She would never tire of the heft of his hair in her hands as she worked the shampoo into a thick lather, nor would she ever be completely used to the sensation of his lips moving over every inch of her skin, every imperfect bump and ripple she flattened with shapewear during the workweek, imperfections he didn’t even seem to notice. Not an imperfection, she reminded herself as his nose moved over the well of her stomach. Perfect doesn’t exist.
