Page 62 of The Lonely Road

“God!” I whimper at the feeling of fullness, of feeling whole and complete.

This isn’t merely sex. The thought springs out of the crevices of my brain and rests against my heart.

Soon his movements become frantic, frenzied. “You’re tight around me, Taya. So wet. So….” He pushes my knees up to my chest. “Wanna go deeper.”

He starts pounding into me. His eyes hold mine as he does. I can’t look away. He’s telling me so much—so very much as he moves in and out, and in and out, over and over until, until neither of us can think, until we’re both trembling.

“Now,” he orders, and his hand moves between us.

Even he can’t elicit a third orgasm from me, I think. I’m wrong because he does, right before he lets go.

After, he goes into the bathroom, and I close my eyes, enjoying the aftermath of luxurious lovemaking. It was sweet and hot and perfect.

I open my eyes when Mason lifts me off the bed, his arms flexing with effortless strength.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Take a bath with me.”

Liking the idea very much, I snuggle against him.

I feel spoiled and pampered when he sets me down on a towel atop a counter. He checks the water and turns off the faucets, satisfied with the temperature and amount of water in the tub.

I turn to look at myself in the mirror and let out a laugh. My hair is tangled. My lipstick is long gone. My cheeks are flushed.

“What?” he asks.

“I look thoroughly debauched.”

He comes up to me and kisses my lips reverently. “You look stunning.”

He slides his palms up my thighs. “I left marks on you.”

I look down at the red marks his fingers left behind.

“No one ever has,” I whisper.

He looks at me with the kind of possessiveness my heart craves.

I know he’s only passing through. I know he’s going to leave. And yet, whatever this is between us makes me believe—if only for a moment—that he won’t.

That he’ll stay because he can’t quite bring himself to go.

That this will work.

That whatever is growing between us, this beginning won’t also be the end.

I’m a practical woman who believes in facts—but right now, right here in my bathroom with my bathtub filled with water and lavender bath salts, I don’t want to.

The water is perfect.

He helps me in first, then climbs in behind me, pulling my back against his chest.

The tub is a nice big one that the previous owners put in, probably with something like this in mind, I think, with a smile.

I let myself float, melting into his arms, his heartbeat thudding against my spine.

His hands roam my body under the water, slow and lazy, mapping every inch as if he needs to memorize me by touch alone.