I turn on the living room fireplace using the remote on the coffee table, then settle back into the deep-seated sofa and pull one of the faux-fur throw blankets over my legs. It takes me a minute to figure out that the siren painting is like the mirrored television in the sitting room of the penthouse; with the push of a button, the image fades into a screen.
“Hey.”
Your voice turns my head toward the hallway. Leaning your shoulder against the wall, you’re relaxed and breathtakingly handsome. For a heartbeat, I see the younger man I once knew overlaying the man you are now. His lanky body is narrower than yours, his hair longer, his smile open and cocky. His eyes gleam with humor, mischief and love. Then I blink, and he’s gone.
“Hey,” I rejoin.
“What are you up to?” Your gaze is dark and watchful.
I release my grieving for the young man I once knew and focus on you now. “Well, it looks like I’ve missed a new Jack Ryan film, two James Bond flicks, and one Mission Impossible. I figured I’d start catching up.”
Your mouth curves in an indulgent smile. “Mind if I join you?”
“It would make my night if you did.”
“Oh, I bet I could up the ante.” You straighten. “What are your thoughts on pizza?”
“When are my thoughts not on pizza?”
“When I’m inside you.” Your smile widens at my startled reaction to your naughty playfulness. It wells from a place of long-standing intimacy, and I must accept that. “I’ll make the call. Give me ten.”
You leave, and I feel the weight of night settle around me as you turn the lights off on your way out. Focusing on the television, I scroll until I find Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit. I start, then pause the film, catching the distant sound of your voice as you place our order.
In the first few weeks after you found me, I just wanted you to accept me with open arms. We’ve moved beyond our former impasse, and now it seems I can have my desire. But nervousness makes me shift restlessly. I’m a woman who reads people well, but you’re a mystery now, so different from the bereaved widower I’ve been living with.
There’s only one woman I want, you said. Is it me? Or her?
This cycle of ecstasy and misery, desire and dread, began long before we met. Women damaged by the men in their lives raised us, unfit mothers who were incapable of providing consistent kindness and attention. Because of them, we expect and crave unrequited love. Neither of us is emotionally mature. If we were, we would’ve known to stay far away from each other. We’d crave security instead of this mad game we’re playing with our hearts and minds.
I know falling in love shouldn’t feel like falling off a cliff, but you and I have never stood on solid ground at any point in our lives. Would we still want each other if we established safe boundaries, or would we miss the full-tilt spin of our dizzying obsession?
You come down the stairs and move into the kitchen. “I’m grabbing a brew. You want something? Water, maybe? A soda?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
I hear you move around in the heart of the home, but I don’t watch. We’re strangers in more ways than one. I can’t shake my apprehension. We are very much alone here. The beach house cocoons us together, away from the world.
Rounding the sofa, you fold gracefully into the deep cushions with a bottle of beer in hand. You’ve changed into striped pajama pants and a black T-shirt. Your feet are bare, and your wedding band is your only adornment. My body tenses pleasurably. The faint scent of your cologne arouses me, and the radiating power of your body stirs my inborn feminine awareness of your virile masculinity. You tilt your head back as you drink, your throat working on a swallow, casual and relaxed, while I sit inches from you, suffering the ache of wanting you.
You’ve shaved for the second time today. Of all the things my mind is struggling to piece together and accept, that revealing courtesy is the hardest at the moment. It signals how you expect our night to end and the thoughtful avoidance of chafing my skin in delicate places. My breath quickens.
You set the bottle down on a coaster, clearly absorbed in thought. There is a weighted concentration about you.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask.
“You. Always.”
Your elbows are on your knees, and you’ve clasped your hands. You face the television. It’s devastating how beautiful you are in profile, burnished by firelight, the shadows hugging the hollows beneath your cheekbones and outlining the defined strength of your biceps.
Shifting, you position yourself to face me, bending one knee onto the cushions and draping your arm over the back of the sofa. “You’re the reason I breathe. Nothing anyone could say or do – even you – can change how I feel about you.”
For a long moment, there is only silence. Then a soft sob escapes me. I close my eyes, feeling dizzy from the sudden rush of anguished joy.
You take my hand, your fingers playing with the ring on my finger. “I haven’t left your side since I found you. I’ve been nearby, waiting for you.”
