Watching me.Waiting for me.
I haveneverclimaxed like that before, full-bodied and explosive.I am sexually proficient and confident.I consider the activity a human necessity—food, water, shelter, sex—and I’m bold and greedy when it comes to meeting my needs.I’ve had plenty of satisfying partners, some less so, but always,always,I achieve climax.Orgasms are easy.It’s illogical that this one feels different than the rest.
But it’s Henry.And my orgasms of the past were mere rumbles compared to his demanding thunder.
This wasn’t an exercise but a connection.
This wasn’t clumsy or awkward, but intimate.
Henry wasn’t the means to an end but the source.The creator.The composer.The artist.His intense gaze, the feel of his rough stubble against my skin, the delicious timbre of his voice, and the perfect pressure of his thumb.I imagine his fingerprint permanently branded there—that’s his now, forever.
He holds me, savoring me and letting me savor it.
“You okay?”he whispers.
I answer by kissing him, all lips and tongue, and the gentle tickles of his beard against my cheeks and under my nose.His hands slide down me, along the back of my thighs, calves, until he tugs my boots to the floor.My phone falls, too.I don’t care.I ease off the counter, pulling my dress down until it falls into a heap around my socked feet.My panties and socks follow, leaving me bare.
Henry’s hungry eyes take me in by the soft light from the hallway.I don’t feel the least bit modest about him seeing me.I want to expose myself to him.For him to see me.All of me.
He eyes my breasts, traces the artwork along my arms, and sees the large tattoo on my thigh—bursting sunflowers in yellow, burgundy, and gold for the ones we grew in the greenhouse that reached too high and ended up toppling over.Sunflowers aren’t like other flowers—they need more space to grow.Leaves and vines swirl them together and trace around my leg to my calf and shin, where other favorites reside.Poppies, lavender, honeysuckle, and the fern that he has no idea belongs to him.His fingers slide down my arm, taking my hand, and he turns me around.My back is a botanical hodgepodge—the live oak I climbed often in the woods behind the fairy house, our lean-to, magnolia flowers, weeds, wildflowers, wild herbs, sweet pea, marigolds, and palmettos.
He traces the images with his finger, making my skin prickle with goosebumps.I wonder if he knows they’re all memories.I wonder if he knows my body is our journal.His arm hooks around my waist, pulling me against him.I feel his hardness and ache to have him inside me.
His arm is wrapped over my breasts, his heavy breaths on my ear, and his tongue slips down my neck.
“Take me, Henry,” I beg, my hand sliding over the bulge in his jeans.His lips curl against my shoulder.
“I can’t decide how I want you next,” he breathes on my skin.
“Then, let me choose,” I mutter, knowing just what I want.
He growls, nuzzling my neck before biting me.“Upstairs.”
I step from the dress heap on the floor, leaving it all behind, and follow where he leads me.
Holding hands, we weave through a maze of dark rooms to a staircase, occasionally glancing over his shoulder with boyish satisfaction at the sight of me.On a dimly lit landing, he pins me to the wall with untamed kisses as I wrap my legs around him and his hands skitter from my breasts to my thighs, gripping me tightly.
He carries me the rest of the way, barreling into a door at the top, out of breath but smiling.
“You okay?”I ask as he edges inside his apartment.
“Breathless for the right reasons,” he grins.
We reach the foot of his bed, where he lets my legs drift slowly from his hands as he kisses me.Wild, frantic kisses, desperate and playful, like wildflowers in a field, spread wherever they wish to go.My feet find the floor, and I pull myself away just enough to gather the hem of his shirt.His smile falls slightly as I rid him of it.At first, I think it’s shyness—it’s been a decade since I’ve seen his chest, after all.Could Henry have what they call adad bod?
No.Not a dad bod.Not at all.There’s more substance to him than in high school, but pleasantly so, as if his muscles have become insulated with more muscles.Running my fingertips over his toned shoulders, rippled stomach, and patches of hair on his hard chest makes me ache to rid him of the rest of his clothes.
But I stop in a gasp when I see a tattoo over his heart, too.I trace the detailed lines of a bullfrog—not just any bullfrog.Ourbullfrog.“It’s Frank.”
A small lamp in the corner casts a warm glow in his eyes, which have narrowed behind his glasses.He looks uncertain, almost sad.
“Why did you get this?”I can’t help asking.
“I, um… I wanted to keep you close, too.”
My eyes flicker from him to the frog and then back again.Despite the pain I caused him, hewantedto keep me close.Forever.A piece of me.
“I don’t understand.”My eyes drift to Frank’s again, and in a moment of complete absurdity, I kiss him, thinking of that fairy tale about the princess who kisses the frog to turn him into her prince.It’s a ridiculous story.No one should ever kiss a real frog—they’re covered in bacteria and salmonella.Had I known that then, I wouldn’t have let Henry touch it—we washed our hands vigorously after, regardless.But some part of me, the part that Henry has awakened, wants to harness any magic that might be out there for us.
