And then Ian came along, and he brought with him all of this.
Walking forward slowly, I rest a hand against the coolness of the mirror. As I do, I stare at the bruises and raw spots and whisker burn that cover my shoulders, my breasts, my stomach, my hips. I feel them all, every single one of them, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
It seems so strange to think that and I know there are people who would take it the wrong way if I said it out loud, but I believe in giving credit where credit is due. Is it so wrong to suggest that Ian gave my body back to me? I’m not saying I needed a man to do that for me. I’m just saying that, maybe, what I needed was Ian to take me where, for so long, I’d been too afraid to go.
Oh, he didn’t do anything that I didn’t want him to do—that I didn’t, in fact, beg him to do. Just that every touch, every kiss, every bite he delivered had been calculated to bring me the maximum amount of pleasure.
And he’d succeeded—God, had he ever. Before he came into my life, I never could have imagined that I was capable of the kind of response he pulls from me, the kind of response that has me grinning at the mirror hours later even as I catalog the damage. No, Ian Sharpe hadn’t given me my sense of self back, but he did show me how to reclaim it. And that’s made all the difference.
With that thought I turn to the side, tilt my head a little so I can get a better look at my body—and all of the marks on it.
There are so many I almost don’t know where to start.
Love bites line my throat, dot my breasts, color my stomach and inner thighs and even my calves. Purple bands circle my forearms and biceps, where he held me down at times. If I look closely I can see the imprint of his thumbs on the inside of my wrists and forearms, from when the heat of it all got away from him. Got away from us both.
It’s freeing to see all of these marks on me. Freeing to shift so that I can see the whisker burn on my lower back and the bottom of my thighs. Reaching out, I trace a soft finger along a particularly livid bruise and remember bucking against his hold as he went down on me from behind. I hadn’t felt any pain while it was going on—the pleasure had been far, far too intense for that, but still seeing all this in the cold light of day…It’s overwhelming.
Taking a few deep breaths for courage, I continue to stare at my own reflections as I run my hands over my breasts and across my too sensitive nipples before skimming them down my stomach and arms and thighs and hips. Suddenly, my knees tremble so badly that I find myself sinking against the mirror. Holding on to it, to the wall with all of my strength.
I’m responsible for the marks on my body, not Ian, because I’m the one responsible for pushing him so close to his own limits. He’d wanted to be soft with me, to be gentle, to show me how sweet making love could be. I’m the one who wouldn’t let him do it, who poked and prodded and pushed him until he’d done this.
I can only hope he doesn’t regret it when he opens his eyes this morning, can only hope he doesn’t run away today the way he tried to yesterday. Because this isn’t wrong. It isn’t shameful or hurtful or any of the other things other people might think when they see it.
It’s beautiful. Because these marks aren’t just about him taking control of my body. They aren’t just about us pushing each other past our comfort zones. It’s about Ian giving my body back to me, one kiss, one bite, one bruise at a time. More, it’s about him showing me how to reclaim my body for myself after being alienated from it for so very, very long.
Screw what anyone else thinks about us. For that alone, I will always be grateful to him.
With the issue settled in my own mind, I grab a robe and pull it on. I make sure to belt it securely so that it covers me from neck to ankle. Again, not because I’m ashamed of the marks we put on my body last night, but because my gut tells me no matter how I look at it, Ian might need a little time to catch up.
He’s such a good guy.
When I sneak back into the bedroom, he’s stirring, but not waking up. More like he’s looking for me in the bed. I think about crawling back in to join him, but if I do that I have a feeling we won’t leave the bed today for any reason. And delightful as that sounds, it’s not really an option.
Once I get to the kitchen, I turn on my Ed Sheeran playlist as I rummage in the cupboards for all the ingredients I need. It isn’t long before I’m chopping fruit to the strains of “Photograph,” blueberry pancakes cooking on the stove.