Could it have been that easy? To just find you in the penthouse and say something? Anything?
No. You want answers, not conversation. Revelations that will change everything between us. But isn’t that what I secretly want? To be loved as I am and not as she was.
I exhale in a rush. Is there anything more difficult than facing a truth you can’t bear? Your eyes meet mine in silence.
“How could you stay away from me, though?” I ask fervently. “For this long?”
“You answer first,” you retort. “The same applies to you.”
Surprise arrests me. I was so focused on my misery. It never occurred to me that you might be mirroring my turmoil. “I tried.”
Your brow arches. “To fuck me. Not talk to me.”
“You’re not being fair,” I argue, then the fight drains from me. I don’t want us to be at odds, and I must admit my many failings. My eyes burn, then my vision blurs. “I didn’t know what to do, how to narrow the gap between us. You’ve … changed. My feelings haven’t, but you have.”
You brush the tears from my cheeks with cool fingertips. “Watching you get hit by that car … I felt the impact. I started breaking into pieces right there on the street, holding you in my arms while hundreds of people pressed in all around us. I thought my punishment must be to lose you over and over again.”
“Oh, Kane.”
“I’ve been so focused on the past, on who you’ve been, on everything I don’t know or understand … You owe me answers – you’ll concede that – and I have a ton of reasons for being cautious about prying them out of you. But expecting you to provide those answers without first making you feel safe was idiotic. You can understand, can’t you? You didn’t come back to me willingly. I found –”
“– me. You found me, and we’re together now. Does anything else matter?” Can I convince you to leave the past behind, or does it imprison you?
You caress my bare shoulder with reverent fingertips. “The need for those other answers is urgent, Setareh, but I already know the most important thing – I’m dead without you. I’ve been dead without you.”
“No.” No, no, no. How can anything hurt this much and be survived? It seems impossible.
You clutch me so tightly I can hardly breathe, but I don’t care. “Let’s start over. Just promise me I’m safe with you, and we’ll go from there.”
For several slow, wrenching heartbeats, I let your words sink in. All that you’ve said and all that you didn’t. I pull back to meet your gaze and see hope, love and sadness.
I take both your hands and hold them tightly. “You’re safe,” I vow quietly, knowing full well what the covenant will cost me. “And I’m going to make you happy.”
As you study me, your features soften, and my fear eases.
“I’m sorry, Kane. Sorry for everything. Sorry I made you –”
“Stop.” Leaning forward, you kiss my forehead and speak against my skin. “I don’t want apologies. I just want you.”
My head bows. I play with your wedding band. Beneath it, I spy skin so pale I know it hasn’t seen a moment of sun in years. “You never let go.”
“I never will.” You grip my hands. “I can’t.”
Tilting your head, you press your lips to mine. It’s sweet at first; brief, gentle presses. Then you taste me. Need bursts to life so swiftly I gasp with the force of it. Your tongue delves through the opening I’ve given you, tangling with mine and stroking. Your spiced honey flavor fills my mouth.
I sway toward you, my hands still trapped in yours. “Let me touch you.”
“Not yet.”
I want to run my fingers through your hair and feel the warmth of your skin.
“Kane. I need –” I jolt at the sound of the doorbell.
Your mouth smiles against mine. “Pizza?”
Disengaging, you stand. I watch as you disappear down the hallway to the front door. My lips throb. My nipples are tight and hard, my skin too hot. The promise of more is between us now, and I can’t think of anything else.
I hear your voice and a reply, then the door is shut and the deadbolt locked. You come back with pizza, handing me the box with paper plates and napkins balanced on top before you head to the patio doors. You check the lock, then pull the heavy drapes, sealing us in the dark belly of the house. Then you type in a code on the security panel and fully shut out the world.
When you turn back to me, I’m still holding the box in the same position as before.
You scrutinize me, your body growing taut. “If you’re giving me the choice,” you say quietly, “I’m happy to eat cold pizza. In fact, I’d prefer it that way. Hours cold.”
Expectation sizzles between us.
You’re going to make love to me.
