During that three-week stretch, I kid you not, I even had a bank teller hit on me mid-transaction.
It was out of hand.
And while I was obsessed with sex, I was not remotely interested in having it with anyone but the one man I couldn’t have. Because he was gone.
It’s the funniest thing, how the woman who couldn’t be less interested in dating gets asked out the most. I was suddenly that woman. I swear, I couldn’t beat them off with a stick if I tried.
I said no, categorically.
But every night I went home and masturbated repeatedly, nothing I’d ever done before, because something about getting myself off all alone had always felt singularly unsatisfying.
And it still did.
I did it anyway. Over and over. Because I suddenly had a hard time going to sleep without it.
I got myself off, fantasizing about a rough voice in my ear and a big, scarred body on top of me, and would eventually fall into a fitful sleep.
I tossed and turned every night, and then I woke up every morning with my covers on the floor, and my fingers on my clit.
Nearly three weeks to the day he’d left, he showed up again, right at my bedtime.
I knew it was him when the doorbell rang at such an odd hour. I’d just been performing my nightly try to sleep method, naked in my own bed, vibrator in hand.
I wondered briefly if I should answer the door like that.
No, I decided, shoving my toy under a pillow and throwing on a thin silk robe.
I checked the peephole, undid the chain, but only opened the door a tiny crack.
I met his wintry eyes and felt a jolt of something powerful move through me.
He looked fatigued. Just dead tired. Had he been going through the same thing I had? Did he miss me?
“I shouldn’t even be here,” he began, sounding like he didn’t want to be.
I stiffened, my stomach turning over in dread. What the hell did that mean? Was he just here to break things off more officially? Was this even the type of thing that needed an official breaking off?
My voice was hard when I shot back with, “So why are you?”
He took a deep breath, then another. He was trying to communicate something to me with his eyes, but he was just too damn good at hiding everything there.
His eyes would never be the window to his soul. It was hidden somewhere else.
I wanted to strip him down, climb on top of him, and study every inch of him with squinted eyes and thorough fingers until I found it.
But I knew where it wasn’t. His eyes were too everlasting frozen to death to house his true self.
I tried to read them anyway, tried to decipher that broken gaze of his. It was nearly useless, but only nearly. I didn’t know what exactly they were trying to tell me, but I swore I caught a glimpse of something approaching contrition.
“I can’t stay away.” It was a tortured utterance.
It was everything I craved to hear in that exact moment. Because if I’d known where to find him, there’s no way I could have stayed away.
Just like that, I was his for the taking.
I barely got the door open before he had me across the entryway, pinning me to the wall.
I trembled under the touch of his big, rough hands. No soft touches for me. I was beyond them. I only wanted what Heath wanted to give me, which was a thing that could never in any way be mistaken for soft.
He didn’t kiss me at first, just took me in his big hands, running them over me like he was committing every curve to memory.
He pushed my robe off my shoulders, unwrapping me like a present, making a noise low in his throat when he found me completely bare underneath.
“It’s like you knew I was coming,” he groaned out hoarsely.
I squirmed under his scrutiny, wanting to touch him, wanting to touch myself, anything for relief. But I held back. I wanted too badly to see what he would do.
“Were you waiting for me, honey?” he asked softly, dropping down to his knees.
He shoved his beautiful face between my thighs, tongue stabbing at me without further ado.
“Were you?” he breathed into my sex.
I gasped out a yes. Then his name. I put my hands slowly, gingerly into his hair, never forgetting for a second, even in my near hysterical wanting of him, how hard it was for him to be touched.
He threw one of my legs over his shoulder and set to work on me, fingers delving inside, tongue exploring slowly, thoroughly, laving at my sex, inch by inch, scraping his tongue against me, fold by fold.
I loved it, but I needed more almost instantly. I wanted to come with his cock inside of me, not his fingers.
“Heath,” I pleaded, wanting him to stop, needing to come with him inside of me, but I quickly lost the train of thought. He had me finishing before I saw it coming.
He nuzzled into me, fingers still inside of me as I trembled out my release.
“Heath,” I said again.
“What do you need?” he asked, then proceeded to lave my clit generously with his tongue.
When I found my voice again, I rasped out, “I need your cock. Please.” I was panting as I begged. “Please. Please. Please.”
He moaned and surged to his feet. He got his dick out of his pants like he’d been trained to do it, like those military guys you see in movies, dismantling guns, every small motion keyed to the utmost efficiency.
He pushed into me bare. Even in my lust haze, I caught that right away.
“I’m not on the pill,” I gasped.
He knew that, dammit, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him pulling out long enough to wrap up.
“I know,” he groaned out, already moving inside of me, rutting mindlessly like he just didn’t care. “God, Lourdes. I missed you.”
That, and the big erection banging me against the wall had me distracted enough to almost let it go. Almost.
Insanity.
I pushed against his scarred shoulders in a last ditch effort, and that got his attention, as I knew it would.
