“It’s my fault,” he says between kisses. “I should have talked to you. Back then. Instead of assuming.”
“Shh,” I murmur as Greg’s hands slide up the back of my shirt and his weightlifting calluses scratch my bare skin. “It’s okay now. I forgive you.”
“This is all I could think about,” he says breathlessly. “The whole drive back.”
I let out a shaky laugh and lean back, his hands cradling my waist.
He smiles softly. “What’s funny?”
“I just…spent so long believing you didn’t think about me like that.”
“Ruby.” He scoffs like I’m ridiculous and kisses me under my jaw, tilting my head and arching my back while his hands keep me in place. “I think about you so much it hurts.”
I tug my shirt off, and he brushes his lips over the tops of my breasts. We’re straying off script now, hurtling away from where we started, forward in time together. Then he takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks, and the feeling is so intense, I have to grip the back of the couch.
Greg glances up at me. “Too much?”
“No.” I run my fingers through his hair, messing up the top. “This is perfect.”
I push my hands up the front of his shirt, palms soaking in his warmth, and he pulls it off too. And damn, it is quite a sight—the lunchtime gym trips are working for him.
“Show-off,” I say, and my hand strays down his stomach, dipping into his jeans, but he tugs it back upward and kisses my wrist.
“You’ve been through it today,” he says. “You first.”
Greg shifts me off him and presses me backward into the cushions as he kisses his way down my torso. His fingers hook beneath both of my waistbands, and his eyebrows lift, a question. When I nod, he slides off my shorts and underwear together, and I’m completely naked, prone before him. It’s a little terrifying, after so many years of hiding from each other—but his lips part, overcome at the sight of me as he settles between my legs, hands on my hips.
Outside the sun is setting, and the light slanting through the blinds catches the flecks of gold in Greg’s irises that I’d memorized long ago. And seeing him there—face framed by my thighs, and the lips I’ve thought so much about, hovering by the most sensitive part of me—is almost enough to send me over the edge on its own.
“Tell me if you like this,” he says, peering at me like he’s trying to read my expression, “and I’ll keep going.”
His eyes lock with mine as he plants a kiss on the spot that aches for him the most. It’s whisper-light but it feels so overwhelming, and my head flops back against the pillows as I moanyes.
He drops more kisses there, teasing, ratcheting my want higher. It’s a touch like a question, the opening of a conversation. And in reply, the pulse between my legs gets more insistent, and I whisper,Yes, I like this.
Greg traces the contours of that pulse with his tongue, and for a long, luxurious moment, all I am is that point of contact, the whole of me engulfed in warm velvet. My thighs tighten, and he gradually speeds up, going at it so fervently, like he’s trying to make up for all the years he wasn’t lavishing me with attention.
I’ve never felt like this before—never experienced such an adoring, methodical undoing of all my defenses. He builds me up, nudging me higher and higher while I’m panting, falling apart, hands in his hair, whisperingyes, yes yes Greg yes,until the feeling crests and I’m crying out, hips jerking. Relief courses through me, and he laps at me gently while I drift back down.
I open my eyes and see him resting his head against my raised knee, gaze full of affection—like he knows me so well, all my failings included, and still wants the whole thing.
“I love seeing you like this,” he says.
I have to laugh. “Like what?”
“Losing it like that.” He kisses my knee absentmindedly. “You’re always wound so tight, trying to keep it together.”
I hit the couch cushion with my open palm and throw my head back for the drama. “Well, you sure unwound me there, fuck!”
That gets a real belly laugh out of him, shaking the couch. It’s contagious. And laughing together like this, I don’t feel like I’ve been washed out to sea, or like I forgot my own name. I feel like exactly who I am, exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Then he stands and scoops me up, one arm under my knees, and I cling to him, squealing, legs kicking, as he carries me to my bed.
It’s surprising how forceful he can be, after years of being so tentative. The shock of it fizzes through me as he flips me over and fills me up and relentlessly, energetically undoes the rest of that knot inside me while I scream into my pillow.
Afterward, we’re lying together, my head on his chest, hishand running through my hair, tucked into my grown-up bed in my childhood bedroom. Our feet touch under the covers, his warm toes against my cold ones, and it feels like a small miracle.
And as waves of intense calm wash over me, a small voice inside adds:This must be the famous “following your heart” I’ve heard so much about.
