I can only manage a nod, dropping my hands from his. I reach back to clutch at his thighs, fingers digging into hard muscle as his hands flatten against my diaphragm, hesitate, and then score a hot path upward until he's cupping my breasts.
"Fuck, Sophia. Do you have any fucking clue how many times I’ve dreamed of getting to do this?"
"How many?" I ask.
"A million. A hundred million." A groan of delight as he fills his hands with my flesh. "They're even more amazing than I'd fantasized.”
His touch is pleasure, not the pain I’d feared. The panic is still there, but the amazed wonder I feel at his touch occludes it. Especially when he flicks my nipples, sending a searing line of heat from breasts to sex.
"Ren," I breathe. "I…that feels good."
"Watch, Sophia." He releases a breast to touch my chin, and I open my eyes. "Look."
He scoops my aching breast into his hand again, and his thumb scrapes my nipple—I jerk, squealing as the sharp sensation shocks me. His hands are huge and sun-darkened and scarred and weathered and rough. They scrape against my sensitive, soft skin. His touch is gentle, but I can feel the titanic strength in his grip.
"Ohhh," I breathe, shaking as he fondles my breasts, tweaking, twisting, pinching, and caressing my nipples until I'm panting with the pleasure of it.
Yet the frustration still burns in my belly, boils just behind my sex. I know what I want, but I'm too frightened to ask, too embarrassed.
I'm a grown woman, but I'm terrified of saying what I want. Terrified of…
Myself.
My past.
My dreams.
My long-ingrained trauma response to everything—to being touched.
Yet this whole time, every touch of Lorenzo's hands has felt good. Nothing I've been afraid of has happened. No flashbacks. No panic attacks.
It's because it's him.
My Lorenzo.
He knows my heart. He knows the substance of my nightmares. He has fought for me, bled for me, killed for me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
And with that knowledge inside me, I can find the courage to let him help me fix the broken pieces of me.
I let the tension in my legs slacken, and then gradually let my stance adjust until my sex is exposed.
I meet his eyes in the mirror. "Ren," I whisper. "I…I want…"
"You're sure?" he asks.
"I…yes."
"Sophia, my love, there's no hurry. No pressure. I want to make only you feel good, however that looks.”
I grab his hands and guide them down to my belly, hesitate, and then lower—just above my pudendum.
I'm panting—more nerves than fear, now, although I am afraid. The fear is part of me, I think. ButIam in control.
Me.
