Because fucking’s one thing. Kissing is a whole other level.
25
Twyla
I’ve never had so much sex in one two-day period. It’s intense and physical, and I’ll probably feel it tomorrow, but right now, I’m in such a floaty, high, dream world that I don’t care.
It’s worth it. I know this, beyond a doubt. I think it as he slowly, slowly presses into me and comes a second time, then shifts back, his gaze skimming over my body with admiration and maybe something else. Maybe something deeper. Something meaningful. He squeezes his hand between our bodies, gets his thumb right up against my clit and rubs quick circles until I climax again. And so does he.
He doesn’t pull out. I don’t ask him to. I don’t want him to. I want to keep him inside me—his cock, his semen. These feelings, too. The fresh, raw power of them.
This is real, they’re saying. This is real.
He twists and turns off the lamp behind him, plunging us into near darkness. I don’t say a word. He doesn’t either. I get it. All this emotion’s left me open and unguarded. Real. Me. I’m afraid of what I’ll say if I speak right now.
Before settling back, he pulls out from me, his spend drips down between my legs.
“I should use the restroom,” I whisper, hating to break our shell, but knowing what’ll happen if I don’t.
He switches the light back on and points at a wooden door halfway up the opposite wall.
For the first time, I look at the place. It’s small. A one-room cabin, made for sleeping more than anything else. Like a hotel room.
Except it’s his. More truly Zion’s than the Georgetown rental or anything I’ve seen in a magazine spread or anyplace else.
It’s dark wood, simple, and sparsely furnished. The furniture’s big, solid, rough-hewn, high-quality. I’d bet everything in here’s handmade. Hardwoods, raw fabrics, all massive, all straightforward stuff. Comfortable.
I slip into the restroom, turn the light on and look around, doing my best to avoid the big, wood-framed mirror above a dark granite counter and its deep, utilitarian sink.
Plush, blue towels hang on a bar, neatly-folded. Unused. Everything here looks brand new. As if this place were a hotel, not a home.
I use the toilet and clean up and, finally, unavoidably, face myself in the big mirror, wincing at the makeup streaking my eyes, my cheeks. I’ve taken raccoon eyes to new heights.
I scrub it off as best I can. Okay, so I look like crap. But I was flogged tonight. And then, I made the unwisest decision of my life and allowed the man who’s already torn everything apart, literally, into my body.
I meet my own eyes. Stare.
And smile.
What the hell, Hernandez? I mouth, still smiling.
And then, given that there’s no denying the power of good sex, amazing sex, the best sex of my entire life, I stick out my tongue.
Back in the room, Zion’s sitting up in bed. I hesitate, consider what all of this means and then, because I’m me and he’s him and we’re here, together, I take a running jump and flop right on top of him, giggling my ass off. This quickly turns to mutual tickling, rolling around, wrestling until I’m face down in the bed and he’s over me and his erection’s there, again, between my legs and, though I’m sore and feel more well-used than I’ve ever been in my life, I lift my ass and he slides in and we’re fucking again.
Except it doesn’t feel like fucking to me. It feels like more. I know this. I recognize it, admit it, take the knowledge and wrap it up tight, stow it somewhere deep inside me.
And I arch and strain, twist and moan, gasp and whimper until the difference between sex and love is as meaningless as the sounds we make. Just sounds. Just syllables, muttered loud, sung low. Do I love him? Yes. God, yes.
The thought curls me into myself. He follows, wraps around me, still deep inside, telling me I’m beautiful, taking his cock like this. I’m his now, with his come filling me up, his body and mine so fully intertwined there’s no beginning or end, just a circle. Just connection.
I love you, I think, just aware enough to know how those words could backfire. I love you. I love you.
“You’re mine,” he mutters, pummeling my body with his for a dozen quick strokes, his arms going tight, then loose, like a boy worried he’ll crush a baby bird in his hand. “Mine, mine, mine,” and I believe it. I do. How could I not, when we’re this close? This hot? This fierce and possessive.
But I feel it too, that ferocity. That desire not to just give, but to take. To share, to belong and to have. So, rather than lie here and let him use me, the way my libido demands, I twist and turn and work my way over him, above him, wrap his wrists in my hands, held high on the mangled pillows, and I get right into his face—so close we could kiss. We should. Wehaveto. I don’t, though. I’ll respect his rules as long as he does—and echo his words.
“I’m yours?”
