INDY
SIXTY-FOUR
I wake up with a head of dark hair resting on my chest and hands clutching my waist on either side like he’s been trying to make sure I didn’t disappear during the night. I look at him, sleeping soundly, and my heart swells.
I lift my hand and gently card my fingers through his hair over and over again. Just because I can. Just because I’m finally allowed to.
Can I have it? Really? For real this time?
It still feels like a dream.
Like I’m suddenly nineteen again with butterflies in my stomach, desperately lovesick when I look at him. Except this is better. I’m not just daydreaming about Nick, I’m here with him, and this is my new reality.
There’s still that bite of fear underneath it all. Maybe, maybe, maybe things will still go wrong. But I push it down. I’m not going to let fear ruin this for us. Things are different now. We’re different.
And we’re going to do better this time.
I’m so deep in thought that I almost miss the way his fingers tighten on my waist. But I definitely don’t miss it when his head moves lower and he kisses my stomach.
I squirm and laugh, tugging his hair gently.
“It’s too early to think deep thoughts,” he says when he looks up.
“You’re in luck, then. My thoughts are pretty shallow right now.”
My eyes track the curve of his back and the swell of his ass. His strong thighs. My cock plumps the longer I look.
“Shallow or dirty?” he asks with a knowing smile.
“Can’t it be both?”
I yelp when he suddenly rolls us over, and I find myself straddling him, his fingers clutching my thighs.
“Show me,” he says.
We don’t get out of bed for a long time.
In theory, it shouldn’t be this easy to intertwine two separate lives. In reality, my life blends with his so smoothly that I never even notice it when our layers fit together and lock into place.
My days start and end in his bed. There are mornings when he wakes me with slow, lazy kisses, and there are mornings when I wake up with his mouth around me, pulling me from sleep and immediately plunging me into pleasure.
Other times the early mornings find us out at the harbor, paddles in hand, the kayak cutting its way through the water while the city wakes up somewhere in the periphery. He splashes me, and I laugh and retaliate, and later I kiss him as droplets of water gather on his lashes.
We cook dinner in his kitchen once we’re both home and tell each other about our days.
And at night…
I’ve dreamed of this. Him pushing inside me slowly, or me sinking into him until we’re so deeply connected it’s not possible to get any closer. Only it’s better than a dream, because it’s real. Everything about him is flesh and blood and mine. Because he wants this. He wants me.
The heat of his body above me and underneath me is real. The way his skin burns under my touch is real. The hunger I feel for him is real.
All those broken pieces inside me are gently picked up and put together again and the cracks are glued back together and painted over, and I don’t mind the lines those broken pieces leave.
I don’t fall for him. I just am. There’s just him and me, souls and hearts knitted together.
It’s terrifying to be this happy, but there’s new strength in facing that fear and lifting my chin defiantly because I will not be scared and back away. This happiness is mine, and I will hold on to it and bloody my knuckles for it if I have to.
He tells me about his life, all the pieces he’s kept to himself over the years.
I get them all now. Nothing is off limits.
Almost nothing. We both ignore the almost. Instead, we share memories, both good and bad.
We hand over the beautiful parts and the ugly moments, dust them off, and find places for them in our lives.
I get to see the moments we’ve spent together from his point of view.
His fingers move over my bare back absently when we’re lying in a mess of sheets on the bed, and I get confessions tinged with laughter. How off balance he was when he first saw me.
“My hands shook,” he says with a husky laugh. His thigh is thrown over the backs of mine as I lie on my stomach. His toes brush over my calves. His fingers keep counting the ridges of my spine absently.
“You were so fucking pretty, Blue. I hated you for being so pretty, and all the while I couldn’t stay away from you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” I press a kiss to the back of his hand and smile at him.
He lowers his head and kisses me. My breath catches, and my chest jolts. Like it always does.
And I love him.
I love him.
I love him.
I love him.