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Sometimes you need someone to push their way into your life without giving you a choice in the matter.
“You’re right, we don’t. Also, don’t downplay who or what you are for me. I play hockey.” I shrug. “You’re a writer. Hell, your job seems more exciting than mine.
“No, Jaz. You are what dreams are made of. Your body,”—I let my hand climb a fraction higher up her thighs—“you are fucking gorgeous, and I’ll be damned if I sit here and let you talk about yourself as if you’re anything but. Your body is beautiful.”
“I am only going to say this once more, because I don’t think it got through to you the other day. You. Are. Beautiful. Each and every curve of your body only makes me want you more. Don’t let anyone tell you how to love your body, only you can do that. I can tell you I want you, desire you, can’t stop looking at you. But you have to believe it.
His ability to forgive, to look past my shortcomings, because I have a lot, and love me completely, absolutely, is something I never thought I would have or deserve.