“Side pocket.” He gestures vaguely toward my discarded jeans. “Please hurry.”
I’m fumbling with the condom packet, my hands trembling, when he takes it from me. “Let me.” His large fingers make quick work of it, and then he’s back, braced above me, our bodies aligned.
“You sure about this?” he asks, his eyes searching mine in the dim light.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He enters me slowly, giving my body time to adjust, and the stretch is delicious. Overwhelming. Perfect. When he’s fully seated inside me, we both pause, just breathing together, connected in the most intimate way possible.
He starts with a slow, deep rhythm that builds a new fire in my veins. Every thrust pushes me higher, every kiss claims me more thoroughly. This isn’t frantic or desperate; it’s deliberate. Unhurried. Like he has all night and plans to use every second.
Our bodies move together like they were made for this, a perfect sync of give and take. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans against my neck, whispering things against my skin, broken phrases that might be praise or prayer,and I hold onto him like he’s the only solid thing ina spinning universe.
The pleasure builds in waves, cresting higher and higher until I’m floating, until my entire world narrows to this bed, this man, this feeling.
“Look at me,” he says, his voice strained with need. “Marcella, look at me.”
My eyes flutter open and focus on his face, on the raw emotion I see there, and that’s all it takes. The second wave crashes through me, more intense than the first, and I cry out his name as my body clenches around him.
“Fuck,” he groans, and then he’s following me over the edge, his body shuddering against mine as he finds his release.
We collapse together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction. For a long while, we just breathe, the fire downstairs crackling the only sound in the quiet room.
I trace the scars on his chest, each one a story he hasn’t told me yet. But he will. Someday.
He shifts, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at me. His gray eyes are soft in the dim light, the guardedness I’ve grown so used to seeing replaced with something vulnerable. Something open.
“I’m not good at this,” he says quietly, breaking the silence. “The after part.”
I smile, trailing my fingers down his arm. “You’re doing pretty good so far.”
He gives a little huff of a laugh. “I mean the talking. The... expectations.”
“We don’t have to talk,” I tell him. “We can just be. For right now, we can just be.”
“Okay,” he says, and settles back down, pulling me into his arms. “Just be.”
After he discards the condom in the bathroom, he returns to the bed, pulling me against him. Outside the storm still howls, but it feels distant now. Unimportant. The whole world has narrowed to this bed, this man, the warmth of his skin against mine.
I lift my head to look at him. In the dim light, his face is more open than I’ve ever seen it. Softer. The tension he carries in his jaw, his shoulders, his entire being—it’s not gone, but it’s eased. Like something inside him has finally unclenched after years of being wound too tight.
“It’s been two days,” I say quietly. “This shouldn’t be possible.”
“I know.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.” He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. His arms tighten around me, protective and possessive. “I don’t understand it either. But I’m done fighting it.”
I want to say it back. Want to tell him I’m done fighting too, that I’m all in, that this is real and I believe it.
But the words stick in my throat.
Because part of me is still waiting. Still bracing. Still listening for the moment when the other shoe drops and he realizes I’m too much after all.
So instead of answering, I press closer and let myself have this moment. This warmth. This man who holds me like I’m precious.
Tomorrow I’ll think about what it means. Tomorrow I’ll deal with the fear that’s still coiled tight in my chest, waiting.
