worth cherishing.
When his breathing hastened and become harsh, the tendons standing out on his neck as he threw his head back, she didn’t feel triumph. She felt moved. Aroused and touched.
There was no concealment in him. Again and again he sought her eyes, until it began to feel like a connection clicking into place between them, interrupted only briefly by the crises of sensation she brought him, that drove him wild for pulses of time. Yet always he returned to her.
When he came she stopped, drinking the sight in hungrily, muscular ripples of her inner passage sucking at him, drawing him in, milking the pulses of his body spending itself within her.
And when he was done she was there to welcome him back , to smile down at him, to let him draw her closer to lie once again on his chest. This time when he slipped over the threshold into sleep she went with him, hearts synchronized and breathing in time.
She woke with a start in the pale, cool light of dawn, her heart racing. The unfamiliar surroundings were disorienting and for a moment she was frightened. When her gaze found him her fear changed focus, becoming sharper and more precise.
How could she do this? How could she face him and tell him?
This . . . thing between them, newborn and fragile . . . would surely die the instant he knew. She had not looked for something from him, but found he had taught her to want this treasure nevertheless. It was a painful, wonderful, agonizing lesson. How long had it been since she learned not to give anyone power over her? Not to let anyone e xert such influence and control? Not to want what only another could bestow?
Years gone, and a lesson hard-taught. She didn’t want to unlearn it, but here was the crux of it. Somewhere in the night she had learnt a new truth. There was something more precious than safety; more compelling than self-preservation.
She couldn’t put words to the feeling, not even in the stillness of her own head. But the past weeks living her days near Mike, and this one night in his arms, his body against and inside her, had reshaped her knowing.
She blinked fast, frantically, feeling the unaccustomed rise of tears to her eyes, a subtle sting.
Now she had something infinitely valuable to lose, and every reason to believe it already lost. Just being here with him was being on borrowed time.
It filled her with a panic she quickly stifled. Useless to feel like that. Useless and weak. So yeah, she . . . well maybe this might possibly be some sort of love. And definitely it couldn’t be returned, couldn’t grow into an actual real relationship, given everything she’d already done to him by intention and fact; every deceit, every plan to use and misuse. These misplaced feelings should be strangled at birth.
She shifted, found his hand was on her hip, lifted it cautiously and put it down on the sheet as she sidled away.
Running would be wise. That’s what a prudent woman would do. She was always prudent. She always cut her losses when the going got tough emotionally. Except with family, and he wasn’t that.
So where did that leave her?
Out the door and gone before this got any messier than it already was.
She rolled once, to take her to the edge of the bed, pushed up until she was sitting with her feet on the floor, and looked back at him over her shoulder. In sleep his face was young, relaxed, not charged with the vitality of his wakeful presence.
Yet . . . yet it felt different from any time before, any time she had walked away from a man saying ‘too much, too complex, too wrong.’ This time it felt . . . too late. She just . . . couldn’t walk away now; couldn’t imagine the strength into herself, for all her usual ruthless determination. She simply could not bear to. Was there an alternative, a viable alternative to disappearing?
No , nothing viable.
But she could stay. Take a chance and find out if this led somewhere.
Which of course it probably wouldn’t. How could it?
She
When his breathing hastened and become harsh, the tendons standing out on his neck as he threw his head back, she didn’t feel triumph. She felt moved. Aroused and touched.
There was no concealment in him. Again and again he sought her eyes, until it began to feel like a connection clicking into place between them, interrupted only briefly by the crises of sensation she brought him, that drove him wild for pulses of time. Yet always he returned to her.
When he came she stopped, drinking the sight in hungrily, muscular ripples of her inner passage sucking at him, drawing him in, milking the pulses of his body spending itself within her.
And when he was done she was there to welcome him back , to smile down at him, to let him draw her closer to lie once again on his chest. This time when he slipped over the threshold into sleep she went with him, hearts synchronized and breathing in time.
She woke with a start in the pale, cool light of dawn, her heart racing. The unfamiliar surroundings were disorienting and for a moment she was frightened. When her gaze found him her fear changed focus, becoming sharper and more precise.
How could she do this? How could she face him and tell him?
This . . . thing between them, newborn and fragile . . . would surely die the instant he knew. She had not looked for something from him, but found he had taught her to want this treasure nevertheless. It was a painful, wonderful, agonizing lesson. How long had it been since she learned not to give anyone power over her? Not to let anyone e xert such influence and control? Not to want what only another could bestow?
Years gone, and a lesson hard-taught. She didn’t want to unlearn it, but here was the crux of it. Somewhere in the night she had learnt a new truth. There was something more precious than safety; more compelling than self-preservation.
She couldn’t put words to the feeling, not even in the stillness of her own head. But the past weeks living her days near Mike, and this one night in his arms, his body against and inside her, had reshaped her knowing.
She blinked fast, frantically, feeling the unaccustomed rise of tears to her eyes, a subtle sting.
Now she had something infinitely valuable to lose, and every reason to believe it already lost. Just being here with him was being on borrowed time.
It filled her with a panic she quickly stifled. Useless to feel like that. Useless and weak. So yeah, she . . . well maybe this might possibly be some sort of love. And definitely it couldn’t be returned, couldn’t grow into an actual real relationship, given everything she’d already done to him by intention and fact; every deceit, every plan to use and misuse. These misplaced feelings should be strangled at birth.
She shifted, found his hand was on her hip, lifted it cautiously and put it down on the sheet as she sidled away.
Running would be wise. That’s what a prudent woman would do. She was always prudent. She always cut her losses when the going got tough emotionally. Except with family, and he wasn’t that.
So where did that leave her?
Out the door and gone before this got any messier than it already was.
She rolled once, to take her to the edge of the bed, pushed up until she was sitting with her feet on the floor, and looked back at him over her shoulder. In sleep his face was young, relaxed, not charged with the vitality of his wakeful presence.
Yet . . . yet it felt different from any time before, any time she had walked away from a man saying ‘too much, too complex, too wrong.’ This time it felt . . . too late. She just . . . couldn’t walk away now; couldn’t imagine the strength into herself, for all her usual ruthless determination. She simply could not bear to. Was there an alternative, a viable alternative to disappearing?
No , nothing viable.
But she could stay. Take a chance and find out if this led somewhere.
Which of course it probably wouldn’t. How could it?
She
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