Chapter 8
8
HOWELL
O nno’s laughter bubbled over the sizzle of the wok he was stirring. Our hostess for the evening, the amazing Intan, had turned a simple Indonesian cooking class into an adventure for the senses. The rich aromas of garlic, lemongrass, and ginger made my stomach rumble.
“Look.” Onno expertly flipped the contents of his work, where he made nasi—Indonesian fried rice with egg, thin slices of ham, vegetables, and spices to give it its distinct yellow color and subtle flavor. “I’m a natural.”
His blue eyes sparkled with mischief under the kitchen’s warm lights, and I chuckled at his feigned boastfulness. “Sure, you are.” I stirred the rendang, the tender beef simmering in coconut milk and spices. “Because you’ve never done this, obviously.”
Onno had organized this date, and while we were chopping vegetables, he’d told me Indonesian food was popular in the Netherlands. Indonesia was a former Dutch colony, and many Indonesians had moved to the Netherlands, bringing their favorite recipes. Onno loved their food and had made some dishes before.
He waved his hand. “Details.”
I shook my head, amazed at how easily our banter flowed.
Intan moved between us, her long ponytail swishing as she inspected our dishes. “Really good, Onno! You have good technique,” she said and turned to me with a nod of approval. “And, Howell, your rendang looks perfect, hmm? Right consistency.”
We beamed under her compliments, and a surge of pride rolled through me, not just for mastering the art of Indonesian cuisine but also for the ease with which Onno and I interacted. Everything was so natural, so effortless, so spontaneous.
“Okay, class, time is up!” Intan announced, clapping her hands together. “You can take your food home with you and let me know how it tasted, yes? Remember, rendang must simmer for two more hours.”
The room buzzed with the rustling of the six participants packing up our creations, the delicious results of our labor. I couldn’t wait to taste it, especially those succulent skewers of satay that promised a burst of peanutty flavor. We wrapped the dishes carefully, ensuring none of the precious sauces would spill during transit.
“Thank you, Intan, for such an incredible experience,” I said as we approached her, balancing our containers.
“ Terima kasih ,” Onno said, one of the few Indonesian phrases he’d learned. He looked so damn pleased with himself that my heart swelled with affection.
“ Senang bisa membantu ,” Intan replied with a warm smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Don’t be strangers to the kitchen or each other.”
Her knowing look didn’t go unnoticed, and my cheeks heated slightly. Onno gave a short, hearty laugh, clearly unfazed by her insinuation.
“Thanks again,” I said. We waved goodbye to the other participants, who were engrossed in chatter about their newfound culinary skills.
It was only a short walk to my house, so we hadn’t bothered to take my truck. Inside, I flicked on the lights, and a warm glow spilled out from the overhead lamps, casting shadows that danced along the walls. With a few strikes of a match, I lit the candles I’d strategically placed around the living room. Their flickering flames gave a softer, more intimate illumination, the faint ocean scent slowly permeating the air.
“Nice touch with the candles.” Onno set our culinary treasures on the table.
“Thought it created the right atmosphere. Same with this.” I clicked on the sound system, and soft music began to play—a gentle acoustic melody that wrapped around us like a comforting blanket.
“Perfect.” Onno turned to me, giving me his radiant smile. The kind of smile that said everything without uttering a single word, that made my stomach do flips, that made my heartbeat stutter. I was so crazy about this man.
Porcelain clinked and napkins rustled as Onno and I set the table, our movements falling into a rhythm that felt as natural as the rise and fall of the tides. I handed him forks and knives, and he placed them beside each plate, his long fingers careful and precise.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? To create something with your hands.” Onno surveyed the spread of dishes we’d prepared.
“Definitely,” I agreed. “But with the right company, it feels even better.”
He treated me to another one of his sweet smiles.
We settled at the table. The tantalizing aroma of spices, coconut, and lemongrass made my mouth water. I’d heated the satay for a minute. Onno carefully took a bit, closing his eyes, and savored the tender chicken in its rich, fragrant sauce.
“Oh, this turned out really, really well. So much better than store-bought.”
“You have store-bought satay back home?”
“Well, the peanut sauce. We eat that with a lot of other food. Fries, for example. It’s delicious.”
