It wasn’t fair to want as much as I did. Not for myself, damn sure not from DeShawn. But as the driver—and thank god for the driver—drove us back to my house, all I could think about was how wired I was. How on edge I was. How glorious DeShawn had looked up on that stage, accepting his awards, proving that, once again, he was the best in the business.
And for a brief moment in time, for however long this lasted, he was mine. And I wanted to remember that, not just with words, some pictures, and holding hands and soft kisses for the cameras. But with something real, something pure. Something filthy.
The driver parked in front of my house and we thanked him profusely before I got out and held my hand for DeShawn to follow.
“We’re not at the event anymore,” he said, his voice rough. “You don’t have to do all that.”
“I know. I want to.”
Even in the dim light, I could see the way DeShawn’s eyes twinkled, but all he did was nod. I let us in through the front door, which made Bruno come running with a soft growl.
“Shh, it’s me, boy.” He dropped to his butt for pats, and for me to tell him what a good little protector he was, before going back to the dog bed and wrapping himself protectively around Corey.
“Looks like they worked out their issues,” DeShawn said wryly.
I just barely muffled my laugh. Then I laid a hand on the center of his back and guided him toward the stairs. He gave me one of those meaningful looks, those what in the hell do you think you’re doing looks, but didn’t say anything. “You were magnificent tonight.”
He huffed, a tiny little laugh, then dipped his head. “Thank you. And thank you for being there. I know it was short notice, but—”
I spun him on the landing between the first and second set of steps and pressed into him, silencing whatever he was about to say next with a kiss. He was still for the briefest moment before his hands landed on my stomach and circled around to my waist, pulling me in tight against him.
“You don’t need to say anything,” I told him. “I’m glad I was there.”
His smile was shy, super sweet, and positively sinful.
My thoughts solidified into three words. “I want you.”
His eyes widened, and mine fixated on the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah. I want you, too.”
I wanted to respond with something witty, but words failed me. I tangled my hand with his and led him up the short flight of stairs. He started to walk past the master, toward his room, but I caught him around the waist and pulled him in back to chest. “Just where do you think you’re going, sir?”
“To the bedroom?” The little hitch in his voice was positively adorable. I wanted more.
“Do you know,” I said, running my hand down the front of his stomach, to caress over his waist, “that I have never christened this house?”
“Not at all?”
“Not one single room.” I nipped at his ear and reveled in his low groan. “And I’ll be damned if I start with the guest suite. Come here.” I couldn’t keep this man; I knew that. And I had a choice. I could rebuff my own desires and be miserable in the process, or I could revel in knowing Chef DeShawn Franklin wanted me, and let myself have this, for however long it lasted. The choice was clear.
I marched him into my bedroom, to the split king bed I had for no good reason other than to have it. “Think this will do?”
“For this time and every one after that,” he whispered.
“Excellent.”
I spun him to face me and worked his jacket off, then set it gingerly on the small seat nestled in the corner. I let him take off his own cufflinks, then loosened his bow tie. “Much better coming off than going on,” I muttered.
“That’s what they all say, isn’t it?”
I paused midbutton and laughed. That was part of what I’d always liked about DeShawn, and the sex we’d spent years having. It was never overly serious, always teasing, always fun. We enjoyed ourselves and our bodies, and each other. And for an overly serious guy like myself, that meant a lot.
I finished unbuttoning his shirt and removed it, then ran my hands down the chest I’d once known from memory. So much was familiar, the sparse curls on his chest and down his happy trail having grown slightly coarser with age. And grayer, a sign of the growth and—hopefully—maturity we’d experienced. The thing that was really different was the tattoo sleeves. When we’d been married, he’d just started getting them. He hadn’t had a plan for what he wanted, but in the time we’d been separated, he’d clearly figured it out.
“One day, I’m going to map each and every one of these.”
DeShawn chuckled low, then yanked me forward by the top of my tuxedo pants and pulled my shirt out from it. “And one day I’ll let you. But not right now.”
I held still while he removed my bow tie, then removed my shirt with far more alacrity than I had his. He smoothed it off my shoulders and let it fall to the ground, then wound his arms around my neck. “Goddamn, I missed you.”
I wouldn’t let myself dwell on how much those words meant to me, how absolutely not even a little bit fake they sounded. I just brought him close, let myself memorize again his touch, his taste, the way he always kissed me like he could never get enough. Which was good, because I damn sure couldn’t either.
My hand moved from his back to his stomach, and with one hand, I unfastened his tuxedo pants and unzipped them. They fell to the floor and he started to step out of them. Then stopped, because neither of us had remembered to take off our shoes.
He laughed, breaking off the kiss and bumping his forehead against mine, then said, “Move back and let’s get naked.”
I took a step back and sat on the edge of my bed, removing my socks and shoes. DeShawn turned to balance himself on the chair and removed his own shoes, and I nearly swallowed my tongue.
“What?” he said, looking at me over his shoulder.
“Are you wearing a jock?”
He straightened and gave me a saucy little smile and shrug. “It works better with the suit lines.”
“Uh-huh. C’mere and let me take a closer look.”
“That is so unoriginal.”
