17. Darby
Darby
Eight years.
It’s been eight years since I had my cock in Selene’s pussy, and the warm wetness welcomes me eagerly. She’s so tight and snug around me that I grunt loudly with pleasure.
I don’t move yet. I stay still and enjoy the sensation.
Her face is flushed, her hair splayed across the sheets, and her eyes are so beautiful as she looks up at me.
Then I bend down and kiss her. I kiss her forehead and her lips, then trail kisses down her neck.
I’m trying to savor everything in this moment.
The way she arches into me and breathes my name like it’s the only word that matters.
My hands explore every inch of her, mapping out what’s changed and what hasn’t.
Her touch ignites something in me that’s been dormant for too long.
Then she lifts her hips to me, and I take it as my sign to move.
I move slowly, feeling the walls of her sex close in around me. She moans as I take one of her nipples in my mouth. I suck on the hard bud and pull it between my teeth.
She threads her hand through my hair, and her hips begin to move, too. We move together slowly at first, like we’re rediscovering a rhythm we lost. But as the intensity builds, the years between us fade. There’s no past or future—only now. Only her.
I bury my face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent as we move faster together. Her nails dig into my back, and the sharp sensation only grounds me further in the moment.
God. She feels so good.
I want this moment to last forever.
I pull my cock out and pull her up to kiss her. She moans into the kiss, reaches down, and strokes my cock.
“I want to taste you,” I murmur against the kiss. She pulls back, her eyes searching mine.
“Again?”
I chuckle nervously. “To be honest, I can’t get enough.”
She smiles, her face reddening. “Fine. But after this, less tasting and more fucking.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
This is us. This is how we used to be when we made love. We’d talk and nothing was ever awkward or uncomfortable.
It takes only a few flicks of my tongue on her clit to have her panting, her thighs opening and closing around my head. Fuck, she is sweet.
My thumb draws a circle around her clit, pressing it like a button, then circling.
As if I’ve sprung her combination, she arches and stiffens, moisture coating my chin and lips while I bring her straight into the eye of another orgasm.
Not waiting for her orgasm to come down, I fill her full of my cock.
This time, I ride her tight pussy faster while she gasps and moans.
Now I remember another position she likes, and I pick her up from the bed and flip her so she’s on all fours. I give her backside a quick slap, making her yelp, then knead the flesh with my hand. She squirms against me.
“Stop that and fuck me harder,” she squeals.
I pull her hips back, lining up the head of my cock with her wet pussy lips. She groans loudly into the sheets. I plunge myself inside her, and once again, it’s like heaven. Her moans and the sight of her soft hips in my hands are enough to drive me mad.
Selene was made for me. This pussy was molded for my cock, swallowing me up so eagerly like it’s putting a fucking spell on me. Making me never want another pussy again.
“Harder,” she gasps, pushing backward, her delicate fingers grasping the sheets. I give her what she wants, slamming into her harder and harder, trying not to hurt her. But the expression on her face looks more like ecstasy.
“I missed fucking you, Selene.”
“Me too,” she cries. “Faster, Darby. I’m going to come again.” She moans in a high-pitched plea. God, I forgot how much I loved her asking for what she wants during sex.
I pull her hips up and slam into them, grunting with each lightning-fast stroke.
Her beautiful cunt squeezes my shaft tightly as she comes.
I keep pumping into her with a fierce rhythm.
Her voice, breathless and soft, wraps around me like a lifeline.
I don’t want this to end, but at the same time, I know this is more than just physical. It’s emotional. It’s healing.
“Oh, Darby,” she cries as she tightens hard around me and begins moving through another intense orgasm. Needing no other encouragement, I fall over the edge with her, filling her with all I can give.
When we finally collapse, our breathing heavy and tangled. I roll onto my side and pull her into me. Her head rests on my chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles over my skin. I press a kiss to the top of her head, my heart still racing.
The room is silent except for the sound of our breathing. My arm tightens around her waist, holding her close. I’m afraid to let her go, afraid that if I do, this moment will vanish like a dream. Her breathing evens out, and I know she’s on the verge of sleep. But I’m wide awake, my mind spinning.
This wasn’t just about needing her. It was about finding her again, about realizing that what we had wasn’t just a chapter that ended. It’s a story we haven’t finished writing.
***
The sheets beside me are cold.
