Reaching back to grip the collar of his shirt, he tugged it over his head, tossing it haphazardly to the floor, where it would soon disappear among the scattered cushions.

He caught her mouth again, settling over her until their bare chests brushed, goosebumps flaring out across his shoulders. Pulling away from her mouth, he made his way down her torso, stopping here and there to taste. The peak of her nipples, the divot of her sternum, deviating for a long moment just to give due attention to a cluster of freckles beneath her ribs.

She was not perfect. She had scars, here and there, moles and freckles and signs of a hard life on an unforgiving planet. It was those imperfections — the ways she grated his nerves, the ways she challenged him, the ways she outmatched him — that kept him so fascinated.