He squeezed my hip harder but ignored the grip he had on my cock as he bucked up into me, stealing my breath and sending a shiver through my body. "Oh, honey. I am."
This kind of sex was medieval. We should've been fucking atop a bearskin rug or on a stone floor. It was dark and dirty and more than a little tortured. And I wasn't sure, but it was possible I'd never want it any other way.
With that thought renovating every notion I'd ever had about the kind of sex I needed in my life, I rested my cheek on Wes's shoulder, sanded my fingers through his chest hair, licked his nipple until I heard his breath catch, and then I bit him as if I meant to leave my brand on him.
"What the—oh my Jesus fucking Christ, Tom, what did you—oh fuck, I'm"—a snarl sounded in his throat and then he hammered into me as if he was leaving a brand of his own. He pressed his thumb into my hip, holding me steady,holding holding holdingas he clenched his jaw and his body turned to granite beneath me. He punched up into me once more and I almost forgot about my cock throbbing in his hand because the sight of him sweating and panting and thrashing in my bed was too right. It knocked something loose in my head, forcing dizzy stars behind my eyes and a clench in my chest, and when he twisted the tight clasp of his fist down my shaft, it was all over. I imploded and crystalized and fell into a tiny coma.
The events following that one glorious stroke were lost to me. I didn't know what I said, what Wes said, or how I wound up lying on my back with my head on the pillow and Wes's big body wrapped around mine. But I knew how I felt during those blacked-out moments. There was the inevitable bliss of coming twice in an hour and the happy-sedated vibe that softened the world down to rounded edges and pastel colors. There was the surge of clingy hormones demanding I wrap my legs around Wes's waist and nuzzle my face into his neck and keep him close. And there was another piece, one that came to me as if spoken in a language I didn't understand and had to piece together with gestures and motions. I wasn't sure but it seemed like I felt—it was silly to even think this and my interpretation was probably off—adored.
Wes pressed a kiss to my temple before climbing off the bed. "I'll be right back," he promised with a quick slap to my thigh.
I heard the toilet flush, the faucet running in the bathroom, the open and close of my linen closet. I debated getting up and stripping off the sheets but at least eighty percent of my body was very much comatose and the remainder was striding in that direction. More than that, I didn't want to break the swell of endorphin-drenched quiet around me, inside me. I could curl up against Wes, allow him to tuck me tight into his notches and grooves, and I could stay there all night. I could—
Hands rolled me to my side. I was too drowsy and boneless to question it. "Here we go," Wes murmured, passing a warm, wet cloth over my torso, between my legs. "Now scoot over."
When I didn't move—what'd he asked me to do again?—he shifted me to my back and settled the down comforter over me. Pillows came next and though I didn't open my eyes to verify, I was certain the quilt and the weighted blanket followed. He climbed in beside me, fitting himself to my body.
Surprising no one at all, it wasn't as complicated as I'd imagined to snuggle after sex.
* * *
The next morning,I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the bedroom doorframe as I surveyed the remains of my living room. The living room I'd furnished in slow, deliberate additions over the past six years. It hadn't mattered to me whether the space sat mostly empty or asymmetrically assembled because just like me, it was a work in progress. I hadn't wanted to buy a sofa or art or side tables I didn't love simply because I was in need. No, I'd been content sitting on the floor, staring at blank walls, and using boxes or overturned milk crates as tables. I'd forced myself to wait for the right things rather than settle for the right-now things.
Behind me, I heard Wes yawning, stretching, and mumbling about searching for a pair of pajama bottoms. I heard a loud footfall, a muttereddammit,and then the moment of uncoordinated hopping one did while trying to pull on pants when exceedingly loose limbed. Then I sensed him over my shoulder and leaned back against his chest. He kissed the top of my head, saying, "Looks like we have a lot of shopping to do today. Let's hit the showers, babe."
I grimaced at the shattered lamp. I still remembered the abundance of joy I'd felt bringing it home and sitting it atop the side table like a crown jewel. "That's not necessary."
"Yeah, it is," he said, sweeping his hand at the crime scene before us. "I am getting you a new lamp and, from the looks of it, some houseplants too." He frowned at the shards of pottery and the spray of soil and pebbles across the floor. "Shit, sorry about that."
I shook my head. "It's fine."
"It's not but we'll make it fine," he added, banding his arm over my chest. "After we clean up this mess and find some replacements."
"We don't have to do that. Seriously. I like driving all over New England to find a candlestick holder and puttering around antique and vintage shops and then popping into mainstream stores too. It's my process and I'm very particular and you don't have to—"
"Oh, yeah. We're fuckin' doing this," Wes interrupted. "Boy, I am gonna antique your ass off."
"What?"
"Maybe I want to drive all over New England with you," he said. "I already know about your particularities and processes. I want to see the puttering." He shrugged and nuzzled his scruffy beard into my neck. "And I want to be with you. I want to see your favorite places and hear about the things you love. And I have a million questions about your friends. Max needs to leave that dirtbag boyfriend, by the way. I might need to make that guy's body disappear when I get a minute later this week."
"No murders," I warned.
"But I thought you liked murders."
"I like documentaries about the psychology of serial killers. The events that led them to kill and kill in the ways which they did. I like the investigations and the stories of the people doing the police work. I like learning about all that fucked-up stuff but I don't like the part where people are killed. I don't want you murdering anyone."
"It wouldn't look like murder," he argued. "That's part of my skill."
"Wesley Halsted. No murders."
Shaking his head, he asked, "You said this is a recurring thing, the trivia? Because they're awesome. We're doing this again next weekend, right?"
There was another fall, a secret one on top of all the big and small ones and invisible ones I'd taken last night. This one was harder, the kind of fall that stole your breath and sent your heart into your throat and your stomach down to your toes and made your blood pound so hard you couldn't hear anything else.
And I didn't believe I'd be able to hide this one.
14
