Chapter 14
Venus
I come apart like a dandelion in a stiff wind, scattered and in pieces. He cradles me as I come down, hand laced in my hair and pressing his forehead to mine as my breathing slows and the tremors lessen.
Watching me. Waiting for me.
I have never climaxed like that before, full-bodied and explosive.
I am sexually proficient and confident. I consider the activity a human necessity—food, water, shelter, sex—and I’m bold and greedy when it comes to meeting my needs.
I’ve had plenty of satisfying partners, some less so, but always, always, I achieve climax.
Orgasms are easy. It’s illogical that this one feels different than the rest.
But it’s Henry. And my orgasms of the past were mere rumbles compared to his demanding thunder.
This wasn’t an exercise but a connection.
This wasn’t clumsy or awkward, but intimate.
Henry wasn’t the means to an end but the source.
The creator. The composer. The artist. His intense gaze, the feel of his rough stubble against my skin, the delicious timbre of his voice, and the perfect pressure of his thumb.
I imagine his fingerprint permanently branded there—that’s his now, forever.
He holds me, savoring me and letting me savor it.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I answer by kissing him, all lips and tongue, and the gentle tickles of his beard against my cheeks and under my nose.
His hands slide down me, along the back of my thighs, calves, until he tugs my boots to the floor.
My phone falls, too. I don’t care. I ease off the counter, pulling my dress down until it falls into a heap around my socked feet.
My panties and socks follow, leaving me bare.
Henry’s hungry eyes take me in by the soft light from the hallway. I don’t feel the least bit modest about him seeing me. I want to expose myself to him. For him to see me. All of me.
He eyes my breasts, traces the artwork along my arms, and sees the large tattoo on my thigh—bursting sunflowers in yellow, burgundy, and gold for the ones we grew in the greenhouse that reached too high and ended up toppling over.
Sunflowers aren’t like other flowers—they need more space to grow.
Leaves and vines swirl them together and trace around my leg to my calf and shin, where other favorites reside.
Poppies, lavender, honeysuckle, and the fern that he has no idea belongs to him.
His fingers slide down my arm, taking my hand, and he turns me around.
My back is a botanical hodgepodge—the live oak I climbed often in the woods behind the fairy house, our lean-to, magnolia flowers, weeds, wildflowers, wild herbs, sweet pea, marigolds, and palmettos.
He traces the images with his finger, making my skin prickle with goosebumps. I wonder if he knows they’re all memories. I wonder if he knows my body is our journal. His arm hooks around my waist, pulling me against him. I feel his hardness and ache to have him inside me.
His arm is wrapped over my breasts, his heavy breaths on my ear, and his tongue slips down my neck.
“Take me, Henry,” I beg, my hand sliding over the bulge in his jeans. His lips curl against my shoulder.
“I can’t decide how I want you next,” he breathes on my skin.
“Then, let me choose,” I mutter, knowing just what I want.
He growls, nuzzling my neck before biting me. “Upstairs.”
I step from the dress heap on the floor, leaving it all behind, and follow where he leads me.
Holding hands, we weave through a maze of dark rooms to a staircase, occasionally glancing over his shoulder with boyish satisfaction at the sight of me.
On a dimly lit landing, he pins me to the wall with untamed kisses as I wrap my legs around him and his hands skitter from my breasts to my thighs, gripping me tightly.
He carries me the rest of the way, barreling into a door at the top, out of breath but smiling.
“You okay?” I ask as he edges inside his apartment.
“Breathless for the right reasons,” he grins.
We reach the foot of his bed, where he lets my legs drift slowly from his hands as he kisses me.
Wild, frantic kisses, desperate and playful, like wildflowers in a field, spread wherever they wish to go.
My feet find the floor, and I pull myself away just enough to gather the hem of his shirt.
His smile falls slightly as I rid him of it.
At first, I think it’s shyness—it’s been a decade since I’ve seen his chest, after all.
Could Henry have what they call a dad bod?
No. Not a dad bod. Not at all. There’s more substance to him than in high school, but pleasantly so, as if his muscles have become insulated with more muscles.
Running my fingertips over his toned shoulders, rippled stomach, and patches of hair on his hard chest makes me ache to rid him of the rest of his clothes.
But I stop in a gasp when I see a tattoo over his heart, too. I trace the detailed lines of a bullfrog—not just any bullfrog. Our bullfrog. “It’s Frank.”
