“I don’t believe it,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure I do. Because I feel the same.
“You won’t find anything but the truth coming out of me.” He leans forward then, covering my nipple with his mouth, his hands moving to my hips.
“Dawson,” I murmur, tilting my head to the side because it’s like I can’t even keep it raised at this point.
“Yeah, honey?”
“I need you. I don’t know why, and I can’t make sense of it?—”
His tongue flicks against my breast. “I told you to stop trying to make sense of things you’re supposed to surrender to.”
He’s right. As much as I want to question all of this, the truth is that my instinct is only throwing out green flags and approving comments. It’s my realist logic that has me questioning something I shouldn’t.
I comb a hand through his curly locks, loving how soft they feel between my fingers.
“And for the record,” he adds, “you don’t need to ask me for permission. I’m yours. I have been for a long time now. I’m giving you the approval to take what you need from me in this way whenever you want it.”
“You are way too good, do you know that?”
His hands come up and knead my breasts. “We all have our flaws, but where you’re concerned, I’m abhorrently virtuous. At least, for now. Because eventually, a time is going to come when I’m going to want to absorb everything around you—the good, bad, and ugly. And that, honey, will inadvertently make me all of those things as well.”
“Will it?”
“Absolutely.” He pulls back, questions swimming in his eyes. “Do you think you’re going to want to stick around when that happens?”
My answer is in the way I shift higher, collect him in my hand, and guide him to the center point of my body. I swipe him through my wetness. We both sigh at how good it feels, and then I slowly lower myself as I grip my camera in my other hand.
Once I’m fully seated, my therapist’s thickness deep inside of me, I say, “What do you think?”
“I think you feel way too fucking good.”
A grin coats my lips, and I slowly rock my hips. “I’m never going to get over the way you feel inside of me, how you sink into me and touch every single part of me.”
I mean it metaphorically, but this is Dawson, so it doesn’t take him long to understand exactly what I mean.
He snags the camera out of my hand and flips it around, aiming it right at me. “As long as you’re with me, I promise you’ll always feel every ounce of my love surrounding you, entering you,willingyou.”
“Willing me to do what?”
“To fall. Just one more time.”
I lean forward and press a kiss to his lips, tasting the subtle hints of my arousal on his tongue as I swipe over it. He lets me grind against him and take what I need. At different points, the camera clicks. We moan in tandem, groaning through the passion that exhilarates us to a level unbeknownst.
I have a feeling it’ll always be like this with him.
That we’ll always be smitten with one another, magnetized and drawn together by this invisible pull that exists between and inside of us.
And I can’t wait for that.
Because for the first time in a long time, things are making sense—even in the mess—and that’s what I’ve wanted all along.To understand and to move through that with someone who sees me, accepts me, andlovesme.
Because with that—I can make it through anything.
Hardships.
Losses.
And the trauma that comes from falling into the ocean and almost drowning.
