Chapter Seven
I DON'T REMEMBER Aman feeling as good to me as Joshua does. Maybe it's the kissing—making out like a couple of teenagers. Like I haven't done since high school. His mouth is warm, sweet. God, I've forgotten how good it feels to kiss a man. Really kiss him. I am shivering all over.
His mouth is all heat and need, his tongue gliding like silk on mine. When his hands go into my hair and grip, a small gasp escapes me, slipping in between his lips like a plea for more.
Yes, more …
He kisses me harder, and I am dizzy with pleasure.
I press up against him. I can feel every hard plane of his body through our clothes. Too many damn clothes. But lovely to have to wait to feel him all over, to know his skin. Excruciating.
He has the hard-packed body of an athlete. And I know athletes. Pro basketball players, football players, soccer players from Spain.
No, don't think about them now. Only him.
Joshua.
He pulls me in closer, just roughly enough to let me know I am his at this moment. I am, anyway. My body knows. I am shaking. Needing him.
His hands slide down, briefly cupping my face, so gentle it nearly makes me want to cry. But I don't have time to question it. His hands glide over my bare shoulders. Just him touching my naked skin, so innocently, and my sex fills, swells. I arch harder into him, and his thigh moves in between mine, pressing onto my mound. I am panting into his mouth, breathing him in. My heart is racing.
Have I ever wanted anything this much?
He pulls his mouth away. “Bedroom, Valentine.”
A command, not a question. Not that I have any notion of refusing.
I take his hand and lead him down the hallway, into my little sanctuary. The few moments it's taken to get there feel far too long.
He takes me in his arms, and once more I have that strange awareness of how alien this all is to me, being with a man simply because I want him. This sense of truly needing him, not just the sex itself. Yet I am as turned on as I've ever been in my life. I look up at him. His hair is a bit mussed, his eyes dark and glossy. I reach up, trace the small scar on his lip with one fingertip. He groans softly and takes it into his mouth, sucking. Pleasure ripples through me like water, undulating, liquid, making me go loose all over. And his eyes are still on me, glowing gold and silver and green. I don't know if it's fear or excitement that has my heart hammering in my chest, as thunderous as a freight train. I can't figure it out. I don't want to.
He lets my finger slide from his mouth, takes my hand in his and opens it up, kissing my palm. Something in my chest is softening, swelling, even as my sex swells with desire. There is need in his steady gaze, a stark intensity. And it is like being shocked over and over. I can hardly stand to look into his eyes. I can't look away.
He slips one of the straps of my dress down, letting it fall off my shoulder, leans in and lays a soft kiss there. I am shivering again, my head falling back. He kisses my throat with his silken lips, small ripples of pleasure moving over my skin. I am overcome by his touch, and he has barely touched me yet. How will I stand it when we are naked? When he is inside my body?
“Valentine,” he says, his voice quiet, full of smoke.
“Yes …” 1 want you.
“Yes. Please …”
He fills his hands with my breasts, my nipples peaking against his palms, hard and hurting with need.
More…
He tears the straps of my dress down, and my breasts are bared.
“Touch me, Joshua. Don't make me wait.”
His hands on my naked skin are hot, lovely. His palms glide over my flesh, and my whole body bows into him. I can't help myself. I can barely think.
When he takes my hardened nipples in his fingers, tugs gently, pleasure washes over me in small, sharp ripples. When he pinches them, hard, demanding, I am nearly coming already. Scary, how much I want him, how my body responds, betraying all sense of self-control.
“Joshua … please …”
“Tell me, Valentine. Tell me what you need.”
“I need you to touch me. I need your mouth on me. I need to feel you.”
“Oh, I plan to touch you. To taste you.”
He slips my dress over my head, leaving me bare, other than my navy lace panties and my high sandals. He stands back, pulling his shirt off, then his undershirt. His chest is solid, muscled, his nipples dark and dusky against his light golden skin. As hard as my own. I want to touch them, to take them into my mouth. I bite my lip, waiting, my gaze going to the narrow line of hair from his navel to the low-slung waistband of his slacks. Abs like steel. He is too beautiful. My hands go to his broad shoulders. His skin is smooth beneath my palms. And beneath that beautiful skin his muscles bunch, then loosen. My mouth waters, my thighs tensing.
“Joshua …”
“You are so God damned beautiful, Valentine. I knew you would be.” He shakes his head. “But not like this. Jesus.”
