86

Asher

With my hand still on her stomach, I kiss her with the slightest of pressure—lighter than a leaf on a pond. Bit by bit, I sink in harder until our teeth touch. Her throat flexes, air leaving her nose in an intoxicating shudder. Kissing her never gets stale. I can taste her mouth for hours, perhaps days, the pair of us taking breaks only for water. I picture it now—the kind of lazing in bed a newly married couple does on their honeymoon.

We never had one.

Of course not … It would have made no sense then. But now it pains me like an itch I can’t quite sate. I want to spoil Camila. I want to see her stretched out on the sand with the blue water rolling behind her, her skin soaking up the sun. We’d fuck right then and there until both of us were red with sunburn, and then we’d retreat inside for round two.

“Asher,” she moans, opening her mouth wider, allowing me to sweep my tongue inside. My thumb on her jaw treads over the angle until I reach her ear. Curling a hand firmly into her