His eyes met mine, and he smiled. He grabbed my hand and pushed it against the length of his cock. He was swollenand hard. “Glad I’m not the only one, baby,” he whispered. “I’m dying to get inside you.”
The sigh I uttered was probably from heaven. Pulling a condom from a drawer in the dresser next to us, he slipped it on.
The tip of his sheathed cock throbbed near my sex, and I ached for him. “Please, Desmond,” I whispered. “I can’t wait any longer.”
He parted my legs before lifting me up. He pushed deep and hard inside me while I gasped, my mouth falling open at the suddenness of it.
“Sorry,” he said, searching for my lips and kissing me while he pushed in further. “I couldn’t stay back any longer.”
I moaned and clung to him, wrapping my legs around his waist while he pushed, getting breathless as he moved in and out of me, finding a rhythm.
“Are you okay? You’re very tight,” he asked.
I nodded, tiny gasps leaving my lips with every movement he made. “It’s just … it’s been a while,” I whispered.
“How long?” he asked, his mouth sucking while he moved, gently now.
“Eleven months,” I muttered, and he stopped to stare at me.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, touching my cheek with his thumb. Then, he followed it up with a kiss on my cheek, my temple, and my forehead, featherlight kisses that relaxed me completely.
The last time we’d made love together, he’d told me he loved me. While love certainly didn’t exist anymore, the intense physical attraction we shared was undeniable.
“It’s okay. I’m glad I broke my dry stretch with you,” I said, looking up at him, overwhelmed.
“Then, I’d better make it good,” he said, planting one last kiss on me before he slid a finger down between us.
Rubbing my clit, he thrust, driving me mad with pleasure. I rocked my hips with him, rising to meet him while he sped up.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he said as I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking and sweaty next to him. “I need to feel you come around me,”
I arched in a few seconds, my legs quivering as I came, letting out a cry of surprise. He thrust faster, deeper, until his lips parted, pulling me forward while he spilled into the condom.
With a shout, he shuddered in my arms, holding me tight while I felt limp. I leaned into his solid chest, feeling tendrils of pleasure snaking through my body while being held close and protectively by him. I’d thought this would never happen again between us, and it had.
He pressed kisses on my forehead and my hair. “You were fucking perfect,” he said, and I looked up, my eyes misty.
I didn’t know why, but the thought that I was finally back with Desmond made me want to cry. I hadn’t realized I wanted him this bad. Or that I had missed him this much.
Hours later,that night, we lay in bed, tired and spent from lovemaking, but still awake. It was as though we were unwilling to let this night end.
“Is this the norm for you on your dates?” I asked in the semi-darkness as his fingers caressed my arm, feeling a pang of envy for the other women who got to go out with him.
He leaned closer. “I wish I could’ve given you a proper date, sweetheart, with all the works.”
I blushed, but refused to be distracted. “Who have you been dating recently?”
He kept one long, lingering gaze on me and saw that I was serious. “Women I might have met at parties and networking events. Wealthy women, beautiful women, all equally nice, but nothing that went longer than three or four months.”
I turned away, looking at the city lights blinking at us through the windows. Something in me felt a little unsettled at the idea of Desmond dating other women. Jealousy, I realized. I wished that I’d had a great multiyear-long relationship I could brag about. I didn’t.
“I haven’t had relationships even half as successful as that,” I admitted unwillingly, turning back to him.
His liquid brown eyes looked serious and contemplative as they rested on me.
“The last serious relationship I was in”—I counted on my fingers—“was eleven months ago.” I smiled ruefully at him. “I had a terrible dry spell after that.”
He blinked. “Eleven months of not dating someone long-term or a year of not even a one-off date?”
