide her smile from me this time. “I trust you.”
I love you. I love you so fucking much.
I helped her out of her jeans, taking my time, pressing kisses to each newly exposed bit of skin. Her thighs were thick and strong and perfect, and I couldn't help myself.
“These thighs,” I groaned. “Artie, these fucking thighs.”
“You're obsessed with my thighs.”
“Completely. Utterly. Obsessed.” I ran my hands up them. “They're perfect. You're perfect.”
When she was down to just her underwear, I could see her starting to overthink again.
“Hey, where'd you go? Look at me.”
She met my eyes.
“There you are. Stay with me.” I moved back up to kiss her. “We don't have to do anything else. This can be enough.”
“I want to. I just... I'm scared.”
“Of what, sweetheart?” The endearment slipped out before I could stop it.
“Of being too much. Of not being enough. Of disappointing you.” The shudder that went through her eyes had to be the memory of every lover who'd let her think she'd disappointed them.
I'd never been more irritated in my life that I wasn't a serial killer. They all deserved torture at best.
“You could never disappoint me.” I cupped her face with both hands. “You're exactly right. You're exactly perfect. You don't have to be anything but yourself.”
“What if I can't... come?”
