His fingers deftly work the buttons on my jeans while I taste every word that touches my lips.
“Don’t run away from me again, Erin.”
He lifts me with one hand and slides the waistband over my hips, down my legs with the other. I kick the jeans off and nestle over him again, our mouths drifting together, sparking fireworks all over my skin.
“Let me make you happy.”
I sink onto his lips giving him my answer. I’ve been apart from him for too long. Even the danger his world represents doesn’t bother me now. If he’s safe enough for my daughter, he’s safe enough for me.
“Come here,” he rasps, lifting me just enough to line up his cock between my thighs. “Let me in, my angel.”
And I do. I lower myself, feeling the crown of his cock, taut, patient, glistening, slide into me with so much ease I know we were made for each other.
“Mmmm,” he moans, while a long sigh rolls off my tongue. It’s like I’ve come home, like I’m whole again. It never felt like this before.
I guess that’s something else that comes from being apart.
Distance doesn’t only make the heart grow fonder by giving you the space to forget all the crap. It makes the body… remember.
Every touch it missed, every breath it went without.
Distance doesn’t dull the ache; it keeps it alive.
My fingers curl into him as another breath leaves me, softer and steadier. Because it isn’t just desire I’m feeling—it’s relief.
I don’t have to miss him anymore, or live with this burning ache in my chest like I’m destined to live the rest of my life as an incomplete person.
I bring my lips down to his and feel his breath skate over them like a warm blanket. And I whisper one word that makes him wrap his arms around me, holding me tight to his chest.
“Stay.”
Augusto
My house used to be quiet. Not peaceful, necessarily, or particularly warm, just quiet. Everything had its place, every surface was clear and every routine lived within these four walls was planned and predictable.
Now, there’s a pink hairbrush on my kitchen counter.
It’s been there for three days.
I’ve moved it twice. It returned both times.
I stare at it for a full ten seconds before exhaling slowly and setting my espresso cup beside it instead of relocating it to the drawer where it logically belongs.
To adapt is to survive. I always knew this but I’ve never really had to put it into practice before now.
Behind me, the faint sound of Erin speaking to her mother on the phone is obliterated by thethud, thud, thudof a seventeen-year-old coming down the stairs.
Leaning back against the cupboards I let my gaze roam the open plan kitchen and living space. There are books on my coffee table. Hair bands on the floor. Enough blankets to warm the human race. Candles that smell like “spiced pumpkin.” And the TV remote is about to be swallowed whole by a sofa cushion.
“You’re doing it again.”
Erin stands in the doorway holding her phone, watching me with that curious expression that still disarms me more effectively than any weapon.
I arch a brow. “What am I doing?”
“Assessing your living space? Questioning whether you made the right decision in moving us in with you? Squinting at the hairbrush like it might be loaded?”
I huff, lightly. “I’m always assessing. I wouldneverquestion having you live with me. And it is occupying a strategic surface.”