He reaches out, runs one fingertip down the front of my body, between my breasts, over my belly, stopping just above the lacy edge of my underwear. And I am trembling with need at the way he touches me, looks at me, as though I am something special. Precious.
Standing back, he watches me, his eyes going from my breasts, to my mouth, to my eyes, and back again, roving every inch of me. He is really looking. I don't know if any man has ever looked at me in quite this way before. It's making me hot all over. I need to touch him more than ever. But I don't want him to stop what he's doing: looking at me, worshiping me with his eyes, somehow. Making my body surge with desire, making my chest tight with a need I don't quite recognize.
His voice is low, almost a whisper. “Valentine …” he says, before wrapping his hands around my waist and pushing me roughly onto the bed.
The embroidery of the duvet cover is a little coarse against my bare skin. I am keenly aware of everything: the earthy scent of my imported wood furniture, the faint heat of the sunlight coming in through the half-closed shutters, Joshua's intense, unwavering gaze on mine. He reaches out, grasps my hair, pulling hard. And it is this way he has of being tender and rough with me at the same time that has me melting.
He slides his slacks down, leaving him in a pair of black boxer-briefs that outline the strong muscles of his thighs, the ridge of his erection. I can hardly wait to wrap my hands around that rigid shaft, to take him in my mouth. To bring him pleasure.
Yes…
He leans over me, and the heat from his body is incredible. Pulling him in, I finally feel the length of his hard frame against mine.
“Ah, Joshua, you feel too good.”
He is smiling down at me, looking nearly as dazed as I feel, his full mouth soft and loose with desire. I want him to kiss me again. I want him to do everything. Anything. But I am lambent with my own need for him, my body buzzing, half paralyzed.
I have never felt so helpless with a man. I have never felt this dazzling yearning. I have never felt this sense of absolute connection.
I don't let myself think about that.
He leans in, kisses my throat, my shoulder once more, then lower still, until his soft lips are on my breast. And when he takes one nipple into his hot, wet mouth, I cry out, the pleasure so sharp it nearly hurts.
Arching into him, he pulls my flesh in deeper, sucking, sucking. And it is as though his mouth is everywhere at once: lighting up my skin, in that musky, wanting place between my thighs. I hold his head to my breast, my fingers digging into his thick, soft hair. Taking a long breath, I inhale his scent, that deep, woodsy citrus he wears, and beneath it, his own musk, his own heated skin.
He lifts his head, murmurs, “You like that.”
“Yes.”
He smiles, bends once more, lapping at my nipples with his moist tongue, first one, then the other, over and over until I am squirming, my sex swollen with an exquisite, hurting need.
He stops, looks up at me. “What do you need, Valentine?”
I am gasping, making it difficult to speak. “I need … I feel like I could almost come just from this. I need to come. I want you to touch me, to make me come, Joshua. Please.”
“I will. But not yet.”
Again he leans in and, using his hands to push my breasts together, begins his assault on my nipples once more. Now his mouth is rough on me, sucking hard, biting my hardened flesh. And he uses his fingers, tugging, pinching. And it feels so damn good, I can barely take it. I'm really squirming now, my hips arching, my sex needing to be filled, my clit throbbing. And I am soaking wet, tears of desire spilling onto the bed beneath me.
Just when I think I can no longer stand it without losing my mind, he pauses, lifts his head, brushes a kiss across my lips. Then taking my wrists, he pulls my arms over my head, pinning them hard with his strong hands. He is watching me again, his gaze deep, dark on mine, searching.
I feel … I don't know what, exactly. Lust, yes. An overwhelming craving for him: his body. For him. I don't know how to explain it. But I know he reads it in my eyes, that I am at that moment totally transparent to him. And the idea makes my heart beat even faster, my pulse racing with desire and emotion I can't understand. The tinge of fear running just beneath that current makes it all more intense. But I don't want to think about it now. No, all I want to do is feel.
“Valentine, I am going to take you now. With my hands. With my mouth. And then I'm going to push inside you …”
“Yes. Do it. Do it all.”
He licks his lips, making me want to reach up and touch his pink tongue with my fingertip. His mouth is so fucking beautiful to me, I can hardly stand to look at it. But I am just as eager to have him do the things he's talking about. I am burning for him, my body on that lovely, keen edge.