“What . . . ?” he asked, hips still surging at me, the part of him that just couldn’t stop was not stopping for even a second.
“Don’t you have any condoms?”
His face screwed up in what could only be called agony. “Fuck me, I don’t. I’m not even supposed to be here.”
I wanted to cry. And he kept moving all the while.
“I’ll pull out, okay?” he rasped into my ear, still rocking into me.
I did some very bad math in my head, expedient math that’s sole purpose was to get us both off in a hurry.
Pure idiocy.
Believe me, I know.
“We should be fine,” I gasped. “I don’t think it’s the right time of month, so we should be fine.” As if I said ‘we should be fine’ enough we would be?
And the rational me knew damn well that I had never been regular enough to rely on math like that.
Rational me was gone while hedonist me was getting her world rocked.
Pure idiocy. I know, I know.
“Thank God,” he growled, ramming into me faster, harder. “Fucking miracle, that.”
I really thought the timing worked in our favor. I really, really did but that being said, when I’d told him that, I’d still been thinking he’d pull out. Just to be safe, that extra bit of insurance that was by no means a guarantee, but still better than not pulling out.
I came first. Of course I did. He’d pound me all night before he let himself go before me.
He gripped both of my wrists and started kissing me on the mouth like he wanted to eat me alive as he let himself go.
He was buried to the fucking hilt when his cock started jerking out its release inside of me.
Even with my brain still lust fuzzy from orgasm, I felt jolted back to alertness when I realized what was happening inside of me.
“Pull out,” I moaned into his mouth.
He started to, genuinely gave it a try, I thought, but a
bout halfway out, he shoved back in deep and held himself there, rooting inside of me.
Like he just couldn’t help himself.
This was one of many, many reasons why the pull out method was a terrible form of birth control. Oh yeah, that, and the fact that it really didn’t work, just felt a lot more safe than him shooting his whole load inside of me, as opposed to say, smaller amounts of pre-cum.
“Heath,” I tried to make my tone plaintive, but it came out breathy and pleading. Even I couldn’t tell if I sounded more like I wanted him to pull out or stay inside.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he muttered, but he still didn’t pull out, instead jolting inside of me.
And, God, I was just as bad, still clenching around him, milking out every drop, not putting my foot down, not making him stop.
And then he said a thing that thrilled and terrified me, and I couldn’t have said which reaction was stronger.
“Do you want to have any more kids, or are you done for good?”
I’d never (not for one second) ever even considered this. My boys were grown. That was it. I probably could have more. I was in perfect health. I’d just never thought of it.
And what the hell did it mean that he was asking me this? I was scared to even contemplate it. Scared to hope for any possibility.
“I’ve never thought about it,” I said honestly. “Why do you ask?”
He shook his head, a short jerk of a motion, as though he was making himself stay quiet on the subject.
But it didn’t work. Miracle of miracles, he couldn’t keep himself quiet.
He pressed his forehead to mine, still shamelessly inside of me, still pinning me to the wall. “If somehow you did get pregnant, I just want you to know, and I understand and respect that it’s your choice, but if you were to wonder what I want, just know that I’d want you to keep it. Us to keep it. Even if the timing is horrible, and I’m off working. Even if you don’t see me for a long time. That’s what I would want. No question.”
Holy shit. I had no clue what to do with that. Whether to be happy or horrified.
“Good to know,” I finally said.
Lame, I know.
I just never thought I’d get pregnant.
When he finally pulled out of me, he didn’t go far, sprawling right there on the floor, on his back.
He reached up, grabbed both of my hands, and pulled me to straddle him.
I knew what this was. He was giving me something of himself. Doing something that was uncommon for him. Allowing himself to be vulnerable. For me.
“Can I . . . ?”
He swallowed hard and nodded, putting my hands on his chest. “Yes. Touch me. I need your touch. It’s helping. The more you do it, the better I feel. Just . . . go slow. Not too much at a time.”
A feeling of pure, unadulterated tenderness shook through me.
It was kind of sick, but I couldn’t even decide if this need I felt to soothe him, to mend him was maternal in nature. Maternal, or else maybe that other intangible woman feeling we all have, the, oh this man is broken, let me fix him urge, because when I fix him, he’ll be mine.
Maybe it was an unwholesome combination of the two. I honestly didn’t care. He was covered on the outside by scars, but inside were the real wounds, the deep ones, and all that mattered was that I needed to help him heal every part that pained him.
I traced my fingers over the scars on his chest carefully, circling my hips on top of him, rubbing our spent sexes together until he stirred again, grew hard and huge again. I was so slick and ready, so keyed to every inch of him that it took no effort at all, no guiding hand, no careful shifting. I thrust my hips and sucked him back inside of me, where he belonged. It was beautiful.
I stopped touching his chest when I took him in, knowing it would alarm him. Too soon.
Instead, I grabbed both of his hands, cupping them over my aching breasts as I started to move.
