I envision biting the thick ridge of muscle and tracing my tongue over the ink that I can’t quite make out in the darkness. With the moon behind him, he appears as a dark, fallen angel.
Looking up at me through lowered lashes, he murmurs, “I tried. Forgive me, I tried.”
Before I can even process what he is talking about, he bursts through my door and crushes me to him, wrapping me in his arms. I had imagined what his body would feel like pressed against mine, what his smell would morph to at close range, what he would taste like.
My imagination didn’t hold a candle to the reality of it all. He is big—bigger even than I had thought. Solid and cool like marble. The man felt carved out of solid rock.
I wrap my arms around him, slipping my hands under his leather jacket and shirt to run them up his bare skin. He shivers, and I feel his muscles tense and bunch as he pulls me even closer to him.
His skin is rough in spots, not the smooth expanse I had imagined. My hands drift up the muscular columns of his back, the width preventing me from being able to even reach his spine.
He threads his hand into the hair at the base of my skull and tugs my head back, leaning down into my face. We are nose to nose, forehead to forehead, eyes locked. I feel enslaved by his amber gaze. I couldn’t tear mine away if my life depended on it.
We stand there, bound together, harshly breathing in each other’s very essence. He smells like tobacco and leather, and this close, I can pick up an underlying note of his unique scent, a clear and cool note like a rainstorm.
Suddenly, I am the brave bitch I always wanted to be. I am tired of wanting, of thinking I am not good enough or pretty enough or whatever enough. I am ready to step into my own and take what I want. And what I want is standing right here in front of me. And for once, I know, I deserve this.
I.
Deserve.
This.
Whatever tomorrow brings doesn’t matter. I deserve this moment to be seen and loved and desired. I feel sexy, powerful, and strong. Riding the sudden wave of confidence, I rise on my tiptoes and crash my mouth to his, licking the seam of his lips.
For a long second, he is motionless, and my newfound confidence balances on a knife’s edge. I gasp as he responds by flipping the tables, taking control of the kiss, deepening it until it seems like he is trying to devour my very soul. He may feel like cold marble beneath my hands, but in my mouth, he is liquid fire as his tongue dances with mine.
I’ve kissed before, but never,neverlike this. It is scorching, consuming, and achingly—hauntingly—familiar. The kiss fills me, seeps into my marrow, flooding into all the recesses of my being.
A tiny flicker of thought that I was right—he tastes like foreign spices, ancient history, lost souls, and time immemorial—flares somewhere in my mind. The intensity of the kiss increases until I feel like I might spontaneously combust.
We break away, panting and desperate for oxygen. He grabs my hand, pulling me down the hall and through the bathroom door. I guess he must have thought it was the way to my bedroom. He looks around, taking in the penis candles, and then back at me with a quizzical eyebrow raised.
I giggle nervously and shrug. “I’ll explain later.”
His eyes catch on my floor-length antique leaning mirror, and he pulls me over to it, my back to his front. Our eyes meet in our reflection. Seeing us together, his head well above mine, I am shocked by just how much my amber eyes match his, the splash of green standing out in solitude.
I open my mouth to speak, but he covers it with his hand as he leans in and whispers in my ear, “Watch. See what I see.”
He reaches up and pulls out my hair tie, letting my curls cascade down. He takes both hands and gently separates the wild mass, dividing it, and pulling it forward over my shoulders where it hangs past my breasts. My playlist over the house speakers switches songs and as the low piano notes start, his movements slow.
He moves his hands back up to my hairline, and I watch him in the mirror as he leisurely glides his cool fingers out along my eyebrows, down the sides of my face, skims my jaw, and traces down to the pulse points on my neck.
I feel otherworldly, seeing him worship me in the mirror while feeling him touch me, the music wrapping around us. It is like an out-of-body experience. I can feel his touch, but it is also like watching a beautiful movie play out, this romantic moment happening to some other person. This girl in the mirror cannot be me.
No, not a girl. This woman. The beautiful woman in the mirror being worshiped, touched so reverently, followed with the most intense amber gaze. This woman cannot be me.
But I feel every touch and watch her lips part when mine do to drag in air. His hands drift down from my neck to my chest, fingers curling under the edges of my smoking jacket, featherlight touches lighting my skin on fire.
One hand drops to the tassel belt holding the jacket closed while the other sneaks into the robe and settles, covering my heart, a comforting weight and point of connection to keep me grounded in this maelstrom.
I imagine what my racing heart must feel like to him. I’m sure he can feel it trying to beat its way out of my chest. The coolness of his hand is a heavenly contrast to my flushed skin.
As I watch us in the mirror, my gaze drops to where his hand is on my belt and quickly jerks back up to his as it falls loose and the jacket gapes open. Pupils blown, his normally amber eyes are almost black.
I should have worried if he likes what he sees. I should have felt insecure at the thought of my body being on display for him, the thousand negative thoughts a day I would normally have, criticizing myself.
But I don’t.
