21. Georgina #3
He thrusts in deep in one long stroke. The stretch punches a moan out of me, high and raw. He swears in Italian against my mouth and stays buried to the hilt while I shake around him.
“Fuck. Elle. So tight. Taking all of me like you were made for it.” He pulls back and drives in again, harder. “Listen to you… Moaning for me. Whimpering on my cock. Missed this cunt. Missed fucking my wife until she forgets every reason she ever left the bed.”
“Don’t. Stop.” Each word breaks on a moan as he sets a ruthless rhythm, face to face, my legs locked around his waist. The cot screams under us. He hooks an arm under one of my knees and opens me wider, pounding deeper, and I sob a sound that is half pleasure, half overwhelm.
“There?” He nails the same spot again. “You like this? Take every fucking inch.”
“Max! Max. I’m…”
“I know. Come. Come on me. Let me feel it.”
I shatter with a broken cry, clenching hard around him, legs trembling against his back. He fucks me through it without slowing, praising me until I am whimpering from sensitivity.
He does not stop.
He flips us carefully on the narrow cot so I am astride him again, still joined, and grips my hips.
“Ride, princess. You know you do it best… Show me how much you missed me.”
I do. Harder now, messier, palms on his chest while he thrusts up into me. My moans turn continuous. His hands bruise pleasantly at my waist as he controls the depth, slamming me down onto him whenever I try to go too shallow.
“Look at you.” His voice is wrecked. “Fucking yourself on me like you own me. You do. You always did. Harder, Elle. I want to hear you.”
I give him louder. A whimper on every downstroke. His name like a prayer and a curse. When he sits up beneath me, chest to chest, still buried deep, and sucks on my throat while he fucks up into me, I come again with a shattered moan into his shoulder.
Only then does he let himself go. He rolls me under him once more, legs shoved wide around his waist, and drives into me in deep, punishing strokes until he finishes with a groan torn out of his chest, pulsing hard inside me, forehead pressed to mine.
For a long minute there is only the sound of us breathing, the settling of the cot, and his mouth finding mine in kisses that have gone soft at the edges but are still hungry enough that I keep answering them.
He eases out of me carefully. I make a small, involuntary sound at the loss. He gathers me against his chest at once, tugging the wool blanket over our damp skin, one hand stroking down my spine as if he needs to prove I am still within reach.
“Stay,” he murmurs into my hair, not a question.
“I’m not going anywhere.” My voice is hoarse from moaning. “Not tonight.”
Later, much later, I lie with my head on his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart.
“I never stopped loving you.” I say it into the darkness, the words I’ve been holding back for longer than I want to admit. “Even when I left. Even when I thought I couldn’t forgive you. I never stopped.”
His hand stills in my hair. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak.
“I took that for granted.” His voice is rough. “I wish I hadn’t made loving me hurt so much.”
“I wasn’t sure I could keep doing it.” I press my palm flat against his chest. “Leaving wasn’t a way to make you come after me. I need you to know that.”
“I know.” He resumes stroking my hair. “You told me to let you go. You meant it.” His arm draws a little closer around me. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“And I mean this, too.” I lift my head and look at him. “I want to be here with you.”
He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes bright in the lamplight. When he kisses me, his hand stays against my cheek, holding me close after our mouths part.
“I love you.” He says it against my mouth. “I never stopped either. Not for a single day.”
I settle back against his chest and pull the edge of the blanket over my shoulder. His arm follows, making room for me without letting me slip toward the edge.
“Tomorrow,” I say, “we should find somewhere you can put both elbows down.”
His hand pauses on my back. “Are you making me a better offer?”
“I thought you might come and see for yourself. After breakfast.”
He draws back just enough to look at me. “I’d like that.”
“You can bring the book. I interrupted you.”
“I have no idea what I was reading.” He kisses my forehead, and I hear the happiness in his voice before he adds, “I may have to start again.”
I settle against him, smiling into the dark.
There are twenty-five days until the competition, an entry form waiting on my phone, and a marriage we have chosen to work on.
In the morning, I will still have opinions about all of them.
Tonight, I let myself enjoy being held by the man I want to tell them to.
“Coffee at nine?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Coffee at nine.” His lips touch my hair. “I’ll be with you.”
I close my eyes with my hand resting over his heart.
For weeks, I have measured our evenings by the moment I would have to let him go back across the yard. Now his breathing slows beneath my cheek, and I let mine follow it.
This time, when I imagine the morning, I don’t have to leave him out of it.