Page 127 of The Butcher's Wife
Dom and I release an exhale at the same time.
“Did you get it?”
“Did I fucking get it?” Dom repeats, flipping the camera monitor in my direction with a cocky grin. “Of course I fucking got it.”
I snatch it from his hands. “Wow, this turned out even better than I expected. I love the way you caught the light here. The composition is fantastic.”
Next to me, Dom rolls onto his back in the grass and dirt,so much like Coco or Bunny that I stifle a grin. The newest additions to our household like getting dirty almost as much as they hate baths. When we dropped off our little Dobermann puppies at my parents’ house before our trip, I fully expected Mom to make them wipe their paws before they came into the house, but she surprised us all by bringing them an entire chicken breast each and new, pink collars. It’s still a little awkward between us, but I think she’s accepting that kids aren’t in the picture for Dom and me, and it helps that she has Coco and Bunny to dote on.
I also thought Dom would oppose a camping trip just for fishing and photography, but he jumped at the opportunity. We’ve spent the past few weeks picking out all the perfect accessories for this trip. Now, looking at his breathtaking photo and the others he’s taken, I’m struck by his natural eye. In another life, he might’ve been an artist.
“I knew you’d make a good shooting partner.” I turn toward him and freeze at the thoughtful look in his eye, like he’s been watching me the whole time as I admired his photo.
“I used to think the same about you and hunting,” he says with a private smile.
Behind him, dark grey storm clouds float above the tree line, the electricity in the air so strong, I can practically taste it. We’ll have to leave soon to get back to the tent before we get rained on, but for now, I gingerly set his camera down and roll my belly onto his chest.
“You know I don’t hunt,” I murmur as I stroke my fingers through his hair.
If it’s uncomfortable to lie on a bed of rocks and sticks, he doesn’t complain. A little green leaf sticks out of his hair like it sprouted from his head, and dirt streaks his temple. I stroke my fingers through his salt-and-pepper beard,admiring his square jawline, his gentle eyes. How does he manage to get more beautiful every day?
Even though I’ve gained some weight and I don’t wear makeup anymore—for once, I get to enjoy my face as my own, and no one else’s—every day, he says I’m beautiful too.
“But you’re so good at it,” he says, hooking his leg under mine so I’m straddling him.
We’ve barely made it out of the tent the past few days, spending most of our time completely naked and soaking in each other’s presence. At night, we lie together in the hammock as Dom points out the stars and constellations to me, and I rest my cheek against his chest and doze off to the low rumble of his voice.
“I’m good at lots of things.” I grin, stroking my hand over his chest and sitting up so I grind against his growing erection. “And anyway, I prefer my prey to be a lot bigger andharderto catch.”
“You keep moving like that, it’ll be plenty hard.” He stretches out long underneath me and reaches for me with his dirty hands.
I shriek and smack them away. “Not when you’ve been digging in the dirt. Hands over your head.”
Grinning, he takes his sweet time to obey, shifting his hips and watching me with half-lidded eyes while he arranges his hands loosely over his head in the dirt.
“Goodjob.”
He grins wider at the praise. I swear if he had a tail, he’d be wagging it. God, he has such a nice smile—bright and honest. I can’t help but smile back.
He lifts his hips for me as I tug his gym shorts down to his knees.
I turn away from him and catch sight of the flickeringstorm clouds looming over us. I inhale deeply. The air smells like change.
Trusting in the isolated location, I step my heels together, hinge at the waist, and take my time shimmying my leggings and panties to my ankles, giving Dom a generous view as I do.
When I turn, he’s wearing a feral expression—like he’s starving, and I’m the only food for miles.
“No, no, bring that up here first,” he says as I start to lower over his hips.
I glance up at him with a raised eyebrow. “We’ve been hiking for miles today.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Come on,reginetta. Just a taste.”
I love when he gets like this—all rough and needy, but his hands are unmoved like my demands are ironclad.
“Okay, but just a taste.”
It takes a bit of maneuvering with my ankles bound by my leggings, but I manage to get myself up to his face, making sure not to put any weight on his newly healed shoulder, and lower myself onto his mouth. His fingers twitch over his head like he wants to grab for my thighs, probably to push my full weight onto him, how he likes it, but only let the wet heat of his tongue stroke through me a few times, before I rise again, setting off a round of complaints.
