I close out the song with a few gentle strums, pressing my palm against the strings over the sound hole, swathing the room in sudden silence. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and the ticking of a clock on Brady’s nightstand. I slowly open my eyes and look directly into Brady’s as he sits completely still right in front of me.
He doesn’t say a word as I slide the guitar off of my lap and stand it upright next to the bed against the nightstand. Just like on the stage at June’s, playing my guitar gives me courage and strength I never knew I had. It makes me feel bold and in control, and now that I’ve played one of my songs for the first time, I have a mass of excess energy and excitement that I need to channel elsewhere.
Getting up on my knees, I crawl over to Brady and straddle his lap, letting my arms rest on his shoulders and my hands dangle loosely behind his head. He hesitates for a few seconds before wrapping his arms around my body and pulling me close, and I ignore the look of guilt that I see on his face for a split second before he turns it into a smile, tipping up one corner of his mouth in the way I love so much.
I love this man. I can’t keep pretending like I don’t.
“You are amazing, Layla,” Brady whispers as he looks at my face and brings his hand up to use the tips of his fingers to brush my bangs off of my forehead, moving his fingers down the side of my face to tuck my hair behind my ear.
He’s staring at me so intently. I can feel that he wants to say more, but he’s holding himself back. His brow furrows as he looks at me, and I’m so afraid I can barely breathe. I’m afraid of what he’s not saying, and I’m afraid of what he might say. I want him to tell me he feels the same way I do; I want him to reassure me that guilt has no part in his feelings for me. I want this man to always be a part of my life and to continue giving me the strength and courage I need to survive. I know we need to talk, and there’s so much we’ve left unsaid between us, but I can’t do it right now. Right now, I just want to feel. I just want to lose myself in him and not worry about anything else.
I lower my head and kiss him. I pour everything I am into that kiss and hope that he can feel it. I slide my fingers through his hair and hold his face against mine and hope he knows that he’s the only man I’ve ever given this much of myself to.
Without breaking the kiss, Brady moves his legs out from under me and pushes me back on the bed, gently resting his body on top of mine. The few times we’ve had sex, there’s been a kind of desperation to it that I loved, like we can’t get enough of each other, and it quickly explodes like a bomb as we crash into one another, giving and taking and pushing us both to our limits.
This time, we slowly undress each other, taking our time to touch and kiss and feel. When he finally rocks into me, it’s unhurried and with ease. He moves on top of me slowly, and he never takes his eyes off of my face as we leisurely move against one another. When my orgasm washes through me, it’s gentle and delicious and no less powerful than all of the other times, just less frantic. When Brady’s own release comes seconds after mine, he holds himself still inside of me, entwining the fingers of one of his hands with mine and holding it between us, against his heart.
He slides out of me without a word and moves behind me, pulling my back up against his