Chapter Seventeen
Twenty years ago, Christopher and I spent a week together in Daytona that forever shaped the course of my life, the path of my dreams, the tracks of my private tears.
In the back of my mind there’s always been that college kid staring up at the hunky Secret Service agent as he held my ankle in one hand, his cock in the other, and I breathlessly watched as heclaimed me and forever branded me as his.
And then I stupidly walked away from that week and let fear immediately sweep through me again, paralyzed to the point that I was crying myself to sleep every night and couldn’t do theonething he told me Ihadto do if I was serious and wanted to be with him.
ThatIhad to make the next move.
That he wasn’t going to call or text me unless I contactedhim. That he’d even give me a couple of weeks to think things through, if I needed to.
He asked me to trust him, swore that he could keep me safe, even from my father, and that I could move in with him in DC when I got there.
Promised me that if things didn’t work out between us, we could still be roommates. That, no matter what, he only wanted me to be happy.
Despite all of that, the ten-year-oldboy who cowered, frozen in terror as my father towered over me at the church barbecue still, in many ways, controlled me. Without Christopher right there in bed with me, my confidence evaporated.
A day turned into a week, then a month.
I walked the stage for my diploma.
I moved to DC.
I moved on—or so I lied to myself.
Justifications were easy to spin out into certainties in my mind, andbefore I knew it, I was standing in a church and sayingI doto the wrong person, and I couldn’t figure out how tofixit.
I blamed problems with my performance on our wedding night on jet lag and exhaustion and too much sake at dinner, despite the fact that we’d slept together before.
But this was…different.
This time, we were married.
The truth was, I couldn’t conjure up visions of Christopherright then like I usually did to be able to make love to Lauren without bursting into tears.
My honeymoon was an exercise in not imagining alternate realities where it was me and Christopher touring the sites and making love.
After a quick discussion about whether or not I need to get tested—I don’t, because I wasn’t with anyone since Lauren and got tested after our divorce because I thoughtI might try to date guys, which I never did—or if condoms will need to be mandatory until I do, Christopher and I move from my pool to my bathroom.
There, under the warm spray, he presses me against the wall and kisses me, a fantasy finally made real.
How many countless times have I imagined the two of us in this shower together?
Too many to count.
Too many orgasms rubbed out in here withmy eyes closed and remembering that week in Daytona.
How he took his time and made sure I was ready to take him.
Like he’s doing right now, with a brand new bottle of lube he apparently brought with him and snagged from his bag on the way past, because it’s a different brand than the one I have stashed around here somewhere.
I force myself to keep my eyes open and watch his face, even as Igasp with need, my ass burning and cock throbbing while passion builds and darkens his gaze like Florida thunderstorms.
We’re both different and yetthisis the same—this isus,stillus,alwaysus.
That college kid spent a week learning about sex and love and bondage and spankings.
I now come into this sadder, wiser, and with the knowledge that this man knew me better after a week than anyoneever has in my life.
