His hands run over my thighs. “A little cellulite,” he whispers. His fingertips dust over my stomach. “A few stretch marks.” He grabs the little pouch of fat on my stomach and gives it a tug, and I smile against his lips. “C-section scar.” He runs his finger over the large scar on my lower stomach. His hands go to my breasts, slightly saggy and not full like they used to be before the kids.