Accepting that as inevitable after weeks of believing it impossible makes me tremble. I’ll finally feel you everywhere. All over me. Inside me. I task a corner of my mind with memorizing the coming hours in graphic detail. Every caught breath, every shiver of pleasure, every hard thrust of your gracefully muscled body must be remembered in XXX-rated specificity to savor again in the future. It may be all I’ll ever have.
“If you don’t kiss me again right now,” I say thickly, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat, “I’m going to die.”
“No.” You come to me with that dangerous stride. “Next time, I go first.”
I toss the pizza box on the coffee table. The plates and napkins slide off and hang precariously on the edge, but neither of us cares. You sink onto the sofa beside me, pulling me close. My head drops back in supplication, I grip your lean waist and my mouth lifts to yours.
The moment your lips seal over mine, my hands clutch the soft material of your T-shirt. The slow, deep glide of your tongue sets me on fire.
“Setareh,” you breathe, pressing your lips to the corner of my mouth, “our love can survive anything, even death. Tell me you know that.”
I kiss you.
You hold my jaw in both hands, your thumbs pressing gently to keep my mouth open. Your tongue thrusts in smooth, quick dips. I tug at the blanket that is now twisted around my hips, too hot to wear. I push onto my knees and scramble into your lap, my legs straddling yours without breaking the kiss. I’m not good or bad in your arms, right or wrong. It’s such a reprieve not to fight that battle, if only for a few hours.
I take over as your hands drop to my hips and savor you with lush licks. You groan, your hands flexing into my flesh. I pull at the hem of your shirt, sliding my hands beneath to touch you.
You gasp, arching into my palms. “Yes … Touch me everywhere.”
My fingertips trace the rigid lacing of your abs, then slide around to the small of your back. Your hands caress my thighs, your thumbs dipping into the grooves on either side of my sex.
“Take this off,” I order, tugging at your T-shirt.
Reaching over your shoulder, you grab the back of the collar and yank it over your head. You toss the T-shirt aside and seize me again.
“Kane …” I run my hands across your broad shoulders. “You’re so beautiful.”
You laugh, the sound deep and delighted. You’re no longer waging an inner battle either. That’s the magic of love, isn’t it? The permission to be ourselves knowing the other is blind to our faults.
I touch you everywhere, learning your extraordinary body’s sensual, powerful lines. My mouth follows my hands, my lips pressing to your throat before moving downward.
“Your turn,” you say hoarsely, bunching the hem of my dress around my waist.
But I can’t stop touching you. Your arms tangle with mine as you try to undress me. To make it easier, I reach for the ceiling, then press against you as you fling the dress in the general direction of your T-shirt. A shuddering sigh leaves me. Your skin is so warm against my breasts, the hair on your chest soft and springy. Your splayed hands rub up and down my back, arching me gently so that we’re tightly together.
“Hold on,” you warn.
The room spins as you cradle and lower me to lie beneath you. I’m still wearing the emeralds, and they sway, reminding me they’re there. You bought them for someone else, but now they’re mine. You’re mine. You crouch between my legs. The sculpted lines of your gorgeous face and your full, sexy mouth are taut with lust. Hot male awareness smolders in your eyes and reminds me how well you can hide that predatory gleam and easily mask your animal nature when you want to.
You curl your hands beneath the waistband of my underwear, and I lift my hips, then stretch my legs toward the ceiling.
“I fantasize about these long legs.” You press your lips to my knee, then you tongue the hollow behind it, making me shiver. “And this freckle, right here.”
“I fantasize about every part of you.”
You pull my panties up the length of my legs, then toss them over the back of the couch with the rest of our clothes.
“My heart is beating so fast,” you tell me, your eyes gleaming with reflected flames from the fireplace.
“Mine, too.”
You caress me from the sides of my breasts to the outer curve of my hips. I shiver and giggle, tickled by that fleeting touch.
A smile curves your mouth. Such a simple expression of delight, but the sight of it breaks my heart.
“You’re safe with me, too,” you murmur, lowering your head to my breast.
Fresh tears flood my eyes.
You scorch my tender nipple with the wet heat of your mouth. My back bows, a harsh gasp escaping me at the lash of your tongue. The tip, already peaked from the press of your body against mine, tightens further. Your low growl vibrates against and through me, stimulating the aching cleft between my legs. As your tongue flickers like flame, I feel its phantom echo in my sex. My fingers tangle in the hot silk of your hair.
