11. Chapter 11
Harriet
Abeat passes between us until he steps closer. It’s then that everything changes. We’re finally alone.
“Harriet,” he says, my name in his mouth both familiar and strange.
I soak him up through my eyes and answer in a breathy reply, “Kwemby.”
He reaches out and laces his fingers through mine.
Electricity seems to pass through us, so much so that it’s unbearable.
We stand like that in the lamplight until I tilt my face toward his.
He kisses me slowly at first with his free hand cupping my jaw.
His lips are soft. I kiss him back harder than he expects, my free hand coming up to grip his shoulder, fingers digging into his shirt.
He responds in kind, his other hand finding the small of my back and pulling me flush against him. His body is solid where mine is soft, his chest broad against my breasts.
Kwemby pulls back just enough to look at my face, his eyes dark in the lamplight. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice rough at the edges.
I absolutely am. I answer by pulling him down for another kiss, my hands already moving to the buttons of his shirt. The hair on his chest is coarse against my fingertips. He groans and lifts me with one smooth motion, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me to the bed.
Kwemby lays me back against the duvet, leaning over to kiss me again, deeper this time.
Simultaneously, his hand drifts to the hem of my shirt.
The kiss breaks only long enough for me to pull his shirt loose from his waistband.
My fingers fumble with the buttons from a combination of nerves and want.
Kwemby helps, shrugging out of the fabric when I’ve made it halfway down, the shirt dropping to the carpet with a soft thud.
A thin line of dark hair runs down the waistband of his jeans.
I set my palms flat against his sternum, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my fingers. His skin is warm, almost hot, the muscle beneath firm as I slide my hands upward to his shoulders.
“I’ve imagined this for thirty years.”
“You don’t have to imagine anymore,” I tell him as I fumble with the edge of my shirt to take it off. Kwemby stills my movements with one gentle hand.
“Let me.” After he lifts my shirt from my body, cool air raises goosebumps on my skin. “You’re beautiful.”
I shake my head, the automatic denial rising before I can stop it. This is not the physique of a twenty-year-old. “I’m fifty with two children.”
“You’re beautiful,” he repeats, cutting me off. “You’ve always been beautiful.”
One hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face. The touch is so gentle I almost can’t feel it.
His hand moves to the clasp of my bra. Once our clothes are fully off, they’re in a tangle of fabric on the carpet. Kwemby pauses, just for a moment, his eyes on my face.
We move together with new urgency. His hands are everywhere—on my waist, my breasts. The entire time, he watches me, even as he thrusts inside me.
Wrapping my legs around his waist, the headboard knocks once against the wall as we find our rhythm.
His breath comes steady and deep against my neck.
I let my head fall back, my eyes closing as the sensation builds.
Pace building, his hips move faster, making my breath catch in short bursts.
I’m loud—louder than I’ve been in years, maybe ever.
Kwemby matches me, his voice rough in my ear, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hip.
We crest together. His body trembles while my back arches off the mattress. For one perfect moment, we exist in exactly the same space, breathing the same air, feeling the same thing. As reality gradually returns, the cool air feels nice against my sweat-damp skin.
He rolls to the side facing me, one arm still around my waist, his breath coming in slow, even measures. Meanwhile, my skin tingles at the places where he has touched it.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice low.
I nod, unable to formulate words. My throat feels too tight, my chest too full of everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours. In response, his thumb brushes across my knuckles. “We don’t have to talk about it tonight,” he says. “We can just be here.”
The simple kindness in his voice cracks my chest open in love.
Now, here I am naked in a hotel room with a man who’s spent a quarter of a century waiting for me.
A man who followed me to make sure I was safe.
Who punched my husband for grabbing my arm.
Who kissed me like he’s been waiting his whole life for the chance.
I’m not ready to say it, but I love him.
I roll toward him, my free hand coming up to cup his jaw. His stubble pricks my palm. “Thank you,” I say.
“Any time,” he says, and I know he means it.