He cursed. He praised. My stoic man even begged for it as I rode him hard.
I gave it my best, used every toned muscle in my body to rock his world. This was where all of my hard work at the gym paid off, where I finally got to show him that he wasn’t the only one with some spectacular moves in bed.
And then it happened again.
I let him empty himself inside of me. Again.
I guess at that point we were both just kind of thinking, ah well, damage is done, might as well enjoy the rest of the night like this.
Because, God, it was beyond divine.
He snaked a hand down between our sweaty bodies, gripping himself at the root, twisting his hand, rubbing against us both where we still joined.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Fucking bare inside of you. I can’t take it. You don’t even know. We’re both going to be raw before I’m done with you this time.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. By morning we were both sore and aching.
And the entire night, all the times he came, he never pulled out.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
He was back two nights later, as desperate and needy as the last time.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” I gasped when we came up for air.
It was strange with how little I still knew of him how much peace I had made with our situation. Somehow, with him being mostly gone, I’d wrapped it all up and tied it with a nice pretty bow of justifications.
So many excuses that made our age difference, his lack of forthrightness, his random coming and going somehow okay in my mind.
I was good at talking myself into the most romantic explanations.
It was a talent, really.
Well, yes, he was young, and yes, of course, he was quite a bit younger than, say, me, but what toll did it take on a person to see the things he’d seen? To withstand the things he’d withstood? To do the things he’d done?
Yes, quite a toll, I could see. In every line of his tense, readied body, every word out of his cold, hard voice, in every thought in his fractured, paranoid mind, laid that toll.
What did years matter when held up to that?
Not a lot, indeed. Tragic as it was, violence had aged him more profoundly than years would ever touch the average human.
And, after all of that, who was I to push him? Of course he’d have secrets, but he could reveal them to me at his own damaged pace.
I’m a patient woman, I reasoned to myself.
I’d laid out all of the justifications for him in a scrumptious little buffet that he hadn’t even had to prepare himself.
He was on top of me, spent but still planted deep inside of me, his hips between my thighs, pinning me to the mattress.
He’d tied my hands, but he was already undoing the restraints, his mouth on my neck, tongue on my skin, while he worked at the knots with his agile fingers.
“I shouldn’t have come, either time,” he murmured, his voice rumbling into my flesh with every word. “What I’m working on right now—it’s very sensitive—I don’t have the right to be doing any of this, but none of that mattered enough, apparently, because here I am. Again.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you came,” I told him just as my hands came loose. I wrapped my arms around his head, cradling him to me.
“This can never be what we want it to.”
That sounded ominous, and I felt myself stiffening. “We?” I asked him. “We’ve never talked about what we want this to be, so how can you know that? How can you know we even want the same thing at all?”
“I think we do,” he said simply.
He was nuzzling his way down my body. He paused when he found one soft nipple. He rubbed his lush lips back and forth, once, twice, until it puckered for him. With a groan, he sucked it into his hot mouth.
My hands stroked over his hair as his rough hands pushed my breasts together, and he let go of one sensitized nipple and kissed his way to the other.
“What is it you think we want?” I asked him, a needy quaver in my voice.
br /> With a gasping sigh, he pulled himself out of me, took his lips away, and just lay on me, low on my body, his cheek pillowed on a soft breast. He was so heavy that his flat abs, pushed high between my thighs, were pressed flush against my sex.
I kept stroking his hair. I was struggling to breath under his great weight, but not wanting him to move so much as an inch from this very spot.
His body was trembling on top of me. “I want you and you want me. It’s that simple. Every time I get to be with you, I’m better for it. Every single time.”
For Heath, a man of few words, this was as good as a declaration.
With the way he was laying, ear to my chest, I knew he could hear how my heart rate went wild at those words.
“Just when I think I’ve given up on you completely, you say something sweet like that,” I whispered, kissing the top of his head.
“Like I’ve said before, I’m not sweet, not even close, so if I said something that was, you should take it to heart.”
I did. Once again, I took it all to heart.
And then he ruined it.
“This is the last time I’ll be here to see you,” he told me. “It has to be.”
“Why so final?” I kept my voice surprisingly even.
“I have to leave. Have to go somewhere far from here, and I can’t say when I’ll be back. Too long to ask you to wait for me, certainly.”
Something in his voice was asking me to anyway. Like he knew it wasn’t fair, knew he couldn’t ask it, but some part of him couldn’t help but try.
“Days, months . . . years? Can you tell me that at least?”
“I can’t.” At least he sounded like he regretted that.
But still, regret was not enough. I needed more. I deserved more.
Just give me some information, I wanted to say to him.
Give me an excuse, any sort of explanation, and I can work with you, I almost told him.
Tell me you’ll be back someday, just make me that paper thin promise, and I’ll wait for you, I almost said.
So many things were on the tip of my tongue to say to him, but they never quite came out.
And so we both had regrets.