I Want It so Bad...

Chapter 1

he mirror in Caleb's bathroom is wide, floor-to-ceiling, and steam has started to fog the edges. My reflection stares back at me-a woman I barely recognize, and not just because of the dim light.

Two hundred eighty-five pounds.

The scale this morning had said it, and I'd felt it in my bones as truth. The roll of my belly rests heavy against the cool vanity countertop. My fingers trace the lines where stretch marks bloom like rivers across a landscape I'm learning to claim.

I'm supposed to be here for dinner. Caleb's been texting me for weeks-sweet, patient texts that never pushed. "I'd love to feed you," he'd written last night. "Only if you want that."

I want it. God, I want it.

My palm flattens against the soft swell below my navel. The skin is warm, stretched taut in some places and loose in others, a map of every meal I've surrendered to. Every calorie. Every pound.

I reach for the bottle of coconut oil he left on the counter, a small gesture that makes my throat tighten. Unscrewing the cap, the scent unfurls-sweet, tropical, a promise. The oil slicks across my fingers, and I press them into my skin.

The first touch is a gasp.

My belly accepts the oil, the slide of my hand following the curve from my ribs down to the mound beneath. The stretch marks are silvery in the mirror, some pink at the edges where new ones have joined the old. I trace them slowly, reverently.

"This is yours," I whisper to my reflection. "You did this."

The woman in the mirror looks back with dark eyes that hold no shame. She's seen me binge in my car, drive-through bags crumpled on the passenger seat while I licked salt from my fingers. She's felt the zip of jeans give way, the shift from size twenty-two to twenty-four, the moment the twenty-sixes became comfortable.

She's watched me grow.

My hand cups the underside of my belly, lifting it slightly. The weight is substantial, heavy in my palm, and something warm spreads through my chest. Not arousal. Not yet. Something quieter. A settling.

The bathroom door creaks.

I freeze, hand still pressed to my stomach. Caleb's reflection appears behind mine, his frame filling the doorway. He's taller than I expected, broad-shouldered with a softness around his middle that mirrors my own.

"Sorry," he says, voice low. "Didn't mean to startle you."

I don't pull my hand away.

His eyes travel down my body, and there's no judgment there-only a hunger that makes my breath catch. He steps closer, the space between us narrowing until I can feel the heat radiating from his chest against my back.

"You're beautiful," he says.

Simple. Direct. A statement that needs no elaboration.

My hand resumes its slow path across my belly, and I watch him watch me in the mirror. His fingers find my hip, tracing the curve where my side meets the soft spill of flesh.

"I was going to start dinner," he murmurs. "But this is better."

"Don't stop."

His voice is gravel and honey. "I won't."

The oil glistens under the bathroom lights as I spread it across the expanse of my stomach. My fingers dip into the crease where my belly folds over itself, the skin there warm and damp. I can feel him behind me, the rise and fall of his breath against my shoulder blades.

"You've never touched yourself like this before," he says. Not a question.

I shake my head.

"Then let me."

His hands replace mine, larger, warmer, deliberate. He scoops more oil, and when his palms press against my belly, I shudder. The sensation is electric-the weight of my body in his hands, the way he doesn't shy from the mass of me.

He lifts.

The motion is gentle, cradling, like I'm something precious. My belly rises in his palms, the heavy mound of flesh settling into his grip. I watch in the mirror as his fingers spread wide, covering as much surface as they can.

"You feel that?" he asks. "How full you are?"

I nod, throat tight.

"I want to fill you more."

The words land somewhere deep in my chest. My reflection's eyes are glassy, lips parted. His hands begin to move, not quite a massage, not quite an exploration-something between, a conversation written in pressure and glide.

The oil catches the light, making my skin shine. My belly looks sculpted, worshiped, and in this moment, I believe him.

He shifts closer, his body pressing against the curve of my ass. The contact is soft but insistent, and I feel the length of him through his jeans, hard against the swell of my backside.

"Is this okay?" he asks.

"Yes."

His hands work lower, following the path of my belly down to the mound beneath. The oil makes everything slick, his fingers sliding between my thighs, parting the soft flesh there. I'm already wet-have been since he stepped into the doorway.

"Look at yourself," he says.

I am. I can't look away.

My body in the mirror is a study in curves and rolls, the stretch marks like cracks in porcelain, the heft of my breasts pressing against the counter. His fingers find my clit, circling slowly, and I buck against his hand.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Let yourself feel it."

The pleasure builds, not rushed, not demanded. His other hand stays on my belly, holding it, grounding me. Every circle of his fingers sends ripples through the softness of my body.

My head falls back against his shoulder. The mirror shows me undone-hair disheveled, mouth open, the shine of oil on my stomach catching the light.

"You're going to come," he says. "Aren't you?"

I can only nod.

His fingers press harder, faster, and I feel the tension coiling in my hips. My belly rises and falls with ragged breaths, his hand still cradling it, still holding me steady.

"Let go," he whispers. "I've got you."

The orgasm breaks over me like a wave I didn't see coming, hips grinding against his hand, a sound escaping my throat that's half gasp, half moan. My vision blurs at the edges. Everything narrows to the feel of his hands, the weight of my body, the reflection of a woman who has finally stopped running.

I collapse against him, breathless.

His arms wrap around me, pulling me close, my belly pressing into the softness of his own. He dips his head, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.

"Dinner," he says. "And then I want to watch you eat. Every bite."

I look at the woman in the mirror.

She's glowing.

"I want that too," I say.

His hand slides from my belly down to my hip, guiding me out of the bathroom. The scent of coconut oil follows us into the kitchen, where bags from McDonald's wait on the counter.

Twenty chicken nuggets. A Big Mac. Bacon cheese fries. Six s'mores cookies. A junior chicken. Two apple pies. A Smarties McFlurry.

Six thousand calories.

He pulls out a chair. I sit.