I once took a class that explored the fine line between making love and just plain having sex. Most of the time, “making love” is just tossed around as a polite term for getting down and dirty. Often a cheesy one at that.
But sex is just physical mechanics driven by our primal urges. It’s all about rubbing, sucking, biting, and sticking things in holes.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it. It’s what most of us spend our time daydreaming about, whether we’re stuck in a boring work meeting, waiting in line at the DMV, or even during those important events like weddings and funerals.
Making love, however, is on a whole other level. It’s intense and scary in its vulnerability. You’re not just exposing your body, you’re baring your heart and soul. It’s terrifying and incredible all at once.
That’s how I feel as Connor enters me again with a deep groan.
The sun has set, leaving us in the cozy glow of the fire.
We’re sprawled out on a fluffy rug, gazing into each other’s eyes as we fuck with deliberate slowness.
Our fingers are intertwined. Our gazes never break. Our chests expand and contract. Sweat beads on our skin as we move against each other.
He pulls out and slides back in, slow and deliberate, as he searches my face. I’m staring so hard at his eyes they’re starting to look like stars. Shit, that was poetic. I can’t help but notice the slight flicker of green in there too.
I arch my back and meet his thrusts, pleasure building at my core and radiating throughout my entire being. Every nerve buzzing with sensation from the man lying on top of me, from the feel of him inside me.
God, this is intense. I know he feels it too.
As we move together, I watch the orgasm build on his face and it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. His hands grip mine tightly as he groans.
There’s no dirty talk this time, just the sounds of our heavy breathing and quiet moans.
With every thrust, I feel myself edging closer to an orgasm so powerful it could make me cry.
And I’m scared. I almost don’t want it to happen because I know it’s going to shatter me into a million pieces. And I might never recover.
FORTY
Lexi
But like all good fairy tales, this one comes to an end.
The flight back is nothing like our carefree loved-up journey here.
Connor’s pain begins the morning of our departure, right after breakfast. I’m guessing it’s stress-related, maybe at the thought of going back to the real world?
There’s all this research suggesting autoimmune diseases are tied to stress, or at least exacerbated by stress. But telling someone to stop stressing just fucks them up even more.
We had just found out from Killian that the so-called private beach was, in fact, not so private after all. Cue a good thirty minutes of us laughing our asses off.
Turns out, the Quinns only own half of it with the cottage, and there’s more beach in the other direction. At least now that I’m leaving the country, I can find the humor in it. Hopefully they don’t plaster my face all over the airport as a “do not let back in” warning.
But that was where the laughter stopped and the tension started.
For the first four hours of the flight, Connor barely speaks, doesn’t sleep. Just stares broodingly out the window, musclesrigid as steel. And I can’t drift off either, even with the comfort of our plush private bedroom suite in the clouds.
He makes sure that the crew is treating me like a princess, but he’s too tense for any affection. It’s like trying to cuddle a brick.
He attempts to distract himself with his laptop, but it’s clear his mind is elsewhere. He just scowls at the screen, nursing a couple of scotches. Sure, flying can wreak havoc on anyone’s system—popping ears, dry eyes—but it’s clear Connor’s battling more than just the usual air travel annoyances.
We’ve reclined the bed a bit now, and his eyes are shut tight, but I can see the pain etched into his handsome face. He’s too wound up for sleep.
I’m pretty sure he popped more pills than what the label suggests, and he definitely shouldn’t be pairing them with booze, but pointing that out would lead to major death glares.
“So, uh, did your doctor actually clear this trip? With your ear stuff flaring and all . . . ?” I ask, treading on eggshells.
