Not fast.
Not dramatic.
It slips from my fingers and pools at my feet, soft and final.
My breath catches as I stand there, exposed in a way that has nothing to do with skin.
Because I know what I look like. I’ve lived in this body my whole life.
I know the curves. The weight. The way I fill space.
I’m thick. Soft in places that magazines don’t celebrate.
My breasts aren’t the exaggerated kind people expect when they hear curvy—they’re just mine.
Average size. Natural. Real. Slightly droopy and tilted, like they’ve lived a life. And yes, my right boob is a tiny bit bigger than my left.
My hips flare wider than my waist. My thighs touch. There are dimples where there shouldn’t be—specifically, on my hips and ass.
And my stomach—well.
It’s mine too.
Not flat. Not perfect. But mine.
For a split second, every insecurity I’ve ever had lines up in my head like it’s ready to take a vote.
Too much.
Not enough.
Not what a man like him wants.
Because standing in front of me is David.
Bare-chested.
Tattooed.
Built like something carved out of intention and sin.
His skin is bronzed, stretched over hard muscle, ink winding across him like it belongs there. His shoulders are broad, his chest solid, his body powerful in a way that feels almost unfair.
He’s tall—well over six feet—and somehow seems even bigger now, filling the room, filling the space between us.
His short, dark hair is tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it—which, when I think about it, he probably has.
And his eyes—Christ.
They’re dark.
Not just brown.
Something deeper.
Like obsidian. Like volcanic glass.
Sharp. Heated. Dangerous.