His skin tastes like salt and something distinctly Kellan—a flavor I can't name but already crave. I take my time beneath the covers, just barely brushing my lips against the sharp jut of his hip bone. The hospital gown is bunched around his waist, and I've arranged the thin blanket like a curtain, shielding us from anyone who might walk in.
Though I'm thinking about anyone else right now. And even if someone did walk in? I wouldn't stop.
My world has narrowed to this bed. To Kellan's breath, stuttering each time my tongue grazes his skin. To the way his abs flex when I kiss just below his navel. To the pulse I feel beneath my palm when I flatten my hand across his stomach, tracing every ridge of muscle, every scar.
"I want you to remember what it feels like to be worshipped," I murmur into his skin, and I mean every word.
He deserves this. Deserves to be touched like he's sacred. Not because he's usually a dominant, but because he's Kellan. Mine.