He lowers his body over mine once more, and his cock is hard against my leg, hard and long and so good. But in moments he is sliding down, trailing kisses over my stomach, scorching my skin. Then lower, his strong hands tearing my panties down over my thighs before he parts them.
There is no resisting him: my legs fall wide open for him. I wait while he looks at me, his gaze searching my sex.
With one hand he reaches out, brushes at the swollen lips, whispers, “Beautiful.”
Then his mouth is there, his breath warm against me for one lovely anticipatory moment before the soft touch of his lips. He is kissing me there, just as he did my mouth! And it is some sort of revelation to me, the tenderness of his mouth and his hard hands on my thighs. I have never felt anything like it. Pleasure shafts into me, deep and slow, like liquid heat. And he is kissing me and kissing me with his soft lips. I am squirming, panting as he holds me down.
His tongue flicks out, whispering across my clitoris.
“Ah!”
Then again.
“Joshua!”
“Are you going to come?” he asks, his voice muffled.
“Yes!”
And it's true. I am going to come, despite that small part of me that struggles to hang on to some last shred of control.
“Not yet,” he commands.
I take in a deep breath, wanting to please him, to do as he asks, even more than I need to come. Knowing that I will come exactly as he wants me to. And that knowing gives me permission, somehow.
Yes, I am in his hands now. I can let it go.
He uses his hands then, pressing the lips of my sex closed with his fingers, and it feels so damn good, and it hurts maybe a little. But the pleasure is not the point; the point is that he is letting me know he is in command, and I understand it. I love it.
I am about to go out of my head.
“Take a breath, Valentine.”
I do, drawing the warm air into my lungs, along with the heady scent of desire: his as well as my own.
“Again,” he tells me, and once more I obey.
He holds the lips of my sex open with his fingers and bends down once more, his tongue driving softly into my body.
“Oh!”
He stops. “Not yet, Valentine. Hold back. You can do it.”
“Yes.”
Anything for him at this moment.
He begins again, his hot tongue moving inside of me, slipping out, like wet silk, like some small, lovely erection. And all the while his fingers massaging the lips of my sex. My swollen clitoris is left waiting, needy. I know he knows this. He knows exactly what he's doing.
The pleasure builds, a hard knot of need in my belly, my sex, my breasts. It's all I can do to hold the tide back. His tongue is sliding in and out of me, his fingers rubbing, pinching just hard enough.
“Joshua, please …”
I feel him shift, his tongue pulling out of me. Then his fingers drive inside, hard. My body arches against him, and he plants his mouth right on me, drawing my swollen clitoris into his mouth and sucking.
I explode, my body tensing, pleasure shafting into me like a blade. Lights ignite behind my closed eyes, a million stars going off in my head. And I am calling his name.
“Joshua! Joshua! Ah, God …”
Writhing against him, his lovely mouth still sucking, sucking, his fingers deep inside me, drawing my climax from me, milking my body for every last drop of pleasure. Making me come.
“Joshua, I need you. Please,” I gasp.
“Yes, now,” he says.
He moves away from me, and I am vaguely aware that he is pulling a condom from the pocket of his discarded slacks. He kneels on the bed, pulling me upright, then into his arms, so that I am straddling his lap, my knees on either side of his.
His cock is as beautiful as the rest of him, golden and strong. Reaching down between us, I brush the silky tip with my fingertips, watch him sigh in pleasure, his eyes fluttering closed. Taking him in my hand, I wrap my fingers around the hard length of him. He is big, thick. Lovely to look at, like solid velvet in my hand. I stroke him and his hips pump into my touch. Then his hand comes down over mine.
“I need to stop.” His voice is low, rough with need. And the sound of it is intensely sexual to me. My sex gives a hard squeeze. “I need to make love to you, Valentine.”
Has any man ever said those words to me?
But I am shaking with desire; I can't think about it. Can't think about anything but him.
I help him roll the condom down over his rigid flesh, then he lifts me. I spread my thighs wider, and he grips my hips, lowering me onto his cock, impaling me, his dark hazel gaze never leaving mine. Pleasure drives into me, deep, hot, nearly paralyzing.
I am going to come again.
“Jesus, Valentine. You feel so good. So damn good.”
We hold still, his hands gripping my hips, pleasure dancing like electricity in the air between us, in our joined bodies. And there is a strange intensity to the moment that has as much to do with the way he's looking at me, with the way he makes me feel, as it does with his cock deep inside my body, his fingers digging into my flesh.
