He’s always conscious of his size, his weight when it comes to women. Part of it is self-consciousness, but part of it is just knowing he’s a big man. And Joyce is small beneath him. Tough as hell, but still so small under the hand he slides up her side, over her ribs, along the swell of one breast, cupping it through her bra.

“I’ve waited for this,” he murmurs against her collarbone, kissing her skin. “For you.”