“You should fix that,” I say.
He grins and draws my yoga pants off, then my panties. His mouth descends on mine, and this kiss isn’t delicate or gentle; it’s needy. Demanding. I stroke him, caress him, slide my thumb over the wetness at his tip, explore the veins and ridges and the silk-and-steel contrast of him.
I keep expecting him to slide into me, but he doesn’t.
“The doctor cleared you for this, right?” He whispers it gently.
I just nod and try to pull him down to me. He resists, though, staring down at me, eyes inscrutable. I don’t know what his hesitation is, I think I’ve made my need clear.
Then he’s rolling to his back and drawing me onto him, except he lifts me so I’m laying on him back to front. He shimmies upward, adjusts the pillows so we’re reclining, and god, this is f**king incredibly comfortable and sexy as hell at the same time. I’m laying on top of him, and he’s nudging my entrance. I lean back to press kisses to his jaw, and get lost in the taste of his skin while he leans away to dig in the drawer for something. I hear a packet ripping and he rolls it on smoothly. I barely register this, tasting the salt on his neck, but then his hands are on me, arcing across my ribs and pinching my ni**les so I’m gasping and moaning and reaching down between our legs for him, guiding him where he needs to be, pressing him into me. Oh…oh god.
I keep my fingers on the joining of our flesh while he slides in, and the feeling of his latex-coated flesh moving against my desire-wet folds is intoxicating, sexy as anything I’ve ever felt. I can feel us moving, feel my petals stretching from his thickness, feel the moisture slicking us both, and then my fingers join his at my clit and we’re stimulating me together. My other hand is at his jaw, and he turns his face into my palm to kiss it. He’s kneading and caressing my br**sts while he fondles my swollen nub and his thighs are tensing, turning to rock and my legs are draped to either side of his and lifting me up and sinking me down. I can just barely reach his sack, so I caress him there, cup him, stretch a bit further to rub my finger on the tiny slice of muscle just behind it.
His breath is hot on my neck, and his voice murmurs my name, chants his love for me, repeats how beautiful I am, how perfect, how amazing. Each word from his lips is poetry, a song rhythmed to the sinuous grind of our bodies.
There’s no start, no stop, no him or me; there is only us, only perfection, only meshed souls and merged bodies and dizzy pleasure.
At some point, I come, and the release is endless, wave after wave of delicious pressure and wafting heat and billowing ecstasy and a rush of love so powerful I can’t breathe past it, can only rest my head on his shoulder and keep coming around him and whisper his name as my prayer to our love.
There’s no magical healing in this. I won’t wake up tomorrow fixed and joyful. I’ll still hurt and grieve.
But moments like this, with Colton? They make it all bearable. He doesn’t fix me, doesn’t heal me. He just makes life worthwhile. He helps me remember to breathe, shows me how to smile again. He kisses me, and I can forget pain, forget the urges I still have to cut for the pain that erases the emotions.
He slides his body into mine, and I can moan with him, breathe with him, moan, each single breath a song, and for the minutes and hours spent devouring his love for me, his love inside me, I can only be his Nell, the one without scars and ghosts.
When he comes, I come again, and I whisper the words that have come to almost replace I love you between us: “I’m falling into you.”
So true. When we come together, when we kiss, when we drowse into sleep side by side, we’re falling into each other, and that’s when I’m okay. When I’m falling into him.
THE END