because the last eight have been hard. Through it all, we’ve stayed strong, but I’ve recently admitted to myself that I think we may need some help with what we’re going through now. I’m beginning to think there might be a limit for a couple with what they can cope with, and I think maybe we’ve reached that limit. I’m worried if we don’t seek help, we might slowly unravel, and that’s not a place I ever want to get to.
“Hey,” I say, not wanting to intrude on his quiet time but also wanting nothing more than to get in the shower with him and wrap my arms around him. To soothe him. To help him move through the pain he’s feeling.
He doesn’t move except to swing his head to the side and look at me. The torment in his eyes hits me in the chest and I feel it too. God, how I feel it.
We’re drowning here.
I can’t not be with him, so I pull my clothes off and open the shower door to join him. Placing my hand to his back, I move against him, sliding my body around his so I’m in between him and the shower wall. Winter has packed on a lot of muscle in the last twelve months while pushing himself to get as strong as he can. I think it’s been his way of dealing with not only his club battle but also with our personal battle. When I’m this close to him, I feel tiny, and whenever his arms circle me, I feel so damn safe that I don’t ever want to be anywhere but in his arms. This time, though, his arms don’t come around me. He keeps his hands to the tiles either side of my body and stares down at me, not uttering a word.
“Is it Max?” I ask softly.
His eyes search mine before he pushes off from the tiles. Water from the shower cascades over him and he reaches for the showerhead to redirect it away from him. “Yeah. And the club.” Reaching for me, he adds, “And us. Fuck.”
The jagged tone of his voice nearly breaks me. Nearly. But I hold my shit together. For him. “Do you want to talk about it?” Winter’s not a big talker. Not about his shit, anyway. He loves to get me to talk when I’m going through stuff, but when it comes to him, he shuts down and tries to process his pain alone. I’ve learned over the years not to force him into talking because it never ends well for us when I do that.
He cups the back of my head and pulls my mouth to his. “No.”
His lips claim mine at the same time his hands reach for my ass. When he lifts me, I wrap my arms and legs around him, grateful that we have each other. Grateful that no matter what we’ve gone through, we’ve clung to our love.
We lose ourselves in this kiss. After weeks apart, we reunited last night with the kind of sex that staying at your mother’s house allows for. It wasn’t bad sex, but it wasn’t what we’re used to, and God how I’m missing some hot, rough sex with my husband.
“Fuck,” he rasps, coming up for air.
Breathless, I grip his face and pull his mouth back to mine. “Don’t fucking stop.”
Our kiss grows demanding. Urgent. Frantic.
Our bodies are pressed so hard together we could almost be one.
Our need is frenzied.
“Christ, Birdie.” Winter lets go of me so he can drop to his knees. Hooking one of my legs over his shoulder, he brings his mouth to my pussy and runs his tongue along it while rubbing his thumb over my clit.
I cry out with pleasure, not even caring if my mother can hear me. I can’t censor myself any longer. Gripping his hair, I push the back of his head to keep his face against my pussy. I need more from his tongue. From his beard. From his fingers.
“Oh fuck,” I almost scream when he alternates between his tongue inside me and his fingers. And when he works me deep inside with those fingers while running his tongue over and over my clit, I completely abandon myself to the pleasure.
“Oh God, oh God.” It becomes a chant.
I squeeze his hair.
I press myself harder against his face.
I pant through my building orgasm.
“Fuck!” This time it’s a scream as I shatter. Every nerve ending is lit from the bliss Winter has delivered.