Page 22 of Marrying the Guide

“You’re perfect,” I whispered as I ran my hand down his stomach, over the length of his cock. “So fucking perfect.”

His smile lit up my heart.

I kissed his right leg from his still somewhat damaged feet to the inside of his thigh, then did the same to his left leg. His soft signs were a sweet symphony.

With lube-coated fingers, I slid into him, first with my middle finger, then with my index. I prepared him with unhurried movements, giving each touch, each caress, each move my utmost attention, ensuring his comfort. His responses guided me—little intakes of breath, a subtle shifting of his hips, his fingers gripping the sheets and relaxing, gripping and relaxing.

“Good?” I checked, pausing to look into his eyes.

“Perfect.” That single word suffused me with warmth, spreading from my chest outward, each cell prickling and tingling.

I stretched out on top of him, and nimble as he was, he folded his legs double, accepting me between his legs. Positioning myself was a bit of a fumble because of the awkward angle, but he was patient, watching me with that sweet, shy smile.

I slid into him slowly, guided by every flicker of pleasure that danced across his features. The heat of his body welcomed me, wrapped around me like the embrace of a long-lost lover. There was no resistance, only the seamless joining of two souls hungry for the taste of each other’s essence. He took me in like he was made for me, not showing a hint of discomfort.

“Howell…”

His voice broke, and it was as if he spoke directly to my heart, urging it to beat faster, to love harder. Because god, I loved him. I loved him with every fiber of my being, with every beat of my heart, with every breath in my lungs. But I dared not speak the words, scared they’d shatter the sacred trust between us.

“Look at me.” I held his gaze in silent conversation. A conversation made of shared desires and whispered dreams.

With each gentle thrust, I discovered what turned him on, learned the rhythm that drew soft moans from his lips. The room filled with the sound of our bodies moving together, and the air grew thick with the scent of our mingled arousal. My skin heated, sweat beaded on my forehead, and electrical pulses zipped down my spine.

“Harder… Please, Howell, harder…” Onno pleaded, and I obliged, my movements growing bolder, driven by the urgency pulsing through my veins. We swayed together, a sensual dance that pulled us closer to the edge of ecstasy.

“Yours.” He dug his fingers into my shoulders. “I’m yours, Howell.”

“Oh, sweetheart…”

I couldn’t speak. If I did, I’d spill the words I shouldn’t say, confess the promises that shouldn’t be voiced. Instead, I poured my love for him into the touch of his soft skin and the slides into his warm channel. Each stroke, each kiss, each shared breath wove us tighter together.

Onno wrapped his right hand around his cock. I would’ve done it, but I couldn’t figure out the logistics without putting my full weight on him. Next time. There would be a next time.

And when I couldn’t hold back anymore, when my balls were painfully tight and my muscles cramped with tension, Onno whispered, “Let go, baby. Send us over the edge.”

I threw my head back and surged deep inside him. My muscles seized, and my body grew taut as I shook and shivered my way through the orgasm blazing through me. Onno shuddered underneath me, spraying