Chapter 17 I Took Everything #3
I reach for his pants. Unbuckle. Unzip. Push them down with my feet when my hands can't reach. He kicks them off the rest of the way and then we're both down to one last layer. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my underwear and looks at me.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too. Take them off."
He does. Then his. Then there's nothing between us and his skin is flush against mine from chest to thigh. I pull him down and kiss him deeply. His hand slides between my legs and I open for him immediately. No hesitation. No uncertainty. I know what I want and he knows how to give it.
His fingers find me wet and ready and his breath hitches against my mouth.
He touches me slowly at first. Learning the territory.
Reading my reactions. When I gasp he stays right there.
When I arch into his hand he increases the pressure.
When I grab his wrist and hold him in place he understands exactly what that means and doesn't move until my hips are rocking against his hand and the tension in my belly is coiling tighter with every stroke.
I come with my face buried in his neck and my nails digging into his arm. It rolls through me in long waves and he talks me through it. Not with words exactly. With sounds. Low steady sounds against my hair that tell me he's here and he's not going anywhere and there's no rush.
When the aftershocks settle I push him onto his back.
He goes willingly. I climb over him and straddle his hips and look down at his face.
Without his glasses his eyes are lighter than I realized.
Green with flecks of brown. He's looking up at me with an expression that is equal parts desire and wonder.
I reach down between us and take him in my hand.
He's hard and warm and he sucks in a breath when I wrap my fingers around him.
I stroke him slowly. Watching his face. Watching his composure slip.
The calm measured Ross Hughes losing control under my hands.
His jaw clenches. His hips push up. His hands grip the sheets.
"Brook." My name. Strained. Almost a plea.
I rise up on my knees and guide him to my entrance and sink down slowly.
The stretch is good. Full. Complete. I take all of him and then hold still.
His hands fly to my hips and his fingers dig in.
I can see his chest rising and falling rapidly.
I can see the effort it takes for him to let me set the pace.
I start to move. Slow rolls of my hips that draw him nearly out and then take him deep again. He watches me from below with dark focused eyes. His thumbs press into the creases of my hips. I brace my hands on his chest and find a rhythm that works for both of us. Steady. Building. Not rushed.
He sits up suddenly. Wraps one arm around my back and pulls me flush against him.
My breasts press against his chest. Our foreheads touch.
We breathe the same air. I keep moving and he matches me from below.
The angle changes and everything gets more intense.
Tighter. Deeper. I hear myself making sounds I don't recognize.
Sounds that belong to the version of me that exists only in this bed with this man.
His hand slides up my spine and grips the back of my neck. He kisses me hard. All teeth and tongue and desperation. The rhythm falters because neither of us can hold it anymore. Everything speeds up. Gets rougher. Gets louder. The narrow bed creaks beneath us and I don't care.
"Look at me," he says. His voice is raw. Wrecked.
I open my eyes. His are right there. Close enough to see every fleck of green and brown.
Close enough to see the exact moment he falls apart.
He comes first. I feel it. The tightening of his arms. The stuttering of his hips.
The groan that starts low in his chest and breaks open against my mouth.
And the feeling of him letting go pushes me over the edge for the second time.
I clench around him and gasp and hold on and we ride it out together.
Trembling. Gasping. Wrapped so tightly around each other that I can't tell where I end and he begins.
We collapse sideways onto the narrow bed. Breathing hard. Sweating. My leg is draped over his. His hand rests on my hip. The room is quiet except for our breathing and the distant sound of the acoustic music still playing in the living room.
After a long time he speaks.
"Brook," he says.
"Yes?"
"I want you to know something. Whatever happens from here. Whatever the future looks like. I'm not going anywhere. I chose you. I choose you every day. And I'm going to keep choosing you."
"I know."
"Good."
I press my face against his chest and breathe him in. Wood polish and soap and something warm underneath all of it that's just him. Ross Hughes. County Archives Specialist. Furniture restorer. Bread baker. The man who showed me what trust looks like when it's real.
I fall asleep in his arms and I don't dream about the past.
I dream about tomorrow.