Then he begins to move, pulling me in close until my breasts are crushed against his chest, rocking slowly. The sensation is exquisite, his cock moving in and out of me, a gentle thrusting, the hard planes of his body against mine, so close I can feel the wild beating of his heart against my own. He moves his lips over my neck, sending shivers over my skin. And he is thrusting harder now, deeper, my hips moving to meet his. My clitoris is rubbing against his pubic bone, the pressure exactly where I need it. Desire is like heat lightning in my body, arcing into me with every stroke of his cock, every touch of his lips on my throat.
His hands are holding me so damn tight I know they'll leave bruises as he pumps into me, harder now. But I don't care. I need it, to be possessed like this. And I am hovering at that edge of climax, yearning for it, but waiting for him.
“Valentine … I'm going to come.”
“Yes. Please … come, Joshua.”
He drives hard into me, pleasure moving deep, and I feel him tense all over. And as his hips jerk hard, then harder, as his groan escapes, pleasure fills my body in a hot tide, like the ocean: that heavy, that powerful, as if drawn by the moon. And I am lost, my mind gone, as I come in long, shuddering waves. Over and over, and I can barely breathe. Doesn't matter. I'm coming and coming. And he is coming into me, moaning, our panting breath mingling in the pale afternoon sunlight.
And I feel something I have never felt before in my life. Something warm and light and frightening as he pulls me tighter into his arms, whispering my name into my hair.
“Valentine, Valentine, Valentine …”
Heat is seeping into my chest, expanding. How will I ever let him go? I can't do it.
I cannot do this.
Tears fill my eyes. I know this is more than I can ever have, this beautiful thing between us. More than I deserve.
But I have it now, right now. Fuck it. This moment is mine. Even / deserve to have this much.
I DON'T KNOW HOW I managed to sleep, but I did. Even with my mind whirling. How lovely to wake up in the late afternoon light, Joshua's body resting beside me.
His breath is shallow, slow, rhythmic. His face is almost innocent as he sleeps. And so damn beautiful to me, my chest tightens, and I have to make an effort simply to breathe.
I shake my head.
Get it together, Valentine. He's just a man.
But I know that's not true. Joshua is so much more. It would be so damn simple otherwise. The fact that I can climax with him is only an outward sign of something that runs much deeper. It's something I'll need to figure out at some point: what it means for me, exactly, what it says about him, about the kind of person I am with him. But I can't do it now. I am so filled with wanting I can barely think straight.
I run my hands through the tangles in my hair, pulling hard on the knots there, needing that pain to center myself. I draw in a few deep breaths. Focus once more on his face, on the lines of his body, the way the shaft of light coming through the wooden shutters casts striped shadows across the smooth, bare skin of his chest.
I find myself wishing I had a good camera, some black-and-white film. He is art to me. He has somehow become this almost iconic figure of desire. His mouth is all soft and loose, his lips so plush. And I can't help myself; I lean in and kiss him. He comes awake, breathing into my mouth, sweetly. His arms go around me, pulling me to him. Absolutely unbelievable how good this feels: his mouth, these simple, sweet kisses, being held by him.
I realize I am happy. Happy I
A sharp tug in my chest once more, but I ignore it.
“Are you hungry?” he asks me.
“I'm starving.”
“I'm a terrible date. I made you miss the lunch I'd offered.”
“Mmm … this was better.”
“Better, yes. Amazing.”
He strokes a lock of hair from my face, and I am caught up once more in his steady gaze, trembling beneath his touch. I want him to make love to me again.
Make love.
Like some alien language.
He turns, until we are on our sides, lying facing each other, our legs tangling. His hard cock presses against my belly. My sex stirs with desire, hot, thrumming through my body.
“How hungry are you?” he asks me.
“Fainting from malnutrition. But I can wait a little longer.”
He flips me over, pinning me beneath him, his cock slipping between my thighs, tempting at the entrance to my pussy.
“I'll make it fast, then.”
“Oh, yes. Fast and hard, please.”
He smiles at me.
“Condoms, Valentine.”
“In my nightstand.”
I don't even know why I keep them there. I never have sex in my own bed. This is my place. My haven. But it is his now, too.
Don't even think that…
No, too much to think of anything but watching him sheath his gorgeous, golden cock, feeling him slide into me as easy as water, sensation flooding my body.
