With each gentle thrust, I discovered what turned him on, learned the rhythm that drew soft moans from his lips. The room filled with the sound of our bodies moving together, and the air grew thick with the scent of our mingled arousal. My skin heated, sweat beaded on my forehead, and electrical pulses zipped down my spine.
“Harder… Please, Howell, harder…” Onno pleaded, and I obliged, my movements growing bolder, driven by the urgency pulsing through my veins. We swayed together, a sensual dance that pulled us closer to the edge of ecstasy.
“Yours.” He dug his fingers into my shoulders. “I’m yours, Howell.”
“Oh, sweetheart…”
I couldn’t speak. If I did, I’d spill the words I shouldn’t say, confess the promises that shouldn’t be voiced. Instead, I poured my love for him into the touch of his soft skin and the slides into his warm channel. Each stroke, each kiss, each shared breath wove us tighter together.
Onno wrapped his right hand around his cock. I would’ve done it, but I couldn’t figure out the logistics without putting my full weight on him. Next time. There would be a next time.
And when I couldn’t hold back anymore, when my balls were painfully tight and my muscles cramped with tension, Onno whispered, “Let go, baby. Send us over the edge.”
I threw my head back and surged deep inside him. My muscles seized, and my body grew taut as I shook and shivered my way through the orgasm blazing through me. Onno shuddered underneath me, spraying his load between our heated bodies.
Our dance continued in a quiet postlude of labored breathing and thudding hearts seeking a common rhythm. I rolled off him gently and pulled him into my arms, our limbs entangling. We lay there, sweaty and messy, skin on skin, hearts exposed and vulnerable.
“Thank you,” Onno murmured against my chest, his breath warm and comforting.
“Thank you.” The echo of our lovemaking reverberated in every fiber of my being.
As I held Onno in my embrace, a heaviness settled over me. The knowledge that this bubble of contentment was temporary—a fleeting perfection—clawed at my insides. My chest tightened, and without warning, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.
He would leave. He had to leave. How would I survive without him? How would I ever be able to let him go?
9
ONNO
Three weeks—the span of a heartbeat in the grand scheme of things, yet enough time to turn my world on its head. I lay in Howell’s bed, the predawn light filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the man beside me. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was a silent siren song, lulling me into a false feeling of forever. But forever was a luxury we didn’t have.
As much as I longed to burrow deeper into the warmth of his embrace, it was time to leave. Time to go back to the Netherlands, to a life that suddenly felt foreign, though I’d lived there my entire life. We had spent every waking moment together—exploring the dense greenery of Forestville’s forests, laughing over homemade dinners, getting lost in each other’s arms. And now, the reality of our separation squeezed my heart, leaving a hollow ache where happiness once resided.
I traced the contours of Howell’s sleeping face with my eyes, committing every detail to memory. The way his beard created a perfect shadow along his jaw, how his brown eyes crinkled when he laughed, the softness of his lips when he kissed me.
I was in love with him, and by the way he looked at me, the way his touch lingered, I could only conclude he felt the same. But neither of us had dared to give voice to our feelings. What was the point? It would only carve deeper grooves into our breaking hearts.
“Time to get up,” Howell murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper. His heavy eyes met mine, reflecting my heartbreak.
“Right.” My voice was barely audible. “Airport.”
Neither of us spoke. Words were trivial, powerless against the weight of our shared silence. We moved mechanically, packing the last pieces of my temporary life into my suitcase, our touches lingering, trying to memorize the feel of one another.
All too soon, we were in Howell’s truck, the engine rumbling beneath us as we headed to Sea-Tac. Howell’s hand found mine across the console, gripping it like a lifeline. He drove with a calmness that belied the turmoil in his eyes, the tightness of his face, the tension of his shoulders. The fir trees blurred past us, a green canvas streaked by the tears I refused to shed.
“Will you be okay?” Howell stroked his thumb over the back of my hand.
“Yes,” I lied, squeezing his hand. “And you?”
“Guess I’ll have to be.” His halfhearted smile didn’t reach his eyes.
The miles vanished behind us, each one a countdown I wished I could stop. The closer we got to the airport, the tighter my chest constricted. I talked about mundane things—my flight, the weather in Amsterdam, my mother who awaited my return—anything to fill the void, to keep from crumbling.
Howell found a spot in short-term parking and killed the engine. He turned to me, his jaw hard as granite, the lines around his eyes deepened with sadness. “Let’s grab your bags,” he murmured, his voice laden with resignation.
As we reached for my luggage in the back of the truck, our hands brushed—a spark in the dimming light of our time together. The expression in Howell’s eyes was a reflection of everything unsaid.
We walked into the terminal, silent, holding hands.