But he stepped out of his pants and walked to stand in front of me. I ran my hands down that lovely, thin-but-strong chest again, to those narrow hips he’d complained were bony when we were young but had filled out just the right amount now, over his dick, hard and straining, the tip peeking out from the jock. I pressed my tongue to his slit and used one hand to pull an ass cheek open. His hands found the top of my head and held on, and with my other hand, I gently massaged his hole.
“Malik, goddamn.”
I pulled the jock down just enough for the head to pop free, wet my finger, then went back to sucking while I fingered him. My sex life before DeShawn had been sparse, and after him, nonexistent. But no one ever responded to me the way he did, always eager for what I gave, always reaching for more. His unabashed need spurred me on, convinced me I could please him, and all I wanted was to give him more.
His hands dropped from the back of my neck to my shoulders, gripping and squeezing and digging his palms into me for all he was worth.
“Stop,” he whispered suddenly, pushing back. “You have to stop, else I’m going to—”
“Me too.” I pulled him down to straddle me, then flipped us until he was underneath me on the bed. I climbed up the mattress just enough to pull his jockstrap all the way off, then fumbled in my nightstand for a bottle of lube that had seen more use in the past few weeks than in more months than I cared to admit, and an unopened box of condoms.
DeShawn snatched them off the bed. “Malik, how old are those?”
I coughed and cleared my throat. “I picked them up a few weeks ago.”
DeShawn looked way too fucking pleased with himself at that news. “Hope springs eternal, does it?”
“With you? Always.”
The smile on his face went from lascivious to tender, and made my heart do funny pitter-pattering things it hadn’t done since my wedding day. Aw, the hell with it. I nestled back down on him, popping myself above him on my elbows. “Am I too heavy for you?”
“Never. You never have been.”
I gave him all my weight then, reveling in the feel of our dicks, both slick with precome, gliding together. It would be easy to come just like this. It would be glorious really. But I had no idea how much time I’d have with DeShawn, and if this was it, I wanted it all. Every part of him I could get.
I reached over and grabbed the lube, uncapping it and pouring some on my fingers. DeShawn shuffled and planted his feet on the mattress, opening his legs wide.
“Look at you. You’re so goddamn pretty like this,” I told him.
“Flatterer,” he said, but his laugh was hoarse, husky. Beautiful.
We could banter like this all night, and had before, but my dick, my heart, my everything, were desperate to remember him. I pressed a finger against his hole, and he hissed, gripping his knees tight before intentionally relaxing and pushing out. I fingered him for a few seconds before adding a second, and his rumble came from deep inside his belly. Nothing made me feel more powerful than when I reduced this beautiful man to a writhing mass beneath me. It was everything I could do not to come from the sound of his moans alone.
“Enough, Malik. Now.”
I rolled a condom down my length, shaking aside the memories of all the times we hadn’t had to bother, then lined up and pushed inside. DeShawn released one leg and gripped my bicep instead, letting that leg fall to the side. I hiked it up around my waist as I pressed into him, taking my time, relishing the feel of being inside this man—my husband—one more time.
The word rolled around in my head and I closed my eyes. DeShawn massaged my back, his breaths a caress against me. We’d made love for the last time the night before DeShawn filed our paperwork at the courthouse, and I’d tucked that night away to hold on to for the next however many decades I lived. To be here again, inside him, overwhelmed me in the best way, and I tangled my fingers in his locs and pushed in.
When I was fully seated, we both paused, our breaths heavy for a moment before DeShawn wrapped his other leg around me and locked his ankles around my waist. He arched his neck up and kissed the bottom of my chin. “Move.”
I buried my head in his shoulder and pulled out. I wanted to go slow. Everything in me urged me to go slow, to take my time, to not rush this moment with this man.
“Fuck me, Malik. Like it’s our first time. Like you’re trying to prove something.”
How the hell could I resist that entreaty? I captured his lips and gave him everything I had, his legs wrapped around my waist, spurring me on, my need to bury myself as deep inside him as I possibly could drumming in my ears. I’d never been able to get enough of this man. And I knew after tonight, I never would.
“Malik, so close.”
I gripped his shoulder with one hand and reached between us with the other, stripping his length in long strokes, desperate to make him come as hard as I knew I would. My lips found his shoulder and I bit down, and DeShawn went off like a rocket. I followed, milking him through his orgasm as I reached my own, my eyesight going nearly black with the force of my release.
For a few moments, we lay there like that, until our heartbeats began to match. “They’re doing it again,” DeShawn whispered.
“Syncing.”
“Yeah.”
I was twenty-three again. Feeling that same wonder of being with a man who felt so perfectly right that it couldn’t be real. A figment of my imagination, I’d told myself, until DeShawn had marveled at it, too.
And after our last time, I’d convinced myself it’d been the fantastical musings of a man desperately in love. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
Something about that idea warmed me, and I pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth before I pulled out and tied off the condom, then flopped on my back next to him. He looked at me, a silly, sappy grin on his face, then ran the back of his hand over my cheek.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Always so beautiful.”
I didn’t know if he was talking about me or the sex, and frankly, it didn’t matter. I’d clean us up and get rid of everything in just a minute, but for the time being, all I wanted to do was lie here with my man.