Fries with peanut sauce? I knew the Dutch ate their fries with mayo, which in itself was already interesting, but peanut sauce? I shouldn’t diss it before trying it, but that didn’t sound like an appealing combination.
“I’d love to visit sometime,” I said. “See your home country with my own eyes.”
Shit. Why had I said that? It only reminded me that time was running out on us. Every day together was a bittersweet reminder of our impending goodbye, which came closer and closer.
“I would love to show you all my favorite places.” Onno’s voice sounded hoarse.
“Sweetheart…”
He shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t say it. I can’t bear it.”
Once dinner was over and Onno had loaded the dishwasher with a precision that was true to his character, we settled on the couch with a glass of wine.
“Your place has such a warm vibe,” Onno said, letting his gaze wander over the bookshelves and framed photos of mountain landscapes. He nestled deeper into the cushions, drawing his feet up beneath him in an unconscious display of comfort.
“I was going for cozy.” I tucked a throw pillow behind me for support. “Makes coming home feel like…well, coming home.”
“I have to redecorate my house when I go back. Gerard had specific tastes, and I want it to feel like me now.”
Before, when he’d mention his ex’s name, his face would grow tight, displaying hurt and bitterness, but now he talked about him more neutrally. “I’m proud of you,” I said softly. “You’ve made big strides in your healing process.”
He slowly nodded. “You were a big part of that.”
“I’m grateful I could help, but most of it is you, sweetheart. You’re so much stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
He put down his wine glass and turned to me. “Will you take me to bed?”
I swallowed. In the last week, we’d exchanged more blowjobs but hadn’t done full anal. I was okay with that. Not that I didn’t want it, but the last thing Onno needed was to be put under pressure. “Are you sure?”
“I want you, Howell. In every way. Please show me…”
Show me you love me. He didn’t need to say the words. We both felt them, but by unspoken agreement, we didn’t say them aloud.
“Sweetheart, I—” My voice cracked, thickened with emotion. “I want you too. So much.”
I cupped his cheek, smooth and soft beneath my palm. He pressed against my hand, closing his eyes for a moment as if to savor the touch. When he opened them again, they were alight with affection and a desire that mirrored my own. “Then have me,” he whispered.
It was all the invitation I needed. With a fluid motion, I closed the distance between us, my lips finding his in a tender and fervent kiss. As our mouths moved together, exploring and learning, our bodies followed, drawing nearer until there was no space left between us.
We stumbled to my bedroom between kisses. I flicked on the lights. I wanted to see him, see what I did to him.
“Gorgeous,” Onno murmured, tentatively brushing my chest. His touch ignited a fire on my skin, warmth spreading through every fiber of my being. I captured his hands with mine and guided them to the hem of my shirt. Together, we lifted it over my head, the fabric whispering its farewell, exposing my body to his gaze.
My fingers found the buttons of his shirt, undoing each one with deliberate slowness, prolonging the moment. The shirt parted, revealing his pale skin, such a contrast to the dimly lit room. I traced the lines of his collarbone, and a shiver passed through him. He was so beautiful with his smooth skin, long, sleek limbs, and perfect eyes. Eyes I wanted to drown in. Everything about him spoke to me, sang to me.
“Your turn,” I said softly, and with a smile that held volumes of unspoken words, he mirrored my actions, divesting me of my shirt. In between more kisses and caresses, we shed all our clothes piece by piece. There was a reverence in the way he touched me, as if memorizing the map of my body with his fingertips.
Our gazes locked, and time seemed suspended. With each breath, anticipation built, charging the air with electric potential. I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around him, our skin meeting in a flush of heat, our chests rising and falling in sync.
“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, and led him to the bed. Onno nodded, his blue eyes shimmering with trust and something deeper, something I recognized as akin to my feelings. Love. We were in love.
“I’m perfect.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
I smiled back, arranged the pillows, and pulled back the sheets, laying a foundation for what was to come. Leaning over him, I brushed my lips against his forehead, a silent promise to honor the gift of his vulnerability.
“Let me take care of you,” I whispered. Such simple words, but they felt like a vow.
