Chapter 25 Ellis
ELLIS
Iallowed the kiss to deepen, choosing now instead of someday and felt it bloom past its tentative start—that slow pressing of two nervous mouths.
Dove radiated heat, and her hand slid around my back, fingers spread wide, anchoring me to her.
I leaned in closer, my lips parting just enough to let her in.
The moment I did, everything seemed to shift into a low, growing ache curling within me, hot and desperate.
Dove shifted, rolling us so that I was pressed beneath her, her body warm and flush against mine.
Her leg slid fluidly between us, pressing against me, and I gasped into her mouth, my lower body jerking in surprise at the contact.
She grinned against my lips, and I became acutely aware of everything in that moment.
The way her hair tickled my cheek, a few tendrils brushing against my skin; the way her lips moved against mine, warm and insistent, coaxing desire out of me in such an expert way that I wondered how much experience she actually had.
She braced one arm beside my head, her other hand gliding down the side of my body, curling around my hip, her thumb brushing the strip of exposed skin between the hem of my pants and my shirt.
I raised tentative hands, letting them rest at her hips briefly before sliding a fraction under her shirt, feeling the hot, smooth warmth of her skin.
She made a soft sound in the back of her throat as she gently bit down on my lower lip.
A gasp escaped me as my hands moved, tracing the defined lines of her stomach—the muscles she so often hid beneath oversized shirts twitching at my touch.
My fingers stilled just under the swell of her rib cage, partially paralyzed by nerves, unwilling to go further. This was about as far as Alexis and I had ever gone; whatever came next was foreign territory to me.
Dove’s lips broke from mine, and she lowered her head, kissing softly along the line of my throat, her breath warm, her movements deliberate.
I found myself arching into her instinctively, my hands sliding back to her waist, gripping a little tighter.
Then she shifted her knee, grinding it deliberately between my thighs.
I groaned softly at the feeling, the sound startling me.
I felt Dove’s lips curl into a smirk against my neck before her teeth grazed a spot just beneath my jaw—the flesh there soft, sensitive—and as her teeth raked along it, I trembled, pressing into that well-placed knee, my nails curling slightly into her sides.
She let out a soft chuckle, pulling back slightly as those searching brown eyes seemed to stare into my soul.
“That feel good?” she murmured, her voice a little huskier than usual.
I didn’t trust myself to speak, almost afraid of what I might sound like.
Instead, I nodded. When I did, she rocked her knee again, a little firmer this time, watching me as my eyes widened just a fraction.
The growing ache inside me—the familiar one I had so often ignored—flared hotter, more insistent now, as if refusing to remain silent when there was finally a chance for something to be done about it.
Her lips were back on mine, and she kissed me with a confidence I was both in awe of and envious of.
She had shed whatever last trace of hesitation she’d had, and her tongue brushed gently against mine.
It felt as if heat bloomed over every inch of my skin.
She shifted, resting her weight on one elbow while her other hand trailed to the hem of my shirt.
She paused there, waiting for me. Giving me the time and space to stop her, to decide if this was too much.
I thought about her seeing it. Seeing my scar. I wasn’t nervous about her seeing my naked body, it was just the scar. That horrible pink reminder of so much pain in my life. What would she think when she saw it? Would it kill the mood? Would she be turned off completely?
Her fingers danced lightly along the exposed skin of my stomach, where my shirt had ridden up. She waited for me, and I met her eyes, losing myself in those warm brown pools.
She wouldn’t judge me.
She wouldn’t hurt me.
Dove Marley was not a cruel human being; that much had been made obvious over the course of this trip.
I was safe with her—the realization startling—as my mind began to focus on the glide of her fingers over my stomach, imagining how it would feel to have those fingers slide lower.
I could feel myself growing needier, the slickness between my thighs impossible to ignore.
“You okay?” Dove asked gently, moving her hand from my stomach to brush a knuckle down my cheek. “We can stop if you want.”
My heart pounded in my chest, and I shook my head softly.
“No,” I murmured, toying with the hem of her shirt. “I don’t want to stop.”
