Page 320 of Bitter’s Sweet

I get one from the nightstand.

By the time I turn back, Sweet is sitting on the edge of the mattress watching me with that same mouth that once told me no and taught me the word could be something besides a challenge.

I walk to her.

Sweet opens her knees for me, and I stop between them.

“Tell me if anything changes.”

“I will.”

“Anything.”

“I know.”

Her fingers hook into my belt loops.

“Come here.”

I do.

She kisses me while I kneel between her legs, her hands running over my shoulders and down my back. When I slide my fingers beneath the edge of her sweater, I wait until she lifts her arms before pulling it over her head.

There is no hurry.

No performance.

No punishment.

I kiss the fading marks on her shoulder, the places where my mouth once left proof of something she thought she could trust. Her breath shakes when my lips move lower.

“Still okay?”

“Yes.”

Sweet cups my face.

“And you don't have to ask after every inch.”

“I know.”

Her eyes narrow.

I smile.

“Heard you.”

“Better.”

I kiss her again.

Her bra follows the sweater to the floor because she reaches behind herself and opens it, not because I decide where this goes. My mouth moves over her throat, her collarbone, then lower, and Sweet arches into me with a quiet sound that goes straight through my spine.

My hand settles on her thigh.

She covers it with hers.

For half a second I stop.