Page 33 of Dearly Unbeloved
I’m thirty years old now, and I’ve had a long time to come to terms with my body looking like it does. I don’t hate it, not like I did when I was a teenager, but I don’t love it either. It’s just skin and bone, designed to hold all the things that make memein place. If anyone asked me, I’dswear I was completely neutral about the curve of my stomach, the wobble of my thighs, the way my breasts droop, and the stretch marks painted across my skin. And sometimes I am neutral. But sometimes I remember hiding in the school bathroom and fighting back tears. Sometimes, I look at bodies like Rose’s and wonderwhat if?How would the world look at me if I was a size four instead of a size fourteen? How would I look if I fit the stereotype?
“Sierra,” Rose says, her expression gentler. “When we first moved in together, you used to have this lime green tank top. Do you remember?”
My brows draw together. “Yeah.” I tossed it after I accidentally spilled paint on it at one of Jazz and Liam’s paint and sip nights.
“It rode up whenever you stretched, and I remember sitting on the couch watching you reach into the cabinet for a wineglass. It slipped up and showed off your midriff. It was my first time seeing that part of you, and do you know what I thought when I saw your stretch marks?” I shake my head, and Rose continues, “I wanted to trace them with my tongue. I’ve never once looked at your body and thought anything but gorgeous. Your body is beautiful. You are beautiful. Okay?”
She emphasizes every word, her eyes shining with conviction. It’s a little scary, honestly, but somehow reassuring at the same time. I nod, quickly.
“I want to hear you say it. Tell me you’re beautiful, Sierra.”
Jesus Christ. This is a whole new side of Rose, one Ifind it hard to argue with. I really can’t let her figure out how easy it would be for her to win this stupid battle of wills we’ve been fighting for the past year, if only she spoke like this on a regular basis.
“I…”
“Say it.”
“I’m beautiful,” I whisper. The words sound foreign and weak from my tongue, and Rose raises a brow that clearly says, “not good enough.” I clear my throat. “I’m beautiful.” Better. I sound stronger, like I might actually believe myself.
A sensual smile lights Rose’s face. “Yes, you are. Now here’s how this is going to go.” She crawls closer. “If at any point you want to stop, say ‘red’ and we stop. No questions asked. If you need a breather or to slow down, ‘yellow.’”
“And ‘green’ if I like it?”
Rose licks her lips. I follow the motion of her tongue and wish it was on me instead. “I’ll know if you like it.”
She places a cool hand on my knee, and I jump, my heart racing. She looks over my face, waiting for me to nod before she holds my other knee. Her palms are smooth against my skin as she drags them along my thighs.
“Drop your arms,” she commands, and my body listens before my brain catches up. I let my arms fall, clenching the sheets in my fists.
Rose lets loose a ragged breath, but her gaze doesn’t stray from my face. She’s the pinnacle of control as she parts my knees and kneels between them.
Slowly, like time means nothing, she lowers her gaze. Iswear her hands tighten on my thighs, her pupils swallowing her golden-hazel irises.
“Fuck,” she whispers, blinking like she’s as surprised as I am by the word slipping from her lips.
She leans forward, dragging a single finger over my skin, skimming my stomach. “What does it mean?” she asks as she traces the black snake and rose tattoo on my sternum.
“Nothing. I just thought it was pretty,” I lie, because I’m already vulnerable and she doesn’t care, not really. This is all foreplay, getting me comfortable and supplicant beneath her touch.
“Of course you did. It is pretty. I’ll give you that,” she replies with a short, humorless laugh.
For the first time, I realize she’s as affected by this as I am. She wants me, and she hates it.
The thought emboldens me, and I loosen my grip on the sheets. This version of Rose might be sensual, intense, and, frankly, intimidating, but she’s still the stuck-up, bossy Rose who thinks she’s better than everyone else. I can want to come apart at the seams under her touch and hate her guts at the same time. She can say pretty things and get me to do as I’m told while the lights are off and still be completely insufferable the rest of the time. She’s just Rose.
It’s like she watches everything click into place behind my eyes, and the last of her hesitation melts away as I breathe out the tension.
“We’ll have a proper conversation at some point about boundaries and shit, but for now... How are you with praise?”
“Giving or receiving?” I ask, though I know she means receiving. And she knows I know it, which is why she doesn’t answer, just quirks a perfect blonde brow. “I like praise.”
“Pain?”
“Nothing crazy, but I like a little.”
“Do you like being talked through it, or quiet?”
“Um…” I trail off, unsure how to answer. I’m not big on talking, usually, but I like how Rose has talked to me tonight. “I’m not sure, actually. Can we try talking and see how it goes?”
