I’m sure he doesn’t want to just ravage me after all this time. He wants to handle me gently. But Gabe has never been very good at ‘gently’ — a slam against a wall, a hard rip of the panties, a bite on the fleshy part of the shoulder — unbridled passion, that’s more his speed.
He pulls at my hair, and I feel him losing control and I eat it up. “You want me?” I ask as I pull myself over him, my bare sex straddling the hard length of him — the towel has long slipped off. I want him to tell me how much he craves me.
“God, yeah,” he breathes, his mouth against my breast. He pulls my vintage slip up my torso and tears it off me, ripping the delicate embroidered edge.
He doesn’t apologize. And I couldn’t care less.
He cups both my breasts in his large hands, my nipples hard against his palms. I close my eyes as he takes my breast in his mouth. I trail my hands through his wet hair. He pulls away from me and looks at me with soft eyes. “Are you sure this is okay?”
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s been over six weeks.”
He moans as I take him in my hand and guide him to me.
He closes his eyes as I press onto him. He sinks into me very, very slowly. When he opens his beautiful eyes again they get lost in mine. A shiver spreads up my spine as he fills me deep, deeper than anyone ever has. He strokes the side of my hip softly as I push in and off him slowly. He doesn’t move much, still holding on to that reserve of control. He studies me and there’s nothing in his eyes but love.
I lean in and kiss him again, a tender kiss.
And I still press into him.
“I’m not hurting you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
No. Actually you’re rocking my world.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you.”
I throw my head back and press myself harder into him, wanting him to hit my sweet spot just right. “Don’t be afraid to hurt me,” I whisper, the words jagged, breathless. “You can’t.”
I am ready, so ready.
My hips bounce back against his. “I know you have this whole new ‘gentle love-making’ thing going,” I whisper against the lobe of his ear, “and I respect that, I really do,” I go on, the words caught between whimpers. “But maybe we can try that another time, because right now I just want to be fucked.”
A hint of a smile curves on his lips and I feel him tense, and after a quick pause, he trails his hand slowly along my side and grabs my rear. Hard. And he doesn’t ask again if he’s hurting me.
And he does what Gabe does best.
He loses all control.
I’m chopping onion and mushrooms for an omelet when my phone rings. I run around the house looking for my purse which isn’t where it’s supposed to be again. When I finally find it, I scrounge for my phone. But it’s too late.
When I finally manage to get my hands on it, I can see Weston has called. I walk back to the kitchen, phone in hand. I’m tempted to ignore his call. I stare at the carton of eggs and the chopped vegetables on the kitchen counter. I need to make breakfast. I pick up the chopping knife, but I can’t focus. I need to stop pretending he doesn’t exist. I need to face him. I wipe my hands with the kitchen towel hanging off the stove, grab my phone, go down the list and press his name.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hello, Mirella,” he says, his words soft. I still love the sound of his voice. Always have. There’s something so soothing about it. He should have been a therapist or a counselor.
I take a seat at the kitchen table, my feet wobbly. “Hello,” I say. The word seems so small, so insignificant when there’s so much I want to say.
“I know you don’t want to be bothered,” he says, “I’ve managed to stay away for a while.”
I smile. “I know. Thank you for respecting my wishes, Weston. It’s nice to hear from you.”
I can almost hear the smile on his face when he says, “It’s so nice to hear your voice too. How have you been?”
“I’ve been good. How about you?” I suspect the loss of Oliver has been as hard on him as it has