Page 59 of Happy After All

“Oh yes,” I say. “I get all the people-watching a person could possibly want.”

I’m standing there holding a giant box of condoms, and I don’t tell him that he has been my favorite people-watching for the past couple of years.

I set the box on the small round dining table in the room, and I don’t even bother to try to tear it open delicately. Instead, I ravage it, then pull out a strip of condoms wrapped in blue and tear one off the strip.

Somehow, I don’t die.

Of embarrassment or anything else. Because that’s how much I want him. This positive conversation, the pause to hunt for protection, hasn’t killed my excitement, hasn’t dimmed the tension.

He’s a stranger, but he’s also a man I’ve seen, a man I’ve felt desire build for all these years. He is the perfect combination of things.

A mysterious lover, but someone I trust.

I didn’t know such a thing could be possible.

He moves to me, cradling my face again as he leans down for a kiss. He’s so much taller than me. He makes me feel so small and delicate.

I move my hands up his chest, around his broad shoulders, up the back of his neck. I push my fingers through his hair.

He kisses me deep. I’m still holding on to the condom, clinging to it for all I’m worth.

Clinging to him.

The kiss becomes feral, and he moves his hands down my waist, to my hips. He holds me hard and pulls me against the incontrovertible evidence of his arousal.

I nearly swoon.

He moves his hands down farther, along my thighs, and squeezes me tight, lifting me off the floor and urging my legs around his waist.

This is the kind of acrobatic sex I didn’t think was actually real, but I can’t say that, because he’s still kissing me. He takes us both to the bed, exerting perfect control as he lays me down slowly onto the mattress, pressing me into the softness, trapping me against his hardness in the most delicious way.

With one hand, he grabs the back of his collar and strips his shirt off, revealing the body that has left me speechless on more than one occasion.

Perfectly defined muscles covered with just the right amount of hair. I breathe out, watching as I press my hand to his rock-solid pec and move my fingertips down his abs.

This is like a love scene I would write. I want to capture every detail, every moment. The way my skin looks against his. The way I’m soft, the way he’s hard. The way I’m smooth, the way he’s rough.

How his whiskers scrape across my skin when he kisses me. Leave the whisper of a burn behind.

The guttural sounds he makes as he tastes me, as he kisses down my neck, my collarbone.

The rustle of fabric as he takes my shirt off, the rush of relief as he unhooks my bra with one practiced hand, proving me right about his prowess with one easy motion.

He looks at me like he’s a man who’s been crawling through the desert outside our door and I’m an oasis. I have never felt so proud to be naked in front of a man before.

I had gotten to a place in my long-term relationship where I knew Chris appreciated my body and I didn’t have to be self-conscious.

The way Nathan Hart looks at me makes me feel like I’m a gift.

I’ve never felt anything like that before.

I’ve made myself into nothing. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt sexy or like my body should feel good. But I feel it now.

I’ve never felt like this.

I have felt—in the deepest part of myself—like something broken for the past three years. A failure. Empty.

He looks at me like my body is precious. He looks at me like my body is perfect.

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