I swallow. “Show me,” I breathe, reaching higher, for his lips. “Show me how much you want me.”
He kisses me deeper, slower, in a way that lets us both savor this, and lifts me off the ground with his hands on my hips. My legs wrap around him because even my body knows I can’t let him go.
Rowan turns and sets me down gently on the island, his hands caressing my thighs up and down, squeezing and gripping. And he holds me so perfectly, like his hands and my body were molded to fit. His body was built to fit with mine, and mine with his. Two halves of the same whole, I think. I hope.
“Rowan,” I moan. “I want to feel you.” By the time I’m removing my sweatshirt, he’s in front of me again, helping me remove it and throwing it aside. His hands skate across my skin again, trekking familiar terrain with patience and reverence.
“Rowan,” I whimper, his lips latching onto my skin. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” he murmurs and wraps his lips around my nipple before he slowly lowers himself onto his knees.
He’s patient, time passing slowly and still all too fast. I never want this to end, I never want us to part. I need him inside of me, consuming me for as long as he possibly can.
His hands hold my thighs roughly and tenderly, his touch as contradictory as it always is, as he feasts between my legs, releasing hungry growls.
Rowan refuses to relent until I’m yanking at his hair, fearful that I might create a bald spot. Then he’s on his feet and my hands know what they’re doing too.
I know him with my eyes closed. In the dark. When I picture him in my mind at night, it is like seeing him right before me.
My hands work to remove his shirt then shove away his pants, and it’s quick. We’re naked and I’m seated on the cool granite and he’s between my legs, and I know everything is fine right now.
Everything is okay when I’m with him, and I think that’s what it’s supposed to feel like when you’re with someone like this. When you…
This is what is to fall, maybe. I think.
I asked him to show me he wanted me, but I think one of us misunderstood. Or maybe it’s simply me who plays dumbs because I know that whenever we’re like this together, he doesn’t just want me. He’s telling me he loves me and I don’t know how to say it back. I don’t know if I can, or if I even deserve to.
“Christ, sweetheart,” Rowan hisses against my lips.
“Rowan,” I breathe and he pushes inside of me—a slow glide with a delicious stretch until I’m utterly full. “Yes.”
His arms keep my body flush against his, our skin at risk of melting into one. My arms around his neck to keep him close—to keepmeclose. I don’t know how, but he moves inside me like that’s where he’s meant to be. Like we were both perfectly sketched and molded for one another and that is why there has never been a better fit for either one of us.
And it’s scary. I’m not sure what this is—what it means—but there aren’t words for the way this feels.
“Natalia,” he breathes, nudging my nose with his.
“Rowan.” I brush my parted lips against his.
“Please,” Rowan says, and even though I don’t know whatit is he’s asking me for, I want to give it to him, all of it. Whatever he wants. He can write it down on a list and I’ll check each one of them off. “Please,” he says again. “Natalia.”
“I…” I croak. “Rowan…”
His thumb wipes the corner of my eye. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he pants, his thrusts slowing but moving deeper than ever. “Fall, baby, I’ve got you.”
Rowan holds me together as I splinter apart, shards of my existence scattering all around us. And I hold him close with my limbs tubed around his body, allowing him to break over me all the same, our broken off pieces colliding together. The pieces shimmering and reflecting like light and glass, making me think that we might just be able to make one if we glue those pieces together.
It’s scary and it’s beautiful, and I’m so lost in it all that I don’t know what to do.
Please,I beg myself.Let me have this, please.And I pray that I listen.
#
I’m attempting more hairstyles for my curls by day five. I’ve mastered the perfect messy half-up, half-down look with carefully placed strays framing my face. I’ve worked on braids and perfect slicked-back buns. Today, I’ve let the curls down and done two braids on top with a middle part.
Rowan twirls one of my curls around his finger. It seems it’s become his favorite pastime, and I don’t totally mind it. In fact, I think I really like it. And I especially love the way I’m curledup at his side with my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, and the movie playing on the TV.
“Your hair always smells so good.” He inhales.
