8. “Fire Meet Gasoline” - Sia #2
We stop in the center of the large living space, which consists of great room and kitchen. Henry grabs both my shoulders and holds me at arm’s length. I’m still shaking, so I clasp my elbows with my hands and will myself to calm down.
“Do you want some tea?” he asks, leaning down to try to meet my eyes.
I shake my head, my vision blurry—whether with tears or dizziness, I’m not sure. Maybe both.
“A warm bath? A glass of wine?”
I just close my eyes against the throbbing in my temples.
“Celia, tell me what you need. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you need.” A warm palm cups my face. “Look at me, baby. How can I help you relax?”
I wish he’d stop calling me baby. My body keeps interpreting it as a term of affection, and it spikes my blood pressure every time. I open my eyes to find him staring at me intently, a thick furrow between his brows. His eyes dart back and forth across my face, then resolve hardens his expression.
Before I can process anything, his other hand joins the first in cradling my chin, and he holds me firmly in place as he steps closer. He waits two beats before kissing me.
It isn’t a gentle caress or a slow dance.
It’s a burning fire. At the first taste of him, my body goes electric, screaming after finally getting another dose of the drug it’s been craving for months.
He still tastes exactly as I remember, yet somehow even better, if that’s possible.
Everything flees my mind except for the way his lips are eating at mine, the way he completely invades me.
Our movements become frantic, a frenzied mess of limbs. Henry’s hands slide into my hair, and I groan with pleasure. My fingers have become tangled in his shirt, and I’m clinging on for dear life as he makes me forget my own name.
I push at the jacket impeding me from exploring his shoulders. He lets go of me for one brief moment to shrug it off, then his hands are back, their warmth searing through my skin and right into my blood.
We stumble further into the flat. Correction: I stumble, but he is all grace, leading me without missing a beat.
Memories often become exaggerated with time, leading to disappointment when we try to relive those remarkable moments.
That book we loved isn’t nearly as good when we reread it.
The dream vacation becomes a blur of frustration when we try to recreate it.
The one that got away isn’t quite the catch we make them out to be in our head.
And then there are times—truly magical ones—when our expectations are exceeded, completely blasted away. Even in our wildest dreams, we never imagined things being so good.
This moment with Henry falls into the latter category.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t fantasized about what it would be like to be with him again, feel his hands sliding over my hips, taste his spearmint-flavored mouth, touch the lines of the body I barely got to know before it was snatched away.
I’ve spent countless nights in bed, pretending he was with me, touching myself the way I imagined he would, and falling asleep ashamed of not having been strong enough to resist the thought of him.
But now he’s here, and we’re doing this, and it’s so much better than even the most scandalous of my fantasies.
It’s better because he’s real and solid beneath my hands, his scent vivid in my nostrils, the heat between us so much bigger than anything I could generate on my own.
It’s better because he still has the power to surprise me and take my breath away.
No amount of sex dreams could prepare me for the way he makes me gasp when he bites my neck or shiver when he rubs his stubble against my cheek or melt when he whispers my name over and over in my ear.
“God, Celia. You wreck me,” he says in a choked voice. His hand finds the zipper of my dress and lingers there, a question in his eyes.
I don’t hesitate, just seal my mouth against his once more.
He understands completely and slowly tugs the zipper down.
My dress splays open at the back, and he chases away the chill with his ever-moving hands.
I disengage my own from his hair just long enough to let the dress slide off my shoulders and onto the floor.
Henry helps me step over the discarded fabric, and we move toward what I assume is the bedroom.
I’m too distracted by the sensation of his hands on my bare skin to pay attention to trivial things like location.
He’s only stopped kissing me for the absolute essentials, and my lips are already swollen, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting him for the rest of eternity.
Before I can register what is happening, he swoops me up in his arms and carries me the rest of the way. “You deserve to be taken to a bedroom,” he says.
I can’t stop the thrill that races up my spine. He claims my mouth again.
It’s cooler in here and smells more sharply of Henry than the rest of the house. I can’t decide if I prefer a hit directly from his skin or the secondhand scent that permeates the space where he spends most of his time.
Lowering me to the bed without breaking stride, he climbs over me like he owns me, and quickly divests me of the remainder of my clothing.
Then, as if he’s been in withdrawal for an eternity, he begins his slow attack on my body.
His hands rake over me, cupping my curves, drawing out shivers, coaxing out tiny moans.
He takes my breast in his mouth, moving his tongue back and forth over the nipple until I cry out.
When I arch up toward him, he slides his hand down to where I need him most, the other still wrapped around my breast. His finger slides inside effortlessly, and I nearly combust. It’s a startling reminder of just how much of a knock-off the generic thing is.
No one else has ever made me feel this good.
We shouldn’t know each other’s bodies this way.
We’ve spent the night together only twice, but from the way he is touching me, you’d think we’d been together for years.
There is no awkwardness, no hesitation. His hands are possessive and confident.
He knows better than I ever could exactly where I want him.
My orgasm hits like a tsunami, much faster than I anticipated. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t have sex for months. Henry holds me as I bury my nails in his back and ride it out.
I’ve barely come down from the peak when he flips me onto my stomach. “Get on your knees,” he growls in my ear.
I do so obediently, silently aching to know what he has planned.
He reaches between my legs and spreads them farther apart. Then I feel the heat of his mouth, and it takes everything in me not to fall apart all over again.
After several minutes of blissful anguish, he pulls back, and I hear the familiar sound of his zipper. I drop my head to peer at him between my legs, just in time to see him slide a condom over his very considerable length. A spike of heat flares through my belly.
He winks when he catches me watching, then grabs a pillow. “Rest your head and arms on this.” He helps me position it under the upper half of my body. That done, he strokes my face and murmurs, “Press into the bed if you need to. I plan to fuck you senseless.”
My breath catches in my throat. He wraps his fingers tightly in my hair and presses a kiss to the spot behind my ear. A few seconds later, he lets go, and I feel his hands on my thighs.
He moves them up and down, each stroke bringing him a centimeter closer to my apex. His hands finally reach me, and I muffle my cry with the pillow.
He gives a satisfied chuckle. “That’s only the beginning, baby.
” His fingers circle me, taunting me, and then I feel him press up against my entrance.
“I’m going to take you on the count of three, okay?
” He grabs my hips for leverage, and there’s a small amount of pressure as he positions himself just inside.
I forbid myself to press backward against him, and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
“One.” The pressure increases infinitesimally. I tremble and rest my head on the pillow like he directed. “Two.” He pulls my hips back ever so slightly, arranging himself perfectly.
I am burning with anticipation. I force myself not to move, to sink into the pillow, which smells like pine and amber, to feel every sensation in my body right now. I don’t know when his final count will come, and it’s driving me mad with desire.
“Three.” He grunts and thrusts inside of me in a single, fluid motion, pulling back on my hips while pushing his own forward. He rams home like he belongs there, like there isn’t anywhere else in the world he’d rather be, and a loud cry rips from my throat.
He continues thrusting, his fingers now branded into my hips as he moves them exactly where he wants them. My body jolts forward with each motion, completely at his beck and call.
His hand moves from my hip to between my thighs. I press into the heat of his palm, seeking the friction I know I’ll find there. He cups me roughly and presses me backward against him with his forearm.
His thumb swirls over my clit, taunting and begging me to give him everything. Bright spots of light flash behind my eyelids, and I shudder as my climax builds to its breaking point.
When it hits, it sends me screaming into the pillow. He follows right behind, and collapses on top of me when it’s over.
I couldn’t care any less about what is raging in the world outside right now. Henry has a way of consuming me that leaves no room for a single thing in my mind but him.