I definitely did not want to stop.
Dove smiled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips—maybe an attempt to quiet the nerves in my mind. Regardless, I knew she would see me naked at some point. Hiding my chest from her forever was not an option, and it was better to rip off the bandaid now.
I shifted, allowing her the space to remove my top. I didn’t look at her as she slid the fabric up my body, over my head, and set it behind us.
My hands instinctively moved to cover my chest, but Dove caught one of my wrists, halting the motion. The air in the room hit me first—my already tightened nipples seeming to pebble even harder—but it wasn’t what was on my mind. I liked my breasts. I wanted Dove to see them and like them as well.
But it was that god-awful scar.
I knew what she would be seeing. That impossible-looking pale pink line centered down my chest, thicker in some places, stretched in others.
I bit my lip and opened my eyes, glancing down at it with a frown.
“I know it’s—”
“Ellis,” Dove interrupted softly, her hand coming to my chin, making me meet her gaze.
As I did, she kissed me and it wasn’t just a peck, not a sweet, shy kiss, but something so deeply grounding it hit me in the stomach.
Her hand slid to my jaw as she kissed me deeply, saying so much without words, while her other hand came to rest over my heart.
I wondered if she could feel the heavy pounding beneath my skin, the pounding I could hear in my own ears.
I kissed her back, swallowing down the urge to cry, that lump pressing at the back of my throat as she treated me with an almost unbearable tenderness.
I could barely breathe when she pulled back, her eyes filled with heat.
Her mouth moved to my jaw, the softness of her lips brushing gently along the edge, and my head tilted on instinct, my skin burning in the trail she left behind.
Her lips moved down—slower, deliberate—and lingered at my collarbone, flicking her tongue into the dip at its center.
A soft gasp escaped my lips as that single flick of her tongue seemed to send sensation deep within me.
Then she continued on her path, and when her lips met the skin of my chest—pressing once against the top of the scar—my body trembled. She kissed down it again. And again.
I trembled, tears blinking behind my eyes—not tears of sadness, just something else.
She treated the sight with a reverence I had never experienced before.
No one except doctors or my mother had touched me there—not with affection, not with desire.
That site had always been treated as clinical. But now… now…
I had never felt more bare in my life, never more seen, and never more safe.
Then her lips moved from the scar, and I nearly blacked out at the feeling of her mouth on my breast. Her tongue laved over my nipple, and I let out a shocked “oh,” my body arching, pressing further into her mouth.
Her teeth nipped the tender flesh gently, and my grip on her hips tightened as my aching core searched for her knee again.
I was lost in a growing haze of lust and need as she gave the other breast the same attention.
I marveled at how such small actions could have such a profound effect on my body.
When her lips found mine again, kissing me with a firm, soul-controlling kiss, I felt what was likely the last of my walls falling away.
My hands tangled in her hair as I kissed her back, the material of her shirt pressing against me, rubbing against the sensitive skin of my breasts. My hands moved of their own accord, curling around the hem of the material, tugging it gently to let her know what I wanted.
She smirked against my mouth and shifted, taking back her arm and pulling the material off in one fluid motion.
No bra. Just soft skin—and there was a stunning, simple reality in her nakedness. The perfect curve of her breasts, the steady rise and fall of her chest. She didn’t look self-conscious at all; in fact, she grinned down at me.
I reached for her, hands shaky and unsure, cupping her breasts and marveling at the feel of them in my hands, fitting perfectly into my palms. She kissed me as I did so, and my hands slipped to her sides as her bare chest pressed against mine, and I gasped at the feeling.
The sensation was almost overwhelming—the feel of her soft skin against mine, nipples brushing my own as she rocked into me, her hip bone pressing against me.
That sparking heat building low in my stomach seemed only to intensify from the contact.
She shifted us slightly, rebalancing, and ground her thigh into me, just enough pressure to do something.
A half moan, half breathless sound left my lips, and when her own found my throat again, she whispered, “You like that?”
“Yes,” I whimpered, needing more. More of whatever she could give me.