She watches me as I reach for the hem of her shorts and slide them down her legs. She lifts her hips without being asked. Then I peel her top off next, revealing the soft curve of her stomach, the dip of her waist, and the prettiest tits I have ever seen in my life.
And I just stop and stare.
She’s so fucking gorgeous it almost hurts to look at her. I get it now, why men used to carve women out of stone. It wasn’t about art. It was about trying to hold onto something you knew you’d never deserve. Because when something is this beautiful, all you can do is try to preserve it. Witness it. Worship it. I could look at her forever and still never have enough.
Maisie blushes under the attention, her hands twitching like she wants to cover herself. But I shake my head and lean in, kissing the inside of her thigh. Then the other. Then the spot just below her belly button.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, and her breath hitches. I kiss my way up her body, starting at her soft belly, kissing every single one of her gorgeous stretch marks. “You’re perfect,” I whisper, trailing my lips over the slope of her ribs, up the underside of her breast, then pressing a soft kiss over her heart. “You’re everything I ever wanted.”
I lay her back on the bed, my hand cupping her cheek, and when I press my mouth to hers, it’s soft and deep and full of everything I don’t know how to say.
She wraps her arms around my shoulders, pulling me down with her, and I feel her shift under me, reaching for something in her nightstand.
She presses the foil packet into my hand without a word.
I pause just long enough to tear it open, my hands shaking a little as I roll it on.
And then I slide inside her in one slow thrust, and everything else falls away.
Her breath catches. Her eyes flutter closed. My forehead drops to hers and we both just breathe for a second. Just feel.
I’ve had plenty of sex before—more than I should probably admit. It was always fun. A little reckless. A hobby, if I’m being honest.
But this?
This isn’t a hobby.
This isholy.
37
MAISIE
He curses low and rough against my lips as he pulls out. His hand slides up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair as he kisses me softly through the orgasm. He groans softly as his hand bumps against a stuffed duck nestled in the sheets.
He pushes it aside, still catching his breath. “Sorry for the things you just saw, Mr. Quackers,” he mutters, shaking his head.
I laugh quietly, reaching over to tuck the duck back beside me. “We totally traumatized him.”
He leans in, brushing his lips against mine with a smirk. “Yeah, poor guy’s gonna need therapy after this.”
He rolls onto his side beside me, tugging me with him, our limbs tangled beneath the blanket. His arm wraps around my waist like a reflex, pulling me into his chest.
“I still can’t believe it was you,” I say, my thumb brushing over the pulse in his wrist.
His eyes flutter open. “You think I can believe it?”
I lift my head a little to meet his gaze. “But you knew,” I whisper.
“Not at first. Only after Isabella told me the name of the guy you were talking to.”
My heart stops for a second. “Your name.”
He nods, squeezing my hand gently. “My name.”
He brings our hands to his lips, kissing each knuckle slowly. One. Two. Three soft kisses.
“So,” he murmurs, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth, “now that I know it’s you… why Cherry?”
