Lovegame(92)

Oh, he didn’t do anything that I didn’t want him to do—that I didn’t, in fact, beg him to do. Just that every touch, every kiss, every bite he delivered had been calculated to bring me the maximum amount of pleasure.

And he’d succeeded—God, had he ever. Before he came into my life, I never could have imagined that I was capable of the kind of response he pulls from me, the kind of response that has me grinning at the mirror hours later even as I catalog the damage. No, Ian Sharpe hadn’t given me my sense of self back, but he did show me how to reclaim it. And that’s made all the difference.

With that thought I turn to the side, tilt my head a little so I can get a better look at my body—and all of the marks on it.

There are so many I almost don’t know where to start.

Love bites line my throat, dot my breasts, color my stomach and inner thighs and even my calves. Purple bands circle my forearms and biceps, where he held me down at times. If I look closely I can see the imprint of his thumbs on the inside of my wrists and forearms, from when the heat of it all got away from him. Got away from us both.

It’s freeing to see all of these marks on me. Freeing to shift so that I can see the whisker burn on my lower back and the bottom of my thighs. Reaching out, I trace a soft finger along a particularly livid bruise and remember bucking against his hold as he went down on me from behind. I hadn’t felt any pain while it was going on—the pleasure had been far, far too intense for that, but still seeing all this in the cold light of day…It’s overwhelming.

Taking a few deep breaths for courage, I continue to stare at my own reflections as I run my hands over my breasts and across my too sensitive nipples before skimming them down my stomach and arms and thighs and hips. Suddenly, my knees tremble so badly that I find myself sinking against the mirror. Holding on to it, to the wall with all of my strength.

I’m responsible for the marks on my body, not Ian, because I’m the one responsible for pushing him so close to his own limits. He’d wanted to be soft with me, to be gentle, to show me how sweet making love could be. I’m the one who wouldn’t let him do it, who poked and prodded and pushed him until he’d done this.

I can only hope he doesn’t regret it when he opens his eyes this morning, can only hope he doesn’t run away today the way he tried to yesterday. Because this isn’t wrong. It isn’t shameful or hurtful or any of the other things other people might think when they see it.

It’s beautiful. Because these marks aren’t just about him taking control of my body. They aren’t just about us pushing each other past our comfort zones. It’s about Ian giving my body back to me, one kiss, one bite, one bruise at a time. More, it’s about him showing me how to reclaim my body for myself after being alienated from it for so very, very long.

Screw what anyone else thinks about us. For that alone, I will always be grateful to him.

With the issue settled in my own mind, I grab a robe and pull it on. I make sure to belt it securely so that it covers me from neck to ankle. Again, not because I’m ashamed of the marks we put on my body last night, but because my gut tells me no matter how I look at it, Ian might need a little time to catch up.

He’s such a good guy.

When I sneak back into the bedroom, he’s stirring, but not waking up. More like he’s looking for me in the bed. I think about crawling back in to join him, but if I do that I have a feeling we won’t leave the bed today for any reason. And delightful as that sounds, it’s not really an option.

Once I get to the kitchen, I turn on my Ed Sheeran playlist as I rummage in the cupboards for all the ingredients I need. It isn’t long before I’m chopping fruit to the strains of “Photograph,” blueberry pancakes cooking on the stove.

I’ve got coffee percolating for Ian and water boiling for my tea and, as I add the last bunch of strawberries to the fruit salad I’m making, I realize that I’m happy. I’m not content, I’m not not happy, I’m not pleased or comfortable or any of the other words that kind of sort of mean happy. I’m actually happy. No, I’m f*cking ecstatic and that…that is something I can’t remember ever feeling before in my entire adult life.

The knowledge threatens to bring me to my knees in a way that the bruises never did.

I grab on to the counter, suck in some breaths through my nose and blow them out slowly through my mouth. I might even give myself permission to cry a little, except that Ian chooses that moment to walk into the kitchen.

He’s pulled his dress pants back on, but the top clasp is undone and I get an eyeful of his V-cut as he makes his way slowly toward me. His eyes are on me, too, and I can tell he’s cataloging all the damage he can see—which isn’t much, thankfully, due to the robe I picked out earlier.

But still he stops a few feet from me, as if he’s nervous about facing me. Or as if he’s asking permission to touch me. It’s a ridiculous idea considering everything we did to each other in that bed last night, and I’m determined to break through his reticence whether he’s ready for me to or not.

It helps that the universe seems to be on the same page as I am, considering the playlist shifts over to Ed’s “Thinking Out Loud” at the same moment I reach over and flip off the stove. I leave the last of the pancakes in the bottom of the pan to stay warm, and then I grab on to Ian and make him dance with me right in the middle of the kitchen.