I swallow, give his words time to seep into every part of me. I want to feel them in the tips of my fingers and toes. “What changed?”
“I spoke with my mom. About Kara. You. About everything that happened between our families. We somehow stopped talking about her or anything real over the years. She told me her world stopped when Kara died, and the only thing that kept her going was the love she had for me, for my father.”
His eyes swell before he adds, “And she told me it wasn’t my fault.”
I squeeze his hands. “I’ve done a lot of talking, too,” I tell him. “I suppose I am lucky for the family I’ve got, even if it is a fucked-up version.”
He smiles, and it’s gone as quickly as it came. “I just want you,” he says. “No matter what complications it might bring. I just want you.” He repeats this last part with a grumbly whisper that awakens all the dormant winged things in my gut.
My free hand is now at his waist, fingers curled under the waistband of his jeans. I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to show him how much I’ve missed him. “Come inside.”
He grins.
I lead him into the lobby, and the heat quickly gaining intensity at my core makes walking difficult. As I usher him to the elevator, his hand behind me rubs gentle circles on the small of my back under my shirt. I swallow hard as his hand slides down, squeezes my ass over my jeans. The elevator doors open, and we are tangled together before they close. Thank God we are alone.
He presses me up against the side wall, his waist pinning mine. “I missed you,” he whispers into my neck before his lips make contact. “I’ve always missed you.”
He pulls back so our eyes can meet.I know,I think.I know.
Before there can be more, the elevator beeps and the doors open, Ms. Huger from two doors down standing before us, car keys in hand. She raises her eyebrows as she takes us in, mostly focused on me. Her chin tilts down slightly, and I can’t help but think she looks pleasantly surprised.I didn’t think you had it in you,the slight curve of her lips says as we pass each other.
I curl my fingers under the waist of his jeans and lead him to my door. He presses into my back, and I fumble with the keys as I feel his bulge against my backside. I unlock the door and turn the knob, then he kicks it shut after we step in. Finally truly alone, I fold my arms around his neck, and he lifts me to his waist until my legs are wrapped around him.
“Where’s the bedroom?” he murmurs between kisses, his arms wrapped tightly around me, one against my back, the other under my butt. Just like in his room at the Singer Suites.
“To the right,” I say into his mouth, and he follows the direction well, kicking the half-ajar door all the way open, collapsing me onto the bed as I say a silent thank you that Mel is at her studio for the next several hours.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to come to my senses,” he whispers into my neck, then runs his teeth along its curve. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
Six weeks of fantasizing about his touch daily. My eyes roll shut as he licks up to my ear.
“Fuck,” I groan, and I feel his lips expand into a quick grin against my jaw. I reach down and unbutton his jeans then unzip, rubbing the side of my hand against him as I do. His lips find mine, and his tongue pushes into my mouth in a gloriously forceful motion. He tastes precisely as I remember, like the man I’ve wanted since we were sixteen. In many ways, the one I wanted well before that, before I knew to want someone. I pull at the hem of his Henley shirt, and he sits up and removes it obediently. I look up at him, admire him, want him inside me more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I press my palm into the tattoo over his heart, feel it pulse.
He bends down to me and cups my face with his palms, brushing my lips tenderly with his. He whispers into my mouth, “I don’t remember a me that didn’t love you.”
I look into his eyes. This close, they are opaque, and I can see all of him.
Him.
He is imprinted on me. He is the canon event, the core memory, the missing piece.
He is all of it.
I don’t know how I lived so long without him, without this touch. But I know I wasn’t doing much living in those years in between. He pins my hands over my head, reaches down and lifts my shirt, pulls itoff, looks down at me with those peacock-feather-colored eyes full of loss, longing, want.
I slip out of my jeans and pull him down to me, the heat of his skin warming me from what feels like the inside out. He is down to his boxer briefs, and I tug at the waistband, letting them snap his skin upon release. Our eyes meet in mutual agreement, and we both scurry to remove our remaining layers. I reach for the bedside table, pull the drawer open, and grab a condom into my palm. We come together again, fully rid of everything but each other.
He presses his mouth to mine, and it’s hungry, yearning. Just as I’m ready to grab at his hips and wrap my legs around him, he shimmies downward, his lips carving a trail down my neck to my chest. His lips play there for a few moments, his tongue flicking at my nipples, calling them forward. Then he continues down and my hands find his hair, pulling it into my fists as his lips trail down my stomach, then meander sideways to the jut of my right hip, then down again to my inner thigh. I throw my head back in anticipation, and he delivers without making me wait any longer, his tongue finding me. He grants me one long lick of his full tongue. I moan, loudly. Here, I don’t have to hold back. He makes the motion again, and my body releases any remaining fragments of tension. My back falls more deeply into the bed, my legs fall open, and my head rolls to the side. I am his to do with as he pleases.
He does this a few more times, painstakingly slowly. Then, when I feel as though I may combust from the fiery sensation at my base, he takes my most sensitive part into his mouth and sucks. I arch again, all the tension in my body back, and I fight the urge to push him away from the intensity of the feeling. He presses a firm palm to my abdomen, holding me in place. My breath grows jagged as he sucks, his motion steady and consistent so my arousal grows at a breakneck pace.
When I cannot take it a moment longer, I tug firmly at his hair. He obliges, giving my clit one last long lick before rising to meet me again. “You,” I huff as our noses touch. But I can’t manage anythingelse. I can’t even manage to finish the thought. The only thing I can focus on is the pulsing, empty ache between my legs. I take the opportunity and raise my hips to meet him. His breath comes more harshly, but he is solidly in control. His face still millimeters from mine, he reaches down between us and grinds his fingers against me for a moment, building more ache than I thought myself capable of. He rolls to his side to slip the condom on with his other hand. Then, finally, he is on top of me again. He aligns with me and, with his hand, inches himself inside me. I raise my hips again to meet him, and when he is fully pressed inside me, he releases his weight and pushes my hips back to the bed.
He fits so perfectly, so fully, I cannot fathom how I missed ten years of this. Before I can beg, he is pressing and pulling in and out of me, his pace quickening with each slick motion. I squeeze the curve of his backside, part urging, part steadying. He huffs into my neck, and the warmth and wetness make my skin feel as though it’s melting into a puddle just below his mouth. His thrusts grow harder and more intense, which I didn’t think possible, and for the next completely unknown to me number of minutes, he gives me everything.
I come undone, crying out as a flood of pleasure pools inside me. My vocalization pushes him over the edge, his warm release just seconds behind.
Summer rain.
