*Isadora*
I love the freedom of plowing my fingers through the thick strands of his hair, cradling his face between my palms. The first time I do it, he stiffens, and at that moment I seriously dislike every person who has ever made him feel . . . less. And I realize with sudden clarity that one of the reasons he understands me so well, that he had known what I needed when it came to retribution with Chad, is because for most of his life
people have been metaphorically turning their back on him.
I take his mouth, slowly, sensually, until with a low moan he relaxes into my arms. I remind him that I love him.
When he lifts himself up onto his elbows to look down on me, the heat smoldering in his eyes nearly unravels me.
So much had been lost when he had pleasured me within the shadows,
