He’s still mine.
We moan in unison as I pull my panties to the side and slide him inside of me, leaning forward to brace my palms on the floor next to his head.
“I love you,” I tell him as my hips grind against his.
Tripp’s hands move to rest on either side of my face and, though the half circle on his palm has been covered up for years, I can feel it burning against my cheek with the memory of our first kiss. A sting rises to the heel of my palm as his tongue moves against mine. Right now, we’re us again.
Tripp and Jules.
Lovey and baby.
The runaway Montgomerys.
I’m not sure if he’s making love or making hate to me right now, but I know how thankful I am to finally feel his body meld with mine again. To finally feel him fill me up and to have his body bring pleasure to mine.
The night that he took me out on our very first date, he promised that he wasn’t going to try to have sex with me, that he wasn’t that kind of guy, and he kept his word. Three hours and what felt like endless conversation later, I was inviting him to my house and sneaking him into my bedroom so we could give each other our virginities.
I think we fell in love with each other that night.
To have lost him for as long as I have…
My hands slide beneath his t-shirt to rest against his chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding beneath them.
“Look at me,” I plead as he moves to take handfuls of my ass, guiding the movement of my hips in the rhythm that he needs to make him feel good. “Tripp, please.”
His eyes meet mine, pain and pleasure fighting for dominance behind them. I crash into his mouth with my own, melting into him until the metallic taste of blood hits my tongue as the wound on his lip reopens.
“I want to hate you,” he groans against my lips.
“Love me anyway,” I beg him. My palms massage against the flesh of his sides, his head falling backward against the floor with a pained sound, and I shift them away from his wounded ribs. “Just please don’t stop loving me.”
The first time that I had sex with Tripp, it was quick and messy and we fumbled a lot, but we finished together and it felt like something in the world shifted for us in that moment.
The last time that we had sex, neither of us finished. It was over before it even had a chance to start, and we were fighting within minutes. After that fight, he pulled a spare blanket andpillow from our closet, carted them downstairs, and never slept in our bed with me again.
Now, as my body presses against his and our lips meet, all I can hope for is what we had that first time. His hand moves to grip me by the back of the head as he deepens our kiss with a strangled moan, and his hips drive hard against mine.
“Jules,” he whines with a heaving chest, “I’m gonna come.”
I know my husband’s body. I’ve shared mine with him thousands of times over the past sixteen years. He doesn’t need to tell me, but I know why he is: a warning, the risk of a heartache that neither one of us would survive again.
He’s giving me the chance to leave, but I don’t want it. Instead, I grind my hips against his, forcing him deep inside of me as my body tightens around his cock with a loud moan. He stills, pulsing inside of me as we come together, and as we come down, the only sound in the room is that of our unified breathing.
We’re connected again.
Our breathing, the beating of our hearts, and maybe even the wounds in them.
It’s all perfectly in sync.
I can’t remember the last time that Tripp and I sat down andtalkedto each other.
We used to be so good at it. We could bare our souls to one another and there was no question if the other person understood what we were saying. I’d never felt as connected to another person as I did to Tripp Montgomery.
His soul saw mine, mine saw his, and it didn’t need to make sense to anyone else in the world, because it made perfect sense for us.
Tripp sits across from me at our kitchen table, his chair pulled off to the side. His belt is left open, his jeans only pulled back into place, but neither zipped nor buttoned.
My shorts are still on the living room floor, the only thing between my skin and my chair being the thin fabric of an old pair of granny panties that I usually only reserve for laundry day.