His hands slip under my ass, and he lifts me a little, angling deeper, and begins a hard, pumping rhythm. I love this, the way he holds on to me, so hard it hurts, his fingers digging into my flesh.
Possessed, yes.
I am breathless immediately, panting, gasping with pleasure. Drowning in it. He's going so damn fast and deep, burrowing into me. And desire builds inside me, driven by his thrusting cock as he holds me tightly, every surface of our bodies pressed together.
And still, I need more.
“Deeper, Joshua.”
“Yes …”
He presses into me, until there is a small flash of pain. But I need it. Need him to fill me this way.
My climax is waiting for me, hovering, and when he lowers his beautiful face to mine, sucks my tongue into his mouth, it's too much for me. I come, shivering, gasping into his mouth, between those lush lips.
In moments he tenses, and I swear I can feel his cock pulsing inside of me as he cries out, shudders.
We are covered in sweat, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Like some lovely, intoxicating perfume.
He rolls off me, and we lie on our sides again, facing each other, both of us trying to catch our breath. His hand goes to my face, traces my cheek.
“I'll feed you now, I promise.”
He smiles, dazzling my already dazed brain.
“Alright.” I slide a hand over his shoulder, his chest, loving his silken skin on my palm. Does any other man have skin like his?
I know I need to eat. But all I want to do is kiss him. Touch him. I am obsessed. Reaching up, I trace the scar on his lower lip. Such a contrast to the lush flesh there.
“How did you get this, Joshua? Let me guess; it was something innocent. A bicycle accident when you were eight.”
“Why would you say it had to be something innocent?”
“There's something a bit innocent about you. Even about this scar.” I touch it once more, feel the texture beneath my fingertip.
He grins. “Oh, you think so? You have no idea how funny that is to me. To anyone who really knows me.”
“Then tell me what's not so innocent about you. Let me know you. Tell me how you got your scar.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “In a bar fight when I was eighteen.”
“Really?” Why does this surprise me so much? Why does the idea turn me on?
“It was a stupid college thing. Classic young, angry guy. That was before I realized I didn't have much to be angry about. I was still young enough to think the world owed me.”
“What else? What else about your life is less than innocent?”
He pauses, silent for several moments. Then, “When Dad died I took off and went to Europe. And I don't mean the usual tour of Paris, London. I wanted to explore the underbelly.” He pauses, runs a finger over my jaw. He's not really looking at me now. “It was a bad time for me. I went to Prague and drank absinthe until I puked. In Berlin I drank whatever was available, whatever they had in the clubs. Berlin is a hard place. I drank with strangers who stole my wallet while I was passed out cold on the floor of some girl's apartment. Who knows, maybe it was the girl who stole it. I went to Amsterdam and smoked hash. I went to the red light district and bought hookers.”
I clench my teeth against the gasp that wants to come out.
I look up and he's focused on me once more, watching me very carefully. I nod for him to continue. “Go on.”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Yes. I do.”
I need to hear it, maybe.
“I didn't go to the shiny girls in the windows. I looked for the cheap ones, but not because of the money. I sought out the pale girls all strung out on heroin, and let me tell you, there were a lot of them. That's what finally got me. That's when I realized I'd worked off enough anger, when I saw these girls for what they really were. How fucking sad it all was.
“I went home. Went back to make a life for myself. To take responsibility for myself. To be a man. But I stopped off in San Francisco first and got my tattoo.”
He pauses, and I touch the dark lines on his biceps.
“Creating your own life,” I murmur.
“Yes. It's all about choice. I could have chosen to be that pissed-off guy, wasting my life because I felt helpless over my father's death. Over the sense of responsibility I felt to be the man of the family at only twenty. Or not. I realized that.”
“And you stepped up, took care of the family, the business.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Do you ever regret that?”
“No. Not for a minute. But I also know I had to go through that, had to be that pissed-off guy. And it was probably better that I did it in Europe instead of in front of my mother, my sister. Most of it, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Europe didn't cure me. It helped. But I still had issues to work out. Stuff I've been working on since then. Making that choice was only the beginning. I have to keep reminding myself.”
He glances away, gazing past my shoulder.
It's several moments before he brings his eyes back to mine.
“I should tell you something, Valentine.”
“Tell me anything.”
He's watching me, smoothing his thumb along my jaw. Then, “I've spent most of my adult life running. From my father's death. From that sudden responsibility I had to take on too young. From my own expectations.”
