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Owen bends and enters the code into the lockbox, freeing the key to the house. Our house. It’s weird to think about that. At the same time, it feels right because this spot has always been my home, and I said the first time I met Owen at Gran’s funeral that he was mine.
I hold my breath as he swings the door open and flips on the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. It’s still totally raw inside. The drywall is mounted, which means the plumbing and electrical are done, but that’s about it. No floors, no cabinets, no light fixtures. It’s a giant cavern of possibility.
“How do you see it coming together?” I ask, wrapping my tremoring fingers around his bicep with the anticipation of a thrill seeker creeping into a haunted house.
“I don’t,” he tells me, causing my eyebrows to crinkle. Way to ruin the image, buddy. “I left that for you.”
This man is full of surprises tonight.
“All of it? Nothing has been designed yet? Nothing ordered?” What if I had told him I didn’t feel the same way towards him? He’d be sitting on this build for an extra six months.
He knew all along I’d say yes.
“I wouldn’t dare step on your toes and tell you what to do in your dream home.”
I ignore the sarcasm and look at him with a soft smile. “Our dream home.”
There’s little here for me to run my fingers across besides the unpainted drywall, so I go from one room to the next, picturing the finishes in my mind. Gran’s copper pots will get top billing in the kitchen, just as in my original plan. This home is so much larger than what stood here before. I’ll need a minute to plan it out.
We wander the main floor, then climb the six stairs to the bedrooms. For some reason, I expect it to be like I remembered: four doors leading to three bedrooms and a bathroom. My presumption is mistaken. To the right of the landing is a loft with a large skylight. Behind it are doors to two bedrooms. Walking through them reveals they’re connected by a Jack-and-Jill bathroom—perfect children’s rooms. After looping through those rooms and the loft once more, we come to the next bedroom, then a separate bathroom.
On the far left side of the stairs is the primary bedroom. Or, more aptly put, primary suite. The room is easily twice the size of the old bedroom. It includes a walk-in closet and five-piece ensuite with the rough-ins for both a steam shower and separate tub. There’s space for each to be large enough for two people.
As I head out into the bedroom proper, I notice the window. Now three panes long rather than one, it’s placed in the same spot that it has always been. I’m drawn to it and tilt my head so I can peer across the fence into what used to be Owen’s yard, now occupied by the outdoor furniture of the new owners.
I sense him come up behind me before he presses his hard body into mine. “I used to watch you standing in this window,” he says.
I hum, “I caught you once, remember?”
“You looked so sad. I couldn’t figure out why you insisted the house made you happy.”
“The house was important for my memories.” I wrap my arms around his, which anchor me to him. “Like your tattoos. Do they make you happy?”
He swallows hard. “Yes, and no.”
“But because they’re important, having them makes you happy even if the reason you have them doesn’t.” I leave him time to contradict that if he wants. When he doesn’t, I add, “Not all meaningful memories have to be good. Simply knowing that you have memories can be joyful. Look at us. I could probably name more aggravating moments with you than happy ones, but I still can’t wait to make new memories here with you.”
“We already have.” He says before spinning me around and dropping his lips to mine, telling me he understands what I’m getting at. The soft strokes of his tongue quickly become more fevered, melting the tension of the night away in the heat of our kiss.
Owen wraps his arms around me and tugs me into him. My hands drag through his beard, feeling the coarseness of the hair contrasting the suppleness of his lips.
He draws away to slip his hands under my jacket and shirt, circling my waist, drawing lines across my ribs, running them up and down my spine, vertebra by vertebra. He’s mapping out my body and it feels so good to be touched. I’ve gone without physical contact since he last touched me, and I’ve missed it. I’ve missed his hands on my skin and the pressure of him against me, despite knowing it only from the one time.
I unzip Owen’s jacket and drop it to the floor, then untuck his shirt from his waistband and pull it over his head. My lips go to his chest, feeling his warmth and his strength through kisses and licks and nips. My fingers explore next, enjoying the ripple of his muscles as he flexes under my light touch and the smoothness of his decorated skin. I’m curious if there are new tattoos, but I’m more curious to remember what the rest of him feels like. I don’t stop to match his current ink with what I remember. Instead, my hands do the recalling and gleaning. His ticklish spot. A small scar above his ribs.
He’s curious too. He plucks at my top and lifts it over my head, dropping kisses to my neck and shoulder. He’s gentle when he first takes my breast in his hand, but I don’t want that tonight. I don’t want him to hide that he uses his hands for work. I don’t want him to think that I need things slow. My hand covers his and I press him on to me, reminding him I’m not breakable. That I shouldn’t be stored behind glass.
Owen lowers his lips to my breast and pulls my nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth with a slight bite. I hiss and he clamps down harder, simultaneously pinching my other nipple with his rough fingers.
“God, I missed you, Izzy. Don’t ever leave me.” He pulls my face between his hands and looks so deep into my eyes I swear he’s searching for my soul. He’s pleading for a lifetime of love and happiness together.
“Not if I can help it.”
He kisses me again, pressing me against the bare wall, grinding his stiff cock into my stomach.
“I need to have you, Iz. I need to feel you.”
