Page 76 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I bite the bullet. “Cole would get frustrated when I’d have a flare-up. When he’d see me like this, but we couldn’t have sex.”
Ian scowls. “What, like an animal?”
“I—” I never thought about it that way. “I guess?”
Disgust mars his handsome features. “Ellie, that’s fucked-up. You look incredible, but it’s not like I can’t just appreciate the view.” His expression lightens. “As long as you don’t mind me appreciating it. You look… different.”
“Different?”
“Some of it is what you’re in. No tape this time, more…you. But your body’s changed in the past few weeks.”
He watches me for a second, chewing in his lower lip in thought. “Here, face that way.” He points to the mirror over the sink. When I continue to stare at him in confusion, he leans closer, crowding me, and growls, “I’ve picked up that you’re into the authoritative thing, but don’t make me tell you twice.”
My heart leaps at the sudden shift to Commanding Ian tone, and I suck in an involuntary breath of surprise.
He kisses my temple. “Seriously. Please don’t make me tell you again,” he says, his voice normal. “Because I can’t think of a follow-up.”
I bite back a smile and nod, moving toward the sink. Behind me, Ian closes and then locks the bathroom door. The sound of the bolt driving home makes me flinch, but I force my features to relax as he makes his way back to me. His arms wrap around my torso, and I back-burner my panic as the expanse of him scorches into me.
“As I was saying, there’s more definition now. I have no memory of your serratus anterior”—he traces a finger along the muscle visible below my bra band, toward my ribs—“on the night we met. Though that might have been covered by the tape.”
I shiver at the contact, swallowing hard as his hand makes a languid pass down my side. A low sound escapes me, and he does it again, eliciting the same response.
“There wasn’t as much definition in your tone then, but your back…” He places his hands flat against my shoulder blades. “Your teres minor”—his thumbs run over a muscle high on my back—“and teres major—” He shifts to trace above the band of my bra, almost under my arms, the touch sparking across my skin. “Those were memorable.
“Your lats,” he continues, sliding down from my bra to the waistband of my panties, “weren’t as pronounced then.” His hands move lower and freely massage my backside. “And your gluteus maximus,” he says, dreamily. “I think it’s higher now.”
“I’ll trust you on that.” I’m starting to feel lightheaded. “It was a particular favorite of yours that night.”
Ian nods, but the movement transitions to a shake. “Not justthat night.” He gives my ass a double-handed squeeze, then releases me to take hold of my hips, closing the space between us. The length of his erection presses against the channel of my spine.
Despite the confidence reinforced by every interaction I’ve had with this man, a swell of fear rises in my chest. Stress abouthisdesire,hisneeds, my guilt, my pain—
“Ellie.” Ian’s direct tone has me meeting his eyes in the mirror. “I’d like to try something, if you’re okay with it.”
I nod, but he doesn’t look convinced.
Worry tugs at his brows. “You can always tell me to stop. No…” He halts, changing the angle of his body. The hard heat of him leaves my back, taking with it the bulk of my anticipatory stress. “No pressure.”
At his words, the tension gripping my chest releases, like a weight vest falling away. I take in a long breath, like I would for pain abatement, and stare at him.
“Is that what you needed?” he asks softly.
I nod. I didn’t know that; how didhe?
“Ah! I get it.” He smiles, like he’s proud of himself for solving a riddle. It’s so disarming, I smile back.
“As you were?” I encourage and shimmy my shoulders.
His responding grin is feral. “With pleasure.” Still maintaining his distance below the belt, he grips my shoulders and pulls me firmly against his chest. “You have more definition here, too, in your deltoids,” he continues, and outlines the band of muscle from the back of my upper arms to where they arc toward each bicep. “And there’s no missing these Twinkies.” Before I can ask what he’s talking about, he kisses the muscle between my neckand shoulder, which has grown more pronounced in the past weeks; bra straps have been killer. “You have the most beautiful trapezius,” he mutters against my neck.
I giggle, but when he nibbles at the same spot, the sound turns into a whimper. His eyes are intent on my reflection as his hands trace down my sides, resting above my hips.
“Your waist—”
“I don’t have a waist,” I insist. “I’m built like a thumb.”
“No, there’s definite tapering between here”—he shifts his hands down to my hips, palms cupping my outer thighs—“and here.” He reverses the route, palms moving slowly, emphasizing the slight—but not nonexistent—cinch at my waist.
