He laughs again before his mouth covers mine. My lips are swollen and sensitive, even the lightest glide of his tongue actively unraveling me.
“Please,” I pant. “Please, Otto. Please.”
My breathing is ragged, my voice nearly unrecognizable beneath the layers of lust.
I don’t know why it’s so different with him, and I’m done searching for a reason or pretending it’s not. I just want to exist. Experience. Live. If I turn fifty-five and start thinking my family is stealing my glasses because I can’t remember where I left them, like my mom and my grandmother, I don’t want to discover I missed my life while it was happening.
His fingers find the button of my jeans, deftly flicking it and then yanking the zipper down. Some distant part of my brain is impressed by his dexterity. And aware that his experience isn’t all athleticism. Rather than jealous, I feel possessive.
He’s here, withme, right now. He wantsme.
And he was right—this isn’t about our past. It’s about how aware of him I still am. How we feel like an active game, not a recorded match you watch, already knowing the outcome.
We both groan when his hand slides between my thighs.
The contact hits me like a jolt of electricity as I finally feel some pressure so close to where I really need it.
Otto mutters something in German, low and dark and far too fast for me to comprehend a single syllable. He rarely reverts to his first language, and it feels meaningful that he is now. Like he’s as overwhelmed as I am.
The heel of his hand grinds against my clit, providing pressure, but not enough friction. His middle finger finds my entrance and presses inside. I clench around the intrusion, and he grunts more German. This time, I recognize the swear.
He pulls away. I don’t have time to protest before he’s tugging my jeans off my hips and down my thighs.
I spare a second to try and remember if I’m wearing matching underwear, then decide it doesn’t matter. My underwear is gone a few seconds later anyway.
He holds my gaze for a few seconds before my eyes trail lower.
I swallow hard, then let my knees fall open. Shiver when a cool rush of air gusts against the wetness there.
Otto looks. Long enough that I feel impatient, not self-conscious.
His fingers trail up the inside of my thigh, and he watches the bumps rise behind. I bite my lower lip, fingers curling around handfuls of the couch’s fabric.
He shifts farther away, knocking several pillows to the floor.
I know what’s coming next. When I touch myself, my hand has a tendency to turn into his mouth.
It feels like I’m lost in a fever dream. Like I’m living in a fantasy world mere imagination would be unable to muster. My awareness of the world has narrowed to nothing except him.
He ruined more than sex for me.
I accept, as his mouth lowers between my parted thighs, that I’m very much still in love with Otto Berger.
34
OTTO
“Idon’t know.”
My fingers press harder into her hip. I hate that I said that to her.
“I don’t know.”
I graze her clit with my teeth, then flick it with my tongue. I hate that she said it back to me.
“I don’t know.”
I push one finger inside her quivering cunt, then add a second.