“But you've been there, working. I don't know what you mean.”
“Running can come in a lot of different forms. For me, it was sex.” sex?
“That part didn't stop with those sad girls in Amsterdam. Not that I paid for it again once I got home. But I used sex for a long time. I went from one relationship to the next, looking for something I felt was beyond my reach. And I never found it. And when I didn't, I cheated. Over and over. That relationship break I talked about? That was two years. No women. No sex. Two years in which I dealt with my addiction.”
It's difficult to know what to say. I don't judge him; of course I don't. But it is a revelation to me, this flaw in the knight's shining armor that is Joshua now. It makes my heart ache for him.
“Shit. Maybe I shouldn't have told you. But you deserve to know.”
“No. I'm glad you told me.” I reach up, stroke my fingertips over his scar once more. “I'm glad.”
And I am. The fact that he's overcome these things makes him more real, more desirable, more noble.
He smiles, pulls my hand to his lips, kisses the tender skin of my fingertips. Lovely. But my chest is tight with guilt. There is so much I should tell him, that he deserves to know. But I can't do it.
We lie together for a while, watching each other's eyes. It is the most amazing yet simple thing. My heart is pounding still.
“Come on,” he says eventually. “Let's get some food. There must be someplace that delivers around here.”
He goes into the bathroom off my bedroom to clean up. Back a moment later, he pulls me up, and we go naked into the kitchen. His body is so beautiful, I'm distracted. He looks delicious surrounded by the stark granite counters, the shining brushed steel appliances. His cock is soft, lying golden and warm against his thigh, and even now it is beautiful. I dig around in a drawer for my small collection of take-out menus.
“Here, there are a few Chinese places, some Thai, pizza. Pick whatever you'd like.” I hand him the small pile of paper menus.
He takes them, takes my hand, and leads me to the counter, where he spreads the menus out.
“Which one is your favorite?” he asks me.
“My favorite?”
I am too unused to a man asking me about my preferences.
He waits for me to answer.
“I love this Szechuan place. The food is pretty Americanized, but they have the best lo mein noodles in town.”
“Then that's what we'll have.”
He finds my phone, orders, then we stand in the kitchen while I make some jasmine tea, serving it in one of a small collection of teapots. I've been collecting for several years; they are all lined up on a high shelf in my kitchen, beautiful objects in porcelain and clay. This one is a stark clay piece from Japan, something I picked up on a job there last year.
Don't think about work. Nothing else exists now.
The food arrives and Joshua pulls his slacks on to answer the door, pay the delivery guy. He takes them off again while I make two plates and carry them back into the bedroom on a tray.
We eat in bed, naked, surrounded by the aroma of sesame oil, soy sauce, and the perfumed scent of the tea. I don't even care when I spill on my good sheets.
“Valentine, tell me about your orchids. They're beautiful,” he says between bites of Mongolian beef.
“I love them. I've been growing them for years. It's a bit of an obsession, really.”
“I'm not sure I would have expected that of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem far too controlled a woman to become obsessed by anything.”
Is he teasing me? And God, if he only knew.
“Am I really … controlled?”
“Except in bed.” He moves closer, brushes a fingertip over my breast, his tone lowering. “There's nothing controlled about you in bed.”
And just like that I'm hot all over again, needing him. But the bed is covered in food. Perhaps I can hold off for a few more minutes. And it's too good, simply being here with him like this. Like normal people.
“Don't you have any obsessions, Joshua?”
“Currently, a new one,” he says, picking up my free hand, lifting it to his mouth and kissing my fingers before sucking them in.
“How can I eat when you're doing that to me?” I'm smiling, desire darting through my body.
Letting my hand go, he picks up a few noodles and holds them to my mouth. “I'll feed you,” he says as I open my lips, take the noodles in, tasting his fingertips along with them.
God, he is too much, this man. And I am aware once more of how unreal this all is. How magical. How fragile. This feels almost kinky to me. It's wrong, somehow. But it's also right for the first time in my life. My shallow life. How can I trust this?
Just be here.
Yes, I can do this. It's far too good to stop. I cannot send him away; not yet. I want to keep pretending. Isn't that what I've always done, pretended that what I do is okay? Convincing myself that being with this lovely man must be easier, surely. And I'm good at pretending.
The harder thing will be knowing when to stop.