“Gut gemacht,” I murmur. I’m playing with fire, I know, and as soon as I drop the match, the flames will consume everything else.
Otto’s eyes heat at the praise. It’s a minor miracle I’m able to recall any German right now because most of my brain is busy processing that this is truly about to happen.
“Du bist schön,” he tells me.
I scoff. “My hair’s frizzy, and I smell like chlorine.”
A shower would have made sense. But tonight, I’m aiming for impulsivity, not practicality.
“You are always beautiful, Claire.”
Unexpectedly, those five words make my nose sting. I stamp a smile below it, desperate to remain in the moment. To stay in the present and ignore the future.
Otto grunts as I grip his erection, the cords of his neck growing taut. His thighs tense beneath me like malleable marble, strong yet flexible.
I swipe my thumb across the flared tip, smearing the moisture beaded there before sliding my fist down the many inches it takes to reach the base. It’s overwhelming, seeing him like this. I want to rememorize everything, but I’m fighting my own impatience.
Otto is looking down, watching my hand stroke his substantial length. My inner muscles clench as I recall what it felt like to have him inside. The stretch, the build, the relief.
“Claire.” His hand lands on my thigh, the touch searing my overheated skin.
“You’re breaking the rules,” I inform him.
Otto’s smile is brief. “I did not bring a condom.”
“Oh.” I’m embarrassed I forgot that important detail.
“I did not think—there was not—” He blows out a breath, tilting his head back to study the ceiling briefly.
I study his palm on my leg. Trace the map of veins that begin between his knuckles, traveling up his forearm.
“Gloves of Glory: How Otto Berger is Redefining Reaction Time”was the title of the first article I saw about his Olympics performance after leaving Paris. I was proud for a second, like his success was something I could claim partial credit for, before bitterness descended. I never thought then that his talented hands would touch me again.
“We can do…other stuff?” I suggest, sounding like a teenager.
His hand slides higher up my thigh, nearly to the crease of my hip bone. My next inhale gets caught in my throat.
“I was not suggesting we stop. They ran every test before my surgery, and I have not been with anyone since. But we?—”
“You haven’t?” I blurt. “What about—” I can’t bring myself to say her name. Not during such an intimate moment.
Maybe Otto feels the same way. Because all he says is, “I have not wanted to. With anyone else.”
I suck my lower lip into my mouth, replaying his words in my head. They settle around me like a cozy blanket, cocooning me in the special sensation of the one person you want picking you back.
“I’ve never not used a condom with anyone else,” I tell him. “But I want to. With you.”
The tendons of his throat appear as I guide him inside me, sinking down. It’s a slow, delicious, devastating spread.
I want to savor it. I want to rush it.
Either way, it will end.
43
CLAIRE
Iwake up just before four a.m. The bathroom light was left on, its glow muted by the mostly closed door. Otto is fast asleep, sprawled out on his back beside me.
