Page 78 of Yearn
He groaned. “Look at those sexy breasts.”
Dominic's heated gaze seared into my skin, branding me in ways I'd never imagined possible.
Since having the kids. . .since the weight shifts and stretch marks etched themselves across my body, I’d carried this quiet shame and embarrassment about how I looked. My breasts weren’t the high, perfect orbs they’d once been—they sagged, fuller, softer, reshaped by milk and motherhood.
Most days I thought of them as misshapen.
And it wasn’t just my breasts. My belly bore the record too—looser skin, a gentle pouch that never went away no matter how many crunches or cleanses I swore I’d stick to.
My hips had widened and stayed wide, the soft fat clinging there as if it had every right to remain.
Even when I dressed up for work, heels clicking and lipstick bright, that self-conscious whisper never shut up: you’re too heavy now, too stretched, too old, tooruinedto be anyone’s fantasy.
But Dominic. . .
This young, sexy muscular god stared at me like none of that was true. Like sagging breasts, stretch-marked belly, and generous hips weren’t flaws but exquisite proof that I was his queen to be worshipped.
His eyes dragged over every so-called imperfection with the focus of a man taking inventory of treasure. His tongue slipped against his lip as if even the thought of me was enough to starve him.
That drove me closer to cumming.
I moaned and rubbed my pussy against the rose.
He took it away and then shut it off. “No.”
“Dominic—”
“Bad Mommy.”
I blinked, thrown off balance and buzzing with lust. “I’m about to fight you.”
He just grinned.
Dear God. Will he let me cum?
Chapter fifteen
The Edge of Control
Teyonah
Dominic licked his lips. “You look so sexy naked.”
I didn’t even know what to do with that. How long had it been since a man said that to me?
Too fucking long.
His thumb grazed a coppery stretch mark along my belly.
I tried to move his hand.
He sneered and put it right back, tracing it as if he were following an important Bible scripture. “See this?”
“It’s a stretchmark.”
“It’s vascular artistry. Scar tissue is stronger than unbroken skin—it means you heal better than most. You’re engineered resilience.”
“What?” My laugh came out broken, confused. I didn’t know if he was diagnosing me or devouring me.
