Page 43 of High Intensity

Then she reaches her other arm up and around my neck, chest out and her spine almost unnaturally arched, as she tangles her fingers in my hair. With my mouth latched on to her shoulder, and my eyes fixed on her stunning reflection, I start powering inside her.

Her moans drive me deeper and faster, and as I expected, it doesn’t take long for my balls to draw tight against my body.

“Gotta come for me, Jilly,” I urge her on as I reach a hand between her legs.

Rolling her clit with my fingertips, I can feel the walls of her pussy flutter before they grab my dick in the most pleasurable vise. I buck a few times, and then my body goes rigid as every synapse fires in concert.

My knees buckle and I curve myself around Jillian’s trembling body, her dresser holding us both up.

“Holy smokes,” she sighs in a shaky voice.

“Pretty much,” I agree hoarsely.

So much for keeping my distance.

Thirteen

Jillian

“Her name was Macy.”

I’m not sure what drives me to bring up my daughter now.

The sweat is still drying on our bodies, lying in my bed, tangled together in the afterglow of seriously hot and absolutely mind-blowing sex, but I put it out there. Maybe it’s the strength of his body cocooning me, shielding me, making me feel nothing could possibly touch me.

Perhaps I needed that feeling of postcoital security to rip open the deepest wound my soul will ever know, to bleed the grief that lives there.

I note he doesn’t ask or push me for more information than that. He simply holds me, his grip on me perhaps a little tighter, as if he realizes I may well come apart otherwise. His kind silence gives me a chance to do this at my own pace, and because of that, I give him more than I would anyone who would ask.

“She made the sun rise every day from the moment she was born.”

I turn my face into his chest and smile my memory against his skin, even as I feel the first tear slip from my eye.

“She had this halo of red curls, and bright blue eyes that smiled all the time. The happiest child I’ve ever known. She was small for her age but her personality was big enough to make up for her lack in height. You would’ve expected her voice to be sweet and high-pitched, but instead she sounded like a jazz crooner, her sound was mellow, almost smoky, but when she turned up the dial, she could produce volume like a foghorn. But then as a reminder she was just a little girl, she had this cute little lisp, and a stubborn inability to sayanimal.”

I sniffle as I picture my daughter, clear as day, the shoulder strap of her favorite OshKosh B’gosh bib overalls hanging off her narrow shoulders, a streak of dirt on her cheek, and an infectious grin on her face as she helped me weed our vegetable patch.

My last living memory of her.

“She was five,” I continue. “She was helping me in the garden. I’d just gone to turn off the water hose on the side of the garage and was so sure I’d latched the gate.”

Wolff makes a guttural sound coming deep from his throat, but to his credit, he doesn’t comment.

“I don’t think the delivery truck driver ever saw her. A neighbor across the street said he saw Macy dart into the road from between two parked cars, but it was too late to do anything about it.”

I may not have seen it back then, but I realize now my daughter’s death must’ve had a major impact on more lives than just mine. Macy’s father, of course, but also Jeff across the street, the UPS driver, and my next-door neighbors, who came running outside when they heard me scream. I’m sure that horrific scene left an indelible impression on everyone who was there that day.

“She died six hours later in the hospital. I lost time…after that. I can’t even remember her funeral, but I remember exactlyhow she looked, and what she was wearing that day when she ran into the street.”

He hugs me a little tighter and I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head.

“Wait here,” he mumbles.

I instantly miss the warmth of his body and the security of his arms when he slips from the bed. I reach down and tug up the covers to make up for the loss, but Wolff is back just moments later with a glass of water and a box of tissues.

I sit up and take some tissues to mop my face. Then I grab the glass he offers and take a sip before setting it on my nightstand. When I lie back down, his arms come around me, tucking my back to his front.

“You’d think after almost eight years it would get easier to talk about it,” I muse out loud. “That I’d get over my aversion to hospitals.”

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