The bathrobe is a snow-white puddle on the floor by the couch. I allowed myself to caress her under her silk pajamas top, her body is curves-the indent of her shoulderblades, the dip of her waist, the smooth outline of her hips, the soft expanse of her stomach, the gentle ridge of her ribcage, the pillowy curves of her breasts. I cupped them, squeezing and releasing until she made a restless movement with her hips.
She's beautiful.
Not like I imagined—I didn't have much to compare her to anyway—but much better. And she has that air of strength about her; her muscles ripple a little under her skin with every movement.
I can feel her gaze taking me in, from the fresh knee bruises to the childhood scar on my thigh, my navel, my hipbones, my ribs, my tiny breasts, the wet strands of hair plastered to my collarbone. She's seen me before, I remind myself, up close and in detail. I thought that would make it easier, but it doesn't.
