Page 23 of Beauty Becomes You (Beauty 4)
But the important thing was that she knew she was strong enough to stand beside him, whatever problems he might face. His physical injuries, which still pained him. The PTSD which probably always would. And the incipient self-doubt that would always lurk in the shadows of this powerful, confident male. She could handle any of it, all of it. She had done so for their entire time together, and she’d never been happier. And she knew, without ego or artifice, that he had never been happier either.
Love wasn’t a lightning strike, a sharp point with a definite beginning and an inevitable end. Love was a shelter from the storm, respite from her fears and relief from the reality of his pain.
The air around her shifted, but instead of cold, her skin grew warm. Little sparks on her nipples and aiming down to her core let her know she was being watched. The sense of contentedness that entered her body let her know who it was. Her sex grew slicker under the regard, but she kept her eyes firmly shut. This was for him…and for her. A wintry undercurrent of shame made her arousal burn hotter. Soft footfalls on the carpet drew
closer.
A gentle caress touched her lips. “Beautiful,” he said.
Above all, she knew him to be honest, and the fact that he found her beautiful, the fact that he found her mouth or face beautiful when her whole body was exposed to him, made her heart clench. A tear leaked from her closed eyelid. He caught it with his finger and traced its path back up her cheek.
“Don’t be sad,” he said, and she heard the sadness in his voice—an ineffable sorrow for what he had seen, for what he had been through. If there was anyone who understood suffering, it was him. And yet, he seemed to derive more joy than anyone she knew. He found it in her body, in her company. He found it in books and teaching. He found joy in living again, and her love for him was boundless, expanding.
“Oh, Blake,” she said, too choked up to say anymore. Her tears fell in earnest then.
He released himself; at least, that was how it felt to her. He scooped her up and cradled her. She didn’t fail to notice the nudge of his arousal, but he wouldn’t use it until he knew she was okay. She was okay. Better than okay, which spilled over into sadness and then back again in an eternity knot of powerful, life-affirming emotions. One couldn’t be separated from the other. She couldn’t have known love without heartache. He couldn’t have found solace without pain.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured against her hair. “What was this about? To show me that you want me, that you care. I know that, sweet girl. Don’t you think I know that? You show your heart in every expression, and it’s beautiful to see.”
Somehow she found her voice. “You can’t talk like that and expect me not to cry.”
His chest expanded on a quiet laugh. “There’s my girl.”
She turned her face into his chest, her cheeks wet and slippery against his shirt. Fumbling, she tugged it over his head, desperate to feel him, skin-to-skin, nothing between them. His body felt sharp after the long absence, the rigid planes of muscle, the hair tickling her tender skin. She shuddered against him, leaning closer, aching to feel him harder, more deeply. And thank God, he seemed to understand; he seemed to need it too, holding her flush against him, almost bruising her, needing her.
He turned them over, so she lay on her back, the sheets cool against her skin. His mouth held her down, his hands explored her, caressed her all over, and then he began to move down. Nipping kisses down her neck and in the valley of her breasts, gentle kisses over the curve and suckling at the tip. Then he trailed lower, as her belly quivered beneath questing lips.
“Blake,” she said, in warning, in plea.
“Just take it,” he murmured. “Be good for me,” and she was lost and lax in his arms. Her legs fell open, letting him explore the insides of her thighs. He made a small sound of pleasure as he felt the wetness at her core. Possessive fingers dipped into the moisture and spread it across her swollen flesh. He drew damp circles around her clit until any traces of reserve had fled. Spearing her, he pulled more of her arousal to the entrance. He removed his hand from her, and with damp fingertips, drew a heart on the low flat of her belly. She smiled in her sensual haze and reached for him. He caught her hand in answer and sucked on the tip of her finger, sending shocks down her center. Then he ducked his head to lick up the mess he had made of her—her belly first, his tongue mapping the shape of the heart. Then lower, down to the outer lips, then inner. He roamed to her clit, which had grown too sensitive, and she jumped, startled, entranced.
“Please,” she groaned, not sure what she was asking for. Relief or respite, more or less. It all blended together in a miasma of desire. “Blake.”
“You can take it,” he said, softer now, encouraging. He pushed her legs up, farther and more firmly than he usually did. Her knees pressed against her chest, capturing her, exposing her. His eyes burned with a hungry light as he stared down at her.
“Please,” she repeated.
Keeping both hands on her thighs, he bent to place hot, open-mouthed kisses against her sex, sucking and licking until she squirmed. But he held her too tightly to move much or escape—and thank God, because she didn’t want him to stop, not really. She wanted more and harder. Her secret muscles clenched in silent question, begging to be filled, but empty as he teased her clit to oblivion.
“You’re mine,” he muttered, his breath a phantom caress against her sex. “I won’t let you go now.”
Yes. His. “Please.”
He chuckled darkly. “You’ll have to learn patience. Well, we’ll have a lot of time to practice.”
Then he put his mouth to her clit and her whole world went black, with stars bursting behind her eyelids. Before she recovered he entered her, thrusting roughly, without rhythm or finesse, so perfect that tears slipped down her cheeks. She came two more times before he became rigid above her, still rocking as he poured himself inside her. She accepted it all. His come, his sweat. His love.
He leaned on her, breathing hard. She caught him when he wanted to roll off, mumbling something about being heavy. He was heavy, and perfect, and she wanted to feel that lovely weight forever.
“Marry me,” she whispered.
He stiffened. After a moment, he pulled back, searching her expression, her eyes. “What?”
She smiled. “You heard me, Professor.”
“Did you…did you plan to ask me?”
Admittedly, it was unconventional. Other couples arranged champagne and fancy dinners. “I thought we should start the way we meant to go on. Or go on the way we started.”
