Chapter 6 – Brinley #2
“I want to watch your gorgeous body while you sink down on my cock, baby,” he whispers, and I nod eagerly. He turns, rolling me with him so I’m on top. I push up so I’m straddling his waist and take his cock in my hand. His gaze is almost worshipful while I drag my fist up and down, priming him.
“You’re so fucking stunning, Brin. Fuck, I dream about these hips every goddamn night.”
His hand slides over the swell of my hip, thumb pressing into the soft dip just above my thigh like he's marking the spot.
“I see you in your shop in some baggy sweater that swallows you whole, and I know what's under it.
I think about it when I'm prepping line.
When I'm running. When I'm trying to fucking sleep.
Every time you walk past me at the House of Cards, I have to count to ten, so I don't drag you into the nearest closet.”
He grabs me by the hips, his broad hands digging into the flesh as he lifts me to hover over his throbbing cock. His eyes are hooded with lust as he looks at me.
Slowly, I settle myself so his tip grazes my entrance. Beau’s eyes lock on the place where we touch, watching hungrily as I sink down two inches and take his tip.
“Fuck,” he grits out. “Fuck, that’s perfect.”
I fan my fingers out over my chest as I sink down, inch by inch. He hisses with satisfaction when my hips come flush against his. He shoves his thumb in his mouth, licking it before he presses it against my throbbing clit. My inner walls clench him tightly.
“You like that?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah, Beau. Just like that.”
He keeps the same pressure on my clit as I rock my hips. I move with shallow strokes, not wanting to be empty for more than a second. Not when Beau makes me feel so full, so complete. He gazes up at me tenderly, his free hand worshiping my breasts, my sides, my legs.
We’ve done this countless times, but tonight Beau seems—different. More intense, more deliberate. Like he’s trying to say something with his body that he can’t say out loud.
He pauses. Forehead pressed against mine. His breath comes out shaking, like he's running out of room inside his own ribs. For one suspended second his lips part and I think; he's going to say it. He's going to say something we can't unsay.
Then his eyes squeeze shut, and the moment moves through him like a wave breaking. He kisses me instead. Whatever almost-words there were, he buries them in my mouth.
I grind faster against him, my movements sloppier and rougher.
The heated pleasure in my abdomen expands, pulsing outward like a star on the verge of exploding into a supernova.
A thin sheen of sweat glows on Beau’s olive skin.
A muscle in his jaw jumps as he grits his teeth, holding himself back.
He’s waiting for me, waiting for me to meet him at the edge of our shared bliss.
My thighs shake, and Beau grabs my head roughly and drags me down to kiss him. His hot tongue presses into my mouth as his hips thrust up, hitting a spot deep inside me. His eyes flash open to meet mine, glowing with unmasked affection.
“Brinley,” he gasps.
Hearing my name from his lips, I only need one more thrust of his hips to come apart. I shriek wildly as my orgasm tightens every muscle, then floods me with so much pure, liquid pleasure that it feels like it’s bursting out of my skin.
Beau crashes his lips against mine for one more brief, animal kiss before he groans and empties himself inside me. It feels like his pleasure fills every empty part of me.
His muscular arms wrap around me, holding me against him tighter than usual. It’s almost like he’s afraid to let me go.
I’m not going anywhere , I think hazily. There’s nowhere else I’d want to be.
I curl up against him, inhaling his spicy, woody scent. Heat radiates off his body as he curls his arm around me, pulling me tighter into him so our legs twine together. Pure, sweet contentment makes my body feel heavy and light at the same time.
A thought I could never say out loud drifts from the back of my mind.
I wish we could always be like this.
Pushing the thought aside, I let my limbs grow heavy. Sleep tugs at me, making my thoughts slow and my eyelids heavy.
I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually Beau’s lips brush across the top of my head.
And he whispers something I can’t quite make out, half-asleep like I am.
It’s not “I love you.” He’s never said that, and I know he never will.
But it’s something close. Something that makes my chest ache.
The mattress shifts as he pulls his arm out from under me and pulls away. Enough of his heat still lingers that I don’t protest immediately. I feel the covers being tucked around me, sealing me in a warm, safe cocoon. Gentle fingers smooth a piece of my hair back.
I’m so close to sleep, but I hold onto consciousness a little longer. I can sense Beau’s movements as he moves around the bedroom, finding his clothes and getting dressed again.
This is the part I hate the most. Beau never stays the night.
It’s one of our rules, because it’s too risky if someone notices he didn’t come home.
Even though I know it’s coming, it still stings when I hear him quietly close the door.
Because it confirms what we are: temporary.
Everything about us survives on borrowed time.
I roll into the warm patch where his body was thirty seconds ago and press my face into the sheet. That's the cruelest part. The ghost always outlasts the man.
Brrrr.
Beau’s phone vibrates on the bedside table. He glances at it, briefly lighting up his face and I groan. It’s late—definitely after midnight, maybe even later. Who texts at this hour?
“Who-zat?” I murmur, half-asleep.
“Don’t worry about it,” Beau says quietly. “Go back to sleep.”
A few footsteps and the door clicks shut behind him.
I roll on my back. Something about that late-night text has my mind working, pushing away sleep.
The bed still smells like Beau—warm spices and cedar—but the heat of him has evaporated.
I pull the covers tighter around myself.
If he were still here, I’d be warm. That’s not really why I wish he was here, though.
I’m so tired of falling asleep with him and waking up alone.
Oh, well. In a few more weeks, I’ll get to spend all night with Beau when we fly away to Italy—to the villa, the coast, the version of us that doesn’t whisper or glance over our shoulders to make sure no one’s watching.
Last year, he made me fresh pasta on the terrace, and I fell asleep in the sun reading while he photographed the coastline.
It was the closest thing to a real life together that we’ve ever had, and for now, it’s enough.
If I can just make it to Italy, everything will feel okay again. Even if it’s only for three days this year.