I opened the bedside drawer and retrieved the lube but hesitated when I got to the condoms. Going bare seemed crazy this soon, yet…
“I’m tested and negative,” Onno said softly. Even now, we were on the same page.
“Same. So, bare?”
“Bare.”
He spread on his back, letting his legs fall wide as he showed me everything, giving me a view into his very soul. I’d never done this. My ex hadn’t been into anal, but I’d done my research, wanting to know what to do when Onno was ready. Thank god I had. I felt certain, confident, convinced I’d get it right.
“You’re perfect,” I whispered as I ran my hand down his stomach, over the length of his cock. “So fucking perfect.”
His smile lit up my heart.
I kissed his right leg from his still somewhat damaged feet to the inside of his thigh, then did the same to his left leg. His soft signs were a sweet symphony.
With lube-coated fingers, I slid into him, first with my middle finger, then with my index. I prepared him with unhurried movements, giving each touch, each caress, each move my utmost attention, ensuring his comfort. His responses guided me—little intakes of breath, a subtle shifting of his hips, his fingers gripping the sheets and relaxing, gripping and relaxing.
“Good?” I checked, pausing to look into his eyes.
“Perfect.” That single word suffused me with warmth, spreading from my chest outward, each cell prickling and tingling.
I stretched out on top of him, and nimble as he was, he folded his legs double, accepting me between his legs. Positioning myself was a bit of a fumble because of the awkward angle, but he was patient, watching me with that sweet, shy smile.
I slid into him slowly, guided by every flicker of pleasure that danced across his features. The heat of his body welcomed me, wrapped around me like the embrace of a long-lost lover. There was no resistance, only the seamless joining of two souls hungry for the taste of each other’s essence. He took me in like he was made for me, not showing a hint of discomfort.
“Howell…”
His voice broke, and it was as if he spoke directly to my heart, urging it to beat faster, to love harder. Because god, I loved him. I loved him with every fiber of my being, with every beat of my heart, with every breath in my lungs. But I dared not speak the words, scared they’d shatter the sacred trust between us.
“Look at me.” I held his gaze in silent conversation. A conversation made of shared desires and whispered dreams.
With each gentle thrust, I discovered what turned him on, learned the rhythm that drew soft moans from his lips. The room filled with the sound of our bodies moving together, and the air grew thick with the scent of our mingled arousal. My skin heated, sweat beaded on my forehead, and electrical pulses zipped down my spine.
“Harder… Please, Howell, harder…” Onno pleaded, and I obliged, my movements growing bolder, driven by the urgency pulsing through my veins. We swayed together, a sensual dance that pulled us closer to the edge of ecstasy.
“Yours.” He dug his fingers into my shoulders. “I’m yours, Howell.”
“Oh, sweetheart…”
I couldn’t speak. If I did, I’d spill the words I shouldn’t say, confess the promises that shouldn’t be voiced. Instead, I poured my love for him into the touch of his soft skin and the slides into his warm channel. Each stroke, each kiss, each shared breath wove us tighter together.
Onno wrapped his right hand around his cock. I would’ve done it, but I couldn’t figure out the logistics without putting my full weight on him. Next time. There would be a next time.
And when I couldn’t hold back anymore, when my balls were painfully tight and my muscles cramped with tension, Onno whispered, “Let go, baby. Send us over the edge.”
I threw my head back and surged deep inside him. My muscles seized, and my body grew taut as I shook and shivered my way through the orgasm blazing through me. Onno shuddered underneath me, spraying his load between our heated bodies.
Our dance continued in a quiet postlude of labored breathing and thudding hearts seeking a common rhythm. I rolled off him gently and pulled him into my arms, our limbs entangling. We lay there, sweaty and messy, skin on skin, hearts exposed and vulnerable.
“Thank you,” Onno murmured against my chest, his breath warm and comforting.
“Thank you.” The echo of our lovemaking reverberated in every fiber of my being.
As I held Onno in my embrace, a heaviness settled over me. The knowledge that this bubble of contentment was temporary—a fleeting perfection—clawed at my insides. My chest tightened, and without warning, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.
He would leave. He had to leave. How would I survive without him? How would I ever be able to let him go?