Page 40 of Love Always

I can barely move.

The last few minutes, he spends sitting up with his back against the headboard his fingers on my temples tracing pressure points just below my eyebrows, sliding his fingers down the side of my face, in front of my ears, all the way to my throat with long strokes. I swallow. Then he digs his fingers into my scalp and with slow, steady moves, releases all the little muscles that have been bunched and tight probably forever.

“How does that feel? Better?”

“Oh my God.” My voice is a full register deeper. “I don’t think I can move.”

“That’s good. That’s the point.”

He strokes my face with a finger, and I open my eyes, startled to see his face so close to mine again. But it’s not the proximity that causes a flutter in my heart. It’s what I’m seeing in his face: he is listening to me, listening to my body, listening to what I need, and he is one hundred percent present. There’s no agenda, no eagerness, no bravado.

It’s just me and him and for once, there’s no desperation on my part. There’s nothing I’m trying to run away from or to. There’s nothing I’m trying to prove to myself or someone else. I’m not embarrassed by my larger hips and curvy breasts.

I reach up, shaking off the sheet, and I take his head in my hands and I start to pull him to me. This time, he rolls on to his knees, slides both arms around me and lifts me slightly to meet his lips.

Weightless, nerveless, boneless I reach up with one hand to stroke his face. I can feel his hot breath on me, his tongue plying my mouth open, and then his mouth consumes mine and we’re connected. I breathe hard, matching his breath. He lifts me a little higher and slides a hand under the T-shirt. My nipples already hard, tighten further with the anticipation of his touch.

Gently, as if I’m made of glass, he starts rubbing. I pull away from his kiss and moan even louder, deep from my throat. He takes the bottom of the T-shirt and works it up over my head tossing it on the bed covers.

Even my passive participation seems to have taken all my energy.

I watch him as he reaches for the bottle of hand lotion on the nightstand. Every time he moves, his muscles work and the light playing across his skin leaves it lustrous. He is absolutely beautiful.

I am so wet between my legs I’m almost certain he can smell me. He lifts the bed covers carefully, trying not to get lotion on the sheets and then pulls them down to my waist.

“Here,” he says, “let’s finish this.”

I gasp when he touches my breasts kneading them, gently lifting my rib cage up with one hand beneath my back, arching, stretching my stomach flat, he runs another hand down the middle and then starts a circular motion clockwise on my abdomen. I quiver as his hand drops lower to my pelvis and he puts a little pressure on it, pushing down slightly.

My sex is wet and hot and aching for him.

I open my eyes again. It’s like I have to ration looking at him—taking him in all at once is too much.

“I want you,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says. “But you’ve also been under tremendous stress. I don’t want to take advantage—”

“You’re not,” I say. “Oh God, please, Mateus.”

Sliding his other arm out from under me, I hear him undo the buckle of his pants. He slides them off, and just the sound of denim dropping makes my sex even tighter. I watch him as he rolls over. His left leg is hidden in covers, while he swings his right leg over me and starts to rub my breasts, kissing each as if saying hello and then settling his head on his bent arm while the other hand traces my shoulder.

“We can just do this,” he says and kisses my breasts again. “I’m in no rush at all.”

Oh my God I am. But I try to match his more reasoned energy.

“I don’t know how good I’m going to be at this because I’m so relaxed,” I say realizing how true this is. My body has gone from a totally tense knot of anxiety to pudding. “All I know is, I want you in me,” I whisper and cup his face in my hands. His stubble scrapes my palms.

Without a word, he moves even closer to put a hand on my cheek, tucks some strands of hair behind my ear again, while sliding his other hand under my head. His lips find mine, molding his lips to my mouth, drinking me in, his tongue flirts, igniting me, reminding me who I am—and who he is.

Finally, he slips halfway under the covers. His abs are tight and hard and I can see the ripples of muscle. His pecs are beautiful, flat swaths of muscle and his nipples are tight—the areolas puckered and dark. I reach to touch them, and then slide my hand down his side, finding all the places along his side where muscle knits to the rib cage.

Despite the fact I’m boneless, I need him in me. This need is almost frightening. I can control wanting, but not this. I hear the tear of a condom packet, and then he swings a leg over again this time under the sheets and I feel his cock rubbing against me. He takes my wrists and holds them in each hand above my head, flattening his body against mine, and kisses me long and hard, ravenous. At the same time, his butt lifts, and he gently rubs my clit with his penis, teasing, the corded thickness stroking my nub to swell.

I moan and arch, my nipples brush his chest, rubbing against hair, skin, muscle, his breath warm, fast, irregular, in my ear.

His weight on me, his smell, his skin are like a drug. Every time I open my eyes just for a moment, I feel like I’m drowning, and I want to drown. I want to lose my breath and I want him to revive me, make me whole.

“Now,” I gasp, and without even guiding himself, he finds me. I stretch my legs as wide as I can, and he enters, filling me up swiftly, hard. I gasp and arch my back even more, and he lifts me even higher with one arm.