My eyes snap open, and I sit up so fast the blood rushes to my head. I’d slept better than I had all week but was still hungover from our sex. The pillows are messy, the duvet half on the floor, and the faint scent of Selene’s shampoo still lingers in the air. But she’s not here.
Her clothes hurriedly removed last night aren’t here either.
Panic claws at my chest. Did she leave? Did last night scare her away? Again?
I run my hand through my hair, trying to stay calm, but the knot in my stomach tightens with every passing second. Too many memories flood my chest, making it impossible to calm down.
I throw on my T-shirt and sweatpants and head toward the kitchen, my bare feet padding against the hard floor. The air smells like coffee and toast, and the faint sound of plates clinking together drifts from the other side of the suite. Thank God!
She’s here.
Selene is standing by the kitchen island, laying out the breakfast delivered by room service.
Her hair is tied in a loose ponytail, with a few red strands falling across her face.
She’s wearing an oversized sweater and leggings, and her feet are bare.
The sight of her is so simple, yet it knocks the breath out of me.
My heart races again but for a completely different reason. She looks up and frowns. “Why do you look so pale?”
I force a smile and shake my head. “No reason. I’m always struck by how beautiful you are.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Instead, she picks up a plate of scrambled eggs and walks it over to the small dining table near the window. I follow her without thinking, not taking my eyes off her.
“Need help?” I ask, grabbing the plates from the counter.
“Sure. You can set the table.”
We move around the kitchen like we’ve done this a hundred times before, passing each other effortlessly. Actually, we have done this before, back in college.
She grabs the coffee pot while I set the plates down.
When she turns, we almost bump into each other, her elbow grazing my arm.
The brief contact sends a spark racing through me, and I know she feels it, too.
Her breath catches just for a second, but she recovers quickly and pours the coffee into two mugs.
We keep the conversation light.
“Do you remember that coffee shop by the old library?” she asks, handing me a mug. “The one with the terrible chairs but amazing pastries?”
I chuckle, taking a sip of the coffee. “How could I forget? You made me try that weird cinnamon-lavender thing with little flowers.”
“It wasn’t weird,” she says, laughing. “You just didn’t have taste back then.”
I smirk . “I still don’t think flowers belong in food.”
She rolls her eyes but grins. “Like I said, no taste.”
We eat slowly, talking about things like work, movies, and places we want to travel. Every so often, our eyes meet, and the air between us shifts for a moment. There’s a large fucking elephant in the room, but neither of us addresses it.
Not yet.
I reach for the butter just as she reaches for it, and our hands touch. Her fingers are warm and soft, and I don’t pull away. Neither does she. For a moment, our hands linger. Her lips part slightly, and my gaze drops to her mouth.
But then she clears her throat, breaking the moment. “Please, have some fruit.”
I take a deep breath and continue to eat, barely tasting the food. I’m too focused on her. Her every action pulls me in: The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The way her eyelashes flutter when she glances up at me.
After a few more bites, I put down my fork and lean back in my chair. “Does it feel awkward to you? After last night?”
She pauses, her fork hovering mid-air. Slowly, she sets it down and meets my gaze. Her eyes are calm. “No,” she says softly.
Relief washes over me, and I exhale, leaning forward. “Good. We’re adults. It doesn’t have to be awkward.”
She nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Right. It doesn’t have to be.”
We continue eating, but my thoughts are racing. I think about how different my life has been without her. And how, no matter how much I tried to move on, I never really could.
I remember the night she left and how empty everything felt.
I didn’t just lose my girlfriend. I lost my best friend, my partner, the person who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
I drowned myself in distractions—work, parties, women—but nothing worked.
Nothing filled the void she left behind.
When I saw her on the terrace in Hawaii, I was angry—furious. I wanted to hate her for leaving. But beneath the anger was relief. She was okay—alive, smiling, even if it wasn’t for me.
I glance at her now, sitting across from me, and I realize that the reason she left doesn’t matter as much as I thought it did. Not right now. What matters is that she’s still the same woman I fell in love with. The woman who challenges me, who makes me laugh, who sees me for the man I am.
She catches me staring and tilts her head. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, picking up my coffee.
I wonder if we can make this work, if the years apart don’t matter, if the connection we had back then is strong enough to survive everything we’ve been through.
I might be delusional, but I think it is.