Then he reaches for a bowl of sliced peaches, summer-ripe and dripping with juice, and begins arranging them on my body. Two crescents frame my navel. Another rests in the dip of my hip.
A sprinkle of cinnamon across my collarbone.
A dollop of crème fraîche in the hollow of my throat.
When he’s satisfied with his work, he steps back to admire it. I don’t dare move.
“Now,” he says, pushing up his sleeves higher, “I’m going to eat.”
He starts at my throat. His tongue teases down the line of crème fraîche. His teeth scrape gently against my pulse point, and I feel my heartbeat thundering against his lips like it’s trying to crawl into his mouth.
He works his way down methodically, tasting every inch he’s decorated. The cinnamon on my collarbone makes him groan. The honey on my sternum m