A small lamp in the corner casts a warm glow in his eyes, which have narrowed behind his glasses. He looks uncertain, almost sad.
“Why did you get this?” I can’t help asking.
“I, um… I wanted to keep you close, too.”
My eyes flicker from him to the frog and then back again. Despite the pain I caused him, he wanted to keep me close. Forever. A piece of me.
“I don’t understand.” My eyes drift to Frank’s again, and in a moment of complete absurdity, I kiss him, thinking of that fairy tale about the princess who kisses the frog to turn him into her prince.
It’s a ridiculous story. No one should ever kiss a real frog—they’re covered in bacteria and salmonella.
Had I known that then, I wouldn’t have let Henry touch it—we washed our hands vigorously after, regardless.
But some part of me, the part that Henry has awakened, wants to harness any magic that might be out there for us.
That he did this with my drawing… my heart swells with love for him, new love layering on the old.
It’s as if loving Henry started as a penciled sketch that later became permanent, with inked lines that grew more prominent against a deliberate background, and finally filled in with color.
Gorgeous colors. Blends of colors. Shadows. And light.
That picture takes hold in my mind, as so many have before, and I’m desperate for it to come to life. To give it all the color and attention it needs. To love him fully.
“It’s just as I said.” His thumbs wipe my tears on either side before he drops a finger on my lips. “Not now. We shouldn’t talk about it now.”
He’s right—not now. But that it sounds like a promise to talk with me about it sometime fills me with something unexpected for us—hope. Beautiful, wretched, unfair hope.
His finger finds my chin and lifts my head until my damp eyes meet his. His boyish smile brings one of my own, and my body relaxes into it, especially when he says, “Come back to me, Venus. Be with me. Here. Now.”
“I am,” I assure him, pushing the rest away. “I promise I am.”
His grin widens as his hands roam over me. I brush my face against his chest, closing my eyes to his scent. Mint and pine mix delightfully with his soap—the same as I remember.
“Kiss me, Venus,” he whispers. “Kiss me and tell me what you want to do to me.”
My face flushes just thinking about it, and with trembling fingers, I undo his pants. He kicks off his shoes, kisses me hard, and suddenly, we’re at it again—full steam.
“I wanted to do it then,” I say, breaking away just enough for him to hear me, “but couldn’t find the courage.”
“You? I don’t believe—”
My hands slide under his boxers, squeezing his tight ass. “Sit down.”
He obeys as I tug his briefs away, leaving him naked. I drop to my knees between his—me on the floor and him on the bed’s edge—and run my fingers up his legs, watching him, watching me.
He is hard and thick and beautiful—I never expected to consider any genitalia, outside the plant kingdom, as beautiful. But he is. Long, lean, and so familiar behind the decade since the last time I touched him. His erection nestles against my breasts as he leans up to kiss me.
He nibbles my bottom lip. “Go slow,” he says, pulling my hair aside and holding it out of the way. “Please, take your time with me, Venus.”
He groans when my lips wrap around his tip, my tongue swirling as I explore him.
A gentle rise and fall ensues, sometimes my mouth, sometimes my fingers, sometimes my breasts, and sometimes just my tongue, lapping the length of him.
He leans back slightly, in a raspy growl, so that he can see me better.
I tilt my head, eyes locking on his as I pleasure him.
He almost looks pained by how good it feels, gasping, biting his lips, his brow pinching, his hands tightening on my hair.
I slide my free hand up over his and squeeze, assuring him that it’s okay to grip my head and tug on my hair.
That I like the pressure. And with an expelled, “Fuuuccckk,” his fingers tangle in my hair and pull harder.
It’s strange how pleasure and pain often go together.
He tenses beneath me as I take him deeply in my mouth. And again. And again.
Though proficient in oral sex, I don’t often offer it, unless I’m feeling generous. Sex is about me, about getting mine, and this typically isn’t much of a turn on for me.
But here, now, I’m on fire over doing this to Henry. I want to taste him, to feel him hit the back of my throat. I want him to give me everything.
“Venus,” he says in a shaky voice. “I’m close.”
So, I pause, only long enough to tell him what he told me downstairs. “Come for me, Henry. Right here.”
His hand tightens on my hair as I slide my tongue down him again. His hips press into me with delicious force, insisting that I take all of him. I match his rhythm and go deeper.