I reach out and cup him, stroking him through his jeans. “Then have me.”
He growls, sucking my bottom lip ferociously into his mouth, then releasing it with a pop to drop to his knees. Owen lowers my jeans and panties at once and has his face buried between my legs before they’re spread. He licks through my seam, eliciting my first tremors of the night. Without warning, he lifts my leg over his shoulder and seals his mouth over my apex. I moan, encouraging his tongue to dive deeper inside me. He delves in and out, lapping up my nectar, making me wetter with each flick across my clit.
As close as he is, my body begs for him to get closer. I demand more. I crave all these missed months’ worth of Owen’s tongue and fingers and cock, like he described to me on the phone. Having him between my legs is like eating after a year of fasting, where over-indulging is inevitable.
My hips buck off the wall when he pulls my clit between his lips and my knees sag. His hand comes up fast and presses me back, both holding me upright and holding me still. My eyes flutter closed while my mouth falls open, making way for the soulful moan that’s rising from the depths of my throat. The sound builds with the rising crest of my orgasm, bouncing off the empty walls, echoing back at the same cadence as the spasms of my core.
Owen nestles his head against my abdomen while I run my fingers through his hair, working off the fragments of energy pulsing through my being. I look down at him, still perched on his knees between my legs.
“Come here,” I say, urging him to stand, to give me his mouth along with the rest of his body.
He rises, licking a sensuous trail from my hipbone to the tip of my chin. I see the lust and want in his eyes when they level with mine. My eyes reflect the same thing.
This is happening. For real this time. There are no imaginary boundaries to cross, no rules to break. Owen and I are no longer sworn enemies, goal-deniers, or dream-crushers.
He came to the conclusion long before I did. Then again, it’s hard to see clearly when emotions cloud judgement. I was too stubborn to believe what he said in those messages to me was the real Owen speaking his heart.
“I like how your voice sounds ricocheting off the walls,” he growls. I smile into his soft, wet lips that he presses to mine.
“I’d like to know how yours sounds.”
I reach between us and cup him with one hand while working the button with the other. It’s difficult to lower his jeans when he won’t let my lips go, so I dip behind his waistband and pull his thick rod out. We’re like horny teenagers trying to get off in the garden shed before getting caught. My clothing is scattered on the floor and his hard length protrudes from the top of his jeans.
I stroke him several times before he stills my hand to remove his clothes. Naked and out of arm's reach, he watches me. Eyes caress each inch of my body from my toes to my forehead. He doesn’t tell me I’m beautiful. He doesn’t say how happy he is. He doesn’t need to. I see it in him, and I feel the same way.
Owen pulls me off the ground with a swift hoist, hinting at what’s next. I spread my legs wide to reach around him and guide his rigid shaft towards my entrance. He slides in slowly, stretching me out, filling me up. My eyes are closed, but I sense him watching me. The intensity of his attentive eyes cannot be ignored. His heated gaze strokes my face, focussed to maintain control. He grunts as he bottoms out inside me, showing the same fight as me to not go limp in his arms. I squeeze harder around his back and neck, doing my part to stay up and he presses his lips to mine, helping me stay secured by offering one more piece of himself to grab on to.
“God, Iz. It’s going to be a challenge to take it slow.”
“I don’t want slow.”
Still, his movements are measured and deliberate, and I don’t hate it. He draws out of me gradually, then glides in, finishing with a dizzying thrust of his pelvic bone against my clit. Each unhurried plunge radiates throughout my body. He’s trying to hold off for me because he wants this to be perfect. I don’t want perfection. I want fervour and emotion and excitement. I want the new Owen. The real Owen who’s unafraid of giving himself away.
“Owen.” I place one hand on his cheek. “Don’t hold back.” I want him to throw all the passion he put into this house, into my body.
I rock into him, pushing off his shoulders and into the wall to urge him on.
“If you keep that up, I’m going to explode.” His nostrils flare, and his jaw tightens.
“That’s kind of the point.” I grin.
“You’re going to kill me, Princess.”
“I will, if you call me that again.”
He laughs low and raw, ignoring my warning as a real threat. But he does ride me harder. He snakes his hand between us and circles my clit, causing mini eruptions in my core with every swirl.
The friction from his fingers increases, as does the fury behind his thrusts. My spine is going to be bruised from being drilled into the wall, so will my hips from his fingers digging into my flesh. And I love it. I love that every muscle in my body will ache tomorrow, even the muscles I didn’t know existed.
“Come on, Izzy. You want to.” I want to, but more than wanting my own release, is wanting his. “Give it to me.” He grows thicker inside me and my breathing falters. “That’s it.” He gently pinches my hypersensitive nub and that is it.
My vision blurs and I fall apart all around him, hissing out a final, ragged breath. His last thrust drills me so hard, I’m sure I hear the drywall crack underneath the howl Owen releases as he spills his seed inside me.
We stay joined like that for another minute until we’ve both stopped quivering and our breathing isn’t quite so ragged. Owen lowers my feet to stand on his shirt, then he drops his forehead to mine and cradles my face, saying everything he’s always wanted to say without using any of the words that never come easily.