And the city girl returned to the sand, and the sea, where the sun warmed her shoulders and the sky rained silver and gold sparkles . . .
I trace my finger over the drawing, as if I can ignite magic in it, as if my touch can bring it to life. But it’s already alive; it’s already breathing, in its own way. I turn to Trey, and he has a hopeful look in his eyes.
“I love it so much,” I tell him. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You really like it?”
“No,” I say, correcting him firmly. “I love it.”
“I’ll do the whole set of them. I can illustrate them all if you want.”
I shake my head in amazement at what he’s done. “How is it that I found you? Do you ever realize how lucky we are?”
“To have each other?” he scoffs. “I realize it every second of every day.”
“Do you think it’s luck?” I trail my fingers down his arm, tracing the outline of the ink on his bicep.
“I think it’s fate,” he says softly.
“You do? You believe in fate?”
Scooting closer to me, he rests his hand on my hipbone, his thumb stroking a lazy rhythm there. “I do, in the sense that I believe some things are inevitable. The sun rises, the moon travels round the earth, you were meant for me, and I was meant for you,” he says.
“So you and me, we’re on the same cosmic level as the sun and moon and stars?” I raise an eyebrow.
But he is resolute. “Yes. Because here’s my reasoning. Think about the alternative. About us not being together.”
I shudder with the absolute wrongness of that image.
“See? You and me not being together is like a snowstorm in Hawaii. It’s like a glacier on the sun. It doesn’t happen. It can’t happen. Because there’s no way we aren’t meant for each other, Harley. There’s no way it can be anything but this,” he says, pointing from him to me and me to him, and his certainty is like dark chocolate melting on my tongue. It tastes amazing, and I want more of it, of him.
“Kiss me, then. Kiss me like it’s fate.”
“Gladly,” he says, curling his fingers around my neck, and bringing his lips to mine.
I moan the second he makes contact. His lips are so soft, and he kisses me so tenderly, but with so much pent-up fire that I’m soon grasping for him, tugging him close, wrapping a leg over his thigh, sliding a hand up his shirt, spreading my fingers across the hard planes of his belly.
We kiss like that for some time, all sighs and moans, and bodies pressed together, hands exploring, hearts beating wildly, until the heat between the two of us is too much. It’s like we’re in a cocoon of love and lust and want, our own little private world of desire.
We break apart, and I’m panting, and his eyes are glazed, and I know in seconds he can be inside of me thrusting, bringing me to the precipice.
My hands have a mind of their own, and I’m dying to touch him, so I unzip his jeans, and he helps me slide them off. Then I reach for the waistband of his T-shirt, lifting it over his head.
My breath catches at the sight of his naked chest. I’ve seen him naked so many times, and every time he’s beautiful. My fingertips wander over to the ink on his chest, tracing it, imprinting him yet again on me.
When he reaches for my sweater, I wag a finger, because I want something else. “Do you remember the time on the beach?”
He nods. “Of course.”
I slip my hands into his briefs and tug them off, whispering, “I want to watch you.”
“Watch me?”
The grin spreads across my face. “I want to see how you touch yourself. I want to know what it was like all those times you were thinking of me.”
He groans, pushing a hand roughly through his hair. “God, everything you say is so fucking sexy.”
“Is that a yes?”
He loops his arms around my neck. “Do you have any idea how badly I want to be inside you right now?” Before I can answer, he guides my hand to his cock, and wraps me around him. He’s so hard and hot, and he twitches against my palm as I stroke him. He closes his eyes and a ragged breath escapes him, as he lies back on the bed, his head hitting the pillow. “So fucking much.”
“So that’s a no, then?” I grip him harder, watching him squeeze his eyes shut as he rocks into me.
He shakes his head, then grasps my hand and stills me. When he opens his eyes, they are wild with lust. “I want what you want. But I would really like you to be naked while I do this,” he says.
I grin, and then clap twice. He rolls his eyes. “You just clapped because you’re going to watch me jerk off?”
“I did just clap because I’m going to watch you jerk off, and I can’t wait,” I say, as I stand and quickly strip. He arranges the pillows against the headboard, making a cushion for me.
“Lie down,” he tells me, and I do, resting my back against the pillows.
Then he kneels on the bed, reaches between his legs, and grasps his cock, his eyes on me the whole time. A rush of heat spreads through my body, sending the temperature in me soaring. The fire settles between my legs where I ache for him.
I watch as he strokes himself, mesmerized by how he handles himself more roughly than I do, tugging, gripping.
“This is how I was for six long months before I had you,” he rasps out. “Thinking of you like this. Naked in front of me.”
I lick my lips, my chest rising and falling. It’s such a private act I’m witnessing—him touching himself.
This isn’t the first time I’ve watched a man masturbate. One of my clients wanted me to praise his size as he jacked off. That did nothing for me, except feed my need for control.
But now, as I watch my husband breathing harder, gripping his steel length in his palm, up and down, fast, and now faster, control isn’t part of the equation anymore. My one-time pillars of manipulation and power have been checked out at the door.
His hand is a fist as he holds himself tighter. I’m honestly not sure who’s more turned on because I’m growing damper by the second as he tells me how he pictured me. “I’d do this and wish I was licking your breasts,” he says in between hard pants. “Making your nipples hard in my mouth.” I draw a quick breath as he narrates his solo flight. “Then your stomach. Down to your belly button, and then you’d spread your legs wide for me.”
Reflexively, I part my legs, my knees falling open. His eyes widen, and he stares between my legs. The heat of his gaze makes me hotter, wetter.
“Licking your pussy,” he says and I gasp when he says that word for the first time. But it doesn’t bother me, the crudeness, because this is him. This is how he talks. This is how he thinks of me. “Tasting how fucking wet you are.” His hand is moving faster, from the base to the head, over and over, his eyes locked on me. I can’t look away, nor do I want to, because I am privy to this intensely erotic act, to my husband pleasuring himself as he watches me, and all I’m doing is being. I’m lying naked in front of him, and that’s it; that’s enough for him.
But it’s not enough for me, because I’m ready to claw my way out of this desire inside me, this molten heat that ripples through my body as his grip on his cock tightens. And because I can’t help it, because I am comprised of nothing but lust and heat and wetness, I start to lift my hips, my body taking over, then I lower my hand between my legs, and I slide my fingers across myself.