Chapter 8 #2
She's looking at me like she's certain this is the part where I leave. Like she's said too much, shown too much, and any second now I'll grab my shirt off the floor and go back to being the guy that moves on to the next thing. Her shoulders are already braced for it.
The worst part is that the world taught her to expect that.
I sit with it for a second.
Rub the sides of her thighs.
Then I see it.
"Come here."
"What—"
"Come here." I take her hand and stand, leading her toward the door across the room, into the bathroom.
I pull a towel down off the shelf—folded, lavender-smelling, blue—and carry it back out.
There's a reading chair in the corner by the window, big and soft, with a paperback sitting on the table next to it.
I lay the towel over the seat and sit down on it.
She stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. "What are you doing?"
"Come here," I say again, patting my lap.
She reluctantly sits, the ghost of the cry still on her face. If it hadn't still been there, the skepticism on her face would be comical, but I keep my face clear. She looks back at me, clearly uncomfortable. "This feels ridiculous."
"Call it a lifestyle."
That gets me the start of a smile—finally—then I kiss her. And she melts. There's no other word for it.
The tension goes out of her all at once, and she pours into me, and this time when I reach for the hem of her shirt, she doesn't stop me.
I pull it up and off, and the cool air hits her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. I stand just long enough to take her pants and panties off in one fluid motion, and she's already pulling at my belt, frantic now, kissing me like she's making up for the last few weeks in one go.
Her fingers fumble with the buckle twice before she gets it, and I help her shove my jeans down, my cock already hard and pressing against her hip.
I sit back down. She climbs back onto my lap where she was, and I slide my hands to her waist, turning her until she's facing me.
She breaks the kiss.
"What are you—"
"Straddle me, baby."
She makes a face.
"Don't call me baby."
Noted.
There's something else though.
"What's wrong, doll face?"
"I'm not sure how to do this."
I lift an eyebrow before I can stop it. "What about the barbecue?"
"Not that." She goes pink, the flush I've been chasing all night, and god, it's worth every second. "Before that. I'd only ever—I’ve only done this." She gestures between us. "On a bed. Lying down."
Oh.
Ohhh.
So many years married and she's never...
And something fierce and stupidly tender comes up in me, because I gave her that, because I get to give her this. Of all the things I'm not good for—of all the things I can't be for a woman like her—I can be good for this.
"I think you're gonna like this, doe eyes."
Her lashes flutter at it, the nickname landing somewhere soft.
"This gives you all the control," I tell her, and I kiss her again, slowly, building the heat back up from the banked coals until she's pliant and warm and rocking against me without realizing she's doing it.
I lean her back into my arms and lift her legs, one at a time, hooking them over the arms of the chair.
She stops, pulls back, and looks at me—confused but trusting—and the trust does something to my chest I'll think about later.
I line myself below her and thrust up. Barely. Just the first inch of me against her, into her, and her mouth falls open into a perfect, silent O.
She goes still.
Fuck.
I’m white-knuckling the arms of the chair, forcing stillness. Forcing control. My cock throbs inside her, and even though I’m barely in there, I can feel her clenching around me, tight and wet and so goddamn warm.
And then she moves.
She lowers herself onto me, slowly, taking me in by degrees, watching my face the entire time—and my head drops back against the chair because I'm about to embarrass myself like a goddamn greenie his first night up.
Over two months of wanting her crashing into the heat, the stretch, and the unbearable patience of how slow she's going.
She goes down, inch by inch, and I can feel every ripple, every clench, every wet slide of her body accepting mine. She must like what she sees, because when I drag my eyes back open, she's smiling down at me, pleased with herself.
She’s going to fucking kill me.
Then she finds her rhythm.
It builds—her hands bracing on my shoulders, my hands digging into her hips—both of us trying to stay quiet and failing in small ways.
Her pants quicken, and a low sound tears out of me against her bouncing breasts.
I lean forward and take one in my mouth, sucking hard, and she gasps, her rhythm stuttering before she catches it again.
She leans in and kisses me, messy, no finesse left in either of us.
The pace climbs until we’re out of rhythm, both of us chasing each other to the peak.
We're moving together hard enough that the chair complains under us, and just when I think the legs will break, that it’s going to collapse, I feel her release—feel her clenching around me, her whole body bowing, her cry muffled against my shoulder.
And I follow her over a heartbeat later, both arms locked around her, holding her down against me like she might float off otherwise.
My cock pulses inside her, spilling hot and thick, and I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in.
For a long minute neither of us moves.
Our breathing slows, finding the same rhythm eventually, like we're drifting back down to the same spot.
She slips off me to clean up. Comes back with a handful of tissues and the small trash can from the corner. She sets it by my foot without a word—practical, a little shy—and somehow that domestic flicker undoes me past the point I thought was possible after what we just did.
Then she lets me pull her back down into the chair, sideways across my lap, her head tucked under my jaw. I reach for a blanket in the basket beside the chair and pull it over us. Just the chair, the blanket, and the two of us in the dark.
I don't ask for more than this. She doesn't offer it.
I fall asleep holding her, and I can't remember the last time sleep came so easy.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, shaking me.
"Asher. Asher."
I surface slowly. The window's still dark but going gray at the edge. She's standing over me in a robe now, cinched tight, hair pushed back. Already halfway gone from me even though she's a foot away.
"The kids. The neighbors," she whispers. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." My voice comes out rough. I find my clothes in the dark, pull them on, and she watches from the doorway with her arms crossed. Not cold this time. Just holding herself.
She walks me quietly down the stairs, the house still sleeping all around us. It smells like crayons and cereal, like a whole life I'm a stranger to.
At the front door I turn, and she stops me with a hand on my chest.
Then she goes up on her toes and kisses me—once, quick, light as anything. Testing, as if she's checking whether she's still allowed to, whether this gets to exist in daylight too.
"Drive safe," she breathes against my jaw.
And then I'm out on the porch, the lock turning behind me, the porch light still off. It's just me and the cold and the long way home.
The highway's empty.
I drive into the sunrise with my hands easy on the wheel, the heater ticking, the radio off because I don't want anything between me and this feeling.
For the first time in weeks—for the first time since a bathroom in August knocked my whole life sideways—I feel like myself.
Not the script. Not the practiced grin. Not the guy on the other side of a joke to make others feel comfortable.
Just me. Quiet, full, and stupidly happy at five in the morning on an empty road, the taste of her still on my mouth, the weight of her still pressed into my chest.
I get back to the penthouse as the city's waking up.
I shower then fall right into bed.
I wake up four hours later to too much light and one clear thought, sitting right at the front of my mind, like it's been waiting there the whole time I slept.
I have to see her again.