1.50. Unlit
His lover's rippling muscle and marble-white skin put Seth in mind sometimes of a statue, some goddess of antiquity chiseled from stone. But she didn’t feel like a statue. Or taste like one. And statues didn’t squirm and whine (as far as he knew; he’d never tried) when you kissed their bellies.
She had a powerlifter's stomach; not willowy, and not shrink-wrapped skin over sheer muscle, but strong in a healthy way. A body that wouldn't shy away from hard work or vicious combat or keeping a lover warm. Her six pack wasn't visible, not at first, but then she tensed and flexed beneath his lips, and the elegant symmetrical muscles hardened, and with a pulse of lust he foresaw the tight, coiling warmth churning beneath them, waiting for him. Lower down past her belly button was a sweet little paunch of softness, gilded by faint, silvery stretch marks.
His breath caught with the reminder. A mother. The woman sighing and trembling under his touch was a mother, and he’d met her children, and counted them now as closer friends than any he’d ever made in his life. Two strong, statuesque young warriors. And they’d quickened right here, in this divinely formed stomach. They’d come into the world through the elegant sweep of these hips. They’d been nourished by the heavy teardrop breasts that wobbled adorably now with the sharp intake of her breath, as her whitefire eyes stared down from between them, wide and anxious and desperately needy.