You shift, moving your attention to my other breast, engulfing the taut point with the hungry suction of your lips and the rapid stroking of your tongue. When your hand delves between my legs, the calloused pads of your fingertips find me slick and swollen. I moan your name, shameless.
Two long, strong fingers enter me as your mouth tugs rhythmically on my nipple. You begin to stroke deep, leisurely and skillfully. Your thumb rubs over my clitoris with every plunge and retreat. You deftly target a hypersensitive spot inside me, rubbing back and forth over that tender place with merciless finesse.
I pant with delirious pleasure. From the first, I knew your sexual experience was considerable and triumphant. It’s evident in everything about you. The predacious sinuousness of your movements. The explicit promises your eyes make. The assured arrogance of your seductions. You know what your body can do to women, and it shows.
It’s the reverence I’m unprepared for, the tender veneration that takes us beyond sex into a splendidly physical act of love. Or is it gratitude? What a gift it is to be perfect in someone else’s view.
The feel of your pectoral, biceps and shoulder contracting and releasing as you thrust your fingers into my slick core is incredibly erotic.
The orgasm builds, straining my body.
It’s entirely physical and entirely not because my soul is trembling, and my heart is aching.
You watch me unravel. “There’s more, Setareh. Give me this, and I’ll give you the rest.”
The dark promise goads my desire. My hips lift and fall, fucking my greedy sex onto your pumping fingers. There is pressure as you rub into my thrusts, stroking over and over until I’m mindless for release.
“Kane –”
You cover my mouth with yours. Pressing your thumb and fingers together, you apply pressure to my clitoris from within and without. My body locks at the abrupt brutality of the surging pleasure, then I writhe, moaning, my sex tightening and clutching at your fingers. The orgasm is violent and stunning. I hear the rumble of your voice, low and soft, comforting, but the roaring in my ears drowns the words.
Breathless and dazed, I sag boneless into the fur throw beneath me. You blanket my body with your own, your skin so hot it nearly scorches. Your weight soothes and shelters me. I cling to you, running my hands everywhere, kissing you anyplace I can reach.
Your mouth slants across mine for a heart-stopping minute, then you push up onto one forearm and shove the waistband of your pants down just enough to free yourself. You take your penis in hand, stroking it from root to tip in a tight fist. Your erection swells further, lengthening and thickening. I swallow a moan. Everything about you is oversized as if the universe was so captivated by your promise that it gave you more than your share.
With fast, strong tugs, you prime your body for mine, your gaze hotly feral on my face as if challenging me to take you at your most extreme. It’s deeply sexual watching you touch yourself, pleasure yourself. You’re rougher than I would be, your knuckles white with strain, your biceps bunching as you stroke.
Your jaw is tight with determination as you use the broad head of your erection to part the lips of my sex. You are so aroused you’re slick with pre-ejaculate, providing lubricant that blends with mine. You notch the broad crest into my opening, and your eyelids lower heavily as if the contact has drugged you. The pressure of your entry is daunting. It’s also delicious.
“You’ll take me,” you assure me, with a soft slurring of your words. “We were made for each other.”
I adjust the angle of my hips and am rewarded as a few inches fill me. My back arches and my body strains into the sensation.
“Oh …” I moan. “You feel so good.”
Your low, deep groan vibrates through me.
Sliding one hand beneath my hips, you lift me, using short, hunched lunges to drive deeper in small increments. The snug fit causes the thick crown of your penis to drag decadently back and forth over urgently sensitive folds, creating friction that’s an intense delight. Your biceps bunch and release as you circle my hips into your slow, easy thrusts, teasing my sex with the promise of ecstasy. My core tightens, trembling with renewed arousal, and you growl, the sound so raw and animalistic I, too, go wild.
Erotic demand is thrumming through my veins, thick and hot. I want to shift, mold my curves to your rigid planes, signal to your rutting instincts that I am in desperate heat, but you are a monument of a man, and I haven’t the strength to move you.
My only solace is the sounds you’re making, the deep groans and stuttered breaths. Your pleasure arouses me to a fevered pitch. Erasing your pain with vivid, mindless pleasure is a goal that consumes me.
