Page 45 of The Words of Us

I don’t know how we ended up here, in the hallway, somewhere between the bedroom and the living room, but none of that matters now. All that matters is her—the way she’s looking at me, the way her body is trembling under my touch, the way her lips part slightly, like she’s waiting for me to take the next step.

I lean in close enough that I can feel her breath on my lips, but I don’t kiss her yet. I want to make her wait, to draw this out, to savor the moment before everything else falls away. My fingers trail down her sides, tracing the curve of her hips, and I feel her shudder beneath me.

“Sasha,” she whispers, her voice low, needy. “Please…”

Her plea sends a surge of heat through me, and I finally close the distance between us, capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. It’s soft at first, almost gentle, but the hunger is there just beneath the surface, and it doesn’t take long for it to rise up, pushing us both over the edge.

Her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer, and I press her harder against the wall, my body flush against hers. I can feel her heart pounding in time with mine, the heat between us growing more intense with every second. I deepen the kiss, my tongue slipping past her lips, tasting her, losing myself in the familiar rhythm of her mouth against mine.

We’re moving quickly now, desperate, like we can’t get close enough, fast enough. My hands slip under the hem of her shirt, sliding up her smooth skin, and she gasps as my fingers brush the underside of her breasts. I love the way she responds to me, the way her body arches into my touch, the way she’s always been so open with me, so willing to give herself over to this.

To us.

I break the kiss just long enough to tug her shirt over her head, tossing it aside carelessly. The cool air hits her skin, andshe shivers, her nipples hardening under my gaze. I can’t help but smile at the sight of her—so beautiful, so utterly mine.

I drop to my knees in front of her, my hands sliding down her thighs, hooking under the waistband of her panties. I glance up at her, and she’s watching me, her eyes dark with desire, her lips parted as she tries to catch her breath.

“Are you sure you want to do this here?” I ask, my voice husky, teasing. “We’re not even halfway to the bedroom.”

She bites her bottom lip, her fingers tangling in my hair again. “I don’t care. Just don’t stop.”

That’s all the encouragement I need.

I tug her underwear down her legs, my lips following the path of my hands, kissing the soft skin of her thighs as I go. She moans softly, her fingers tightening in my hair, and I can feel the tension in her body, the way she’s trembling with anticipation.

I pause for a moment, looking up at her and taking in the sight of her standing there. There’s something about moments like this—when it’s just us, stripped down to nothing but our desire for each other—that makes everything else disappear. It’s just her and me, the rest of the world fading into the background.

I press my lips to the inside of her thigh, trailing soft kisses up toward the heat of her pussy, and her breath hitches, her body tensing in anticipation. I can feel her need, the way she’s aching for me, and it drives me wild. I want to make her feel everything—every touch, every kiss, every breath.

And then, without another word, I give her what she wants. What we both want.

Her moan echoes through the hallway as I touch her, my fingers exploring her with slow, deliberate movements. Her hips buck against me, her hands gripping my shoulders as she tries to hold on, but I’m not going to let her rush this. I want to take mytime, to savor every moment, to make sure she knows just how much I want her.

“Sasha,” she breathes, her voice trembling with need. “Please...”

I don’t make her beg for long.

I move faster, my fingers slipping inside her and beginning to fuck her, my lips pressing against her clitoris, and the sound she makes—a soft, breathless moan—is enough to send a shiver down my spine. She’s so responsive, so completely open to me, and I love the way I can push her to the edge, how I can make her lose herself in this, in us.

She’s close now, her body trembling, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. I can feel her tensing around me, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and I know she’s on the verge of falling apart. I push her harder, faster, and when she finally lets go, her release is sudden and explosive, her body arching against me as she cries out my name.

I don’t stop, not until she’s completely undone, her body trembling in the aftermath. And even then, I hold her close, my lips brushing against her skin as she comes down, my hands steadying her as she leans against the wall for support.

“God, Sasha,” she whispers, her voice shaky. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I grin, pressing a soft kiss to her lips as I pull her down to the floor, wrapping her up in my arms. We lie there together, tangled in each other, our breathing slowly evening out, the world outside forgotten.

And in this moment, everything feels perfect.

Later, we’re lying on the floor, wrapped up in each other, our bodies tangled together in the aftermath of something raw, something powerful. The room is quiet, save for the sound of our breathing, and I feel the weight of her head resting on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin.

“I’m never going to get tired of this,” I say quietly, my hand running through her hair.

She hums softly, a contented sound, and I can feel her smile against my skin. “Me neither.”

It’s moments like this that make me realize how far we’ve come. There was a time when I didn’t think we’d make it—when I thought I’d lose her because of my past, because of the things I was too scared to admit. But she stayed. She forgave me. And together, we built something real.

As the day goes on, the comfort of our routine sets in. We spend the morning in the bookstore, rearranging displays and chatting with customers. It’s always busy on Saturdays, and the familiar hum of activity keeps us grounded. The poetry nights have grown over the years, and the bookstore has become more than just a shop—it’s a community hub, a place where people come to connect, to share their stories, their art.

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