You withdraw completely until the wide head of your penis heats my labia, then thrust hard, finally sinking to the root with an exultant roar. The pressure is sublime, and I hold my breath, absorbing that secret sensation of your pulse beating so deep inside me. You pull out, then plunge again, the deep penetration fluid now and luscious. Pleasure is coiled tighter, ratcheted to the limit, poised and impatient. My sex trembles around you, stimulated merely by your size and the staggering elation of being joined with you wholly.
Your teeth catch your lower lip as my core pulsates rhythmically around your hardness. With a low moan of tormented pleasure, you rotate your hips. My orgasm breaks with such force that I scream. You growl with triumph and begin to fuck.
My hips thrust frantically upward, chasing your withdrawals because I can’t bear to let you go. Your hips buck hard into the V of my thighs, your body a powerfully sexual machine committed solely to pleasure. You’re lost in the moment, voracious and relentless. You grow rigid, breath caught, then shout hoarsely and ride my climaxing sex with unbridled lust. Your orgasm is long and wrenching, your big body wracked with violent tremors aligned with the pulse of each thick ejaculation.
Gasping, dripping sweat, you kiss me as if you’re a moment away from death and my mouth alone can save you. We share the very air we breathe. Your lungs draw in my frantic exhalations, and you pant your breath into mine.
Holding you against me, I stroke your heaving back, gentling you as your body quivers in the aftermath. I’m taking the full force of your weight, and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m achingly aware of your delicious fullness inside me, your heated length dominating me in the most primal way.
Long moments pass. What are you thinking? If someone occupies your thoughts, is it me? I run my big toe up and down your calf, telling myself it doesn’t matter.
Eventually, you murmur, “I was right.” Then you nuzzle your sweat into my skin.
“About what?”
“You didn’t have a single thought about pizza.”
I laugh, relieved, and hug you tightly, feeling your lips curve in a smile against my shoulder.
“Let’s renew our vows,” you murmur, kissing my neck.
My body responds to your proposal, tightening around your penis with possessive delight. You hum your approval.
“Only if we honeymoon for months,” I barter. “I don’t care where as long as there’s no one else around.”
Your head lifts. “Deal.”
Your face is flushed, and there is sweat on your brow. I register how incredibly handsome you are, then you swivel your hips, and I register how hard you are. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were unsatisfied.
“Impressive,” I say with a laugh.
“Ridiculous,” you counter. “I’m a man in my thirties now, not a randy kid in college. I shouldn’t lose it two minutes after I start fucking my wife. And I should need some damn recovery time.”
You kiss me deeply, thoroughly. When you lift your head again, your eyes are dark with hunger. “I can’t feel my legs, but my cock is ready for Round Two.”
Pushing up onto your forearm, you reach between us until you touch where I’m stretched to hold you. I’m soaked with your semen, and you massage it into my skin, rubbing my clitoris in an unhurried circle. Your waistband gently abrades my inner thighs, reminding me that you were so desperate to be inside me you barely got your pants down.
You bite your lower lip when my inner muscles clench. Your stroking thumb is tireless, the pressure featherlight. My sex tightens until you growl with the pleasure of it.
“You keep milking me like that, Setareh, and this won’t last long.”
“Oh!” I start writhing beneath you, desperate to ride your erection, but your weight holds me down.
You rub and squeeze, relentlessly stimulating, then quickening the pace. I’m trembling. Your kiss takes me over, the stroke of your tongue too much to bear. The climax breaks in a rush of sparkling sensation, shimmering through me until even my toes and fingertips tingle.
Panting, I blink up at you through a sensuous haze.
“You’re so beautiful,” you tell me, brushing your lips back and forth over mine. “The most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You must not look in the mirror, then.”
Your grin is brazen as you straighten away from me. I whimper as you leave me, my sex clinging in protest. The firelight halos you as you stand and shove your pajama pants to the floor.
Oh, but you’re magnificent.
You arrange me to your satisfaction: straddling one of my legs on your knees with my other calf propped against your shoulder. You take yourself in hand.
“Kane, you can’t be serious.”
“Six years,” you say grimly, finding me again and pushing inside with a rough purr. “I’ve craved you that long, and I’m not satisfied yet.”
I gasp. My sex accepts you more easily now, slick as I am with your semen, but your proportions still border overwhelming. The position you’ve placed me in allows you to press impossibly deeper. Restless, I moan and shift, packed deliciously full.
A roll of your hips stirs your penis inside me. I’m swollen and hypersensitive, so the subtle move has an unsubtle impact. You fluidly withdraw, hovering with just the tip inside me. Gripping the arm of the sofa above my head with both hands, your next sleek thrust through my scissored legs hits the end of me. It’s ecstasy, and I moan, suddenly greedy for more.
You stare down at me, your features taut with lust. “I’m still in love with you.”
My eyes squeeze shut against your pain and mine.
“Don’t shut me out,” you order gruffly. “Keep your eyes open.”
Watching you make love to me is as erotic as feeling it. The visual of your powerful muscles flexing with exertion, your virile body devoted to arousing and satiating mine as often as I can bear it is a singular provocation, and you know it. You ruthlessly exploit your physical perfection as another weapon in your extensive sexual arsenal.
You withdraw and thrust quickly, grinding against me for a long moment before another rapid withdrawal and thrust. The irregular tempo of swift retreat and entry paired with lingering penetration kindles a white-hot need.
The way you’ve positioned me – one leg balanced against your shoulder, the other bracketed by yours – ensures there’s no way for me to reach you. I can only lie still and take the skillfully timed thrusts of your extravagant erection. The wide, flared head of your penis massages the delicate channel of my sex. The sensation of being overly full and then emptied in rapid succession is maddening. My body rocks back and forth into that deliberate, wickedly knowledgeable stroking, the fur beneath me a further stimulation.
I’m overcome. The pleasure becomes unbearable. I’m mewling and can’t stop; you feel too wonderful. It’s too much. Then you shift me slightly, and the next drive glides over the spot inside me that threatens my sanity.
“Kane.” My hands fist in the fur beneath me as if holding on will make the approaching climax endurable. “I … I’m going to come.”
“I know.” The full fiery intensity of your focus is on me, your eyes pools of deep black, your cheekbones flagged with high color. Your tongue glides over your full lower lip in a blatantly erotic gesture. Your hips are tireless, your abdomen lacing tightly as you fuck with ruthless, concentrated strokes. Your first orgasm grabbed you by the tail and yanked the beast from its cage. This time, you’re chasing satisfaction with furious deliberation. “I’ll be right behind you.”
It only takes two more precision thrusts to hurl me into orgasm. I breathe your name as my body shivers violently, my legs shaking with the surfeit of delight. I hear you groan, then your head bows like a supplicant between your straining biceps, your damp forehead resting on mine. Your breath hisses as your climax grips you, your body shuddering, your hips surging rhythmically.
Moments later, you slump against me, breathing hard.
“Jesus,” you wheeze, struggling for breath. Your tone is both awestruck and chagrined, and it makes me laugh.
“Stop that,” you order gruffly. “You’ll make me hard again, which will definitely kill me.”
Sliding from me in a wet, heavy glide, you shift between my hip and the sofa back, then flip us both to drape me over you.
“Even you can’t go again.” I lift my head to look down at you because I’m not absolutely sure that’s true.
Your brow arches. “If you’d asked me this morning if I thought I could screw us both to death, I would’ve said those days are behind me. Now I understand my cock isn’t a team player. It doesn’t care if it kills me. And while dying making love to you is exactly the way I’d choose to go out, I have a lot of bucket-list items to check off with you before then.”
I rest my chin atop my crossed arms. “Like what?”
“Like catching up on all those spy-movie franchises you love and eating cold pizza.”
“You haven’t been keeping up?”
“Without you?” Shadows flicker in your fire-lit eyes. “It would have shredded me even to try.”
My palm presses flat over your heart. I study your face. Release has softened your features, and there’s the liquid shine of love in your eyes. I want to touch you all over, claim every inch of rough-silk skin.
“A kiss, my queen,” you murmur, licking your lower lip. “My kingdom for a kiss.”
Nuzzling the tip of my nose against yours, I whisper, “What if it’s just the king I want?”
“He’s already yours. He always has been.”
I take your mouth, my skin hot and sensitive as if I’m sunburned. I’ve danced with fire in your arms and feel the effects.
I’ve died for this, for you.
Now, I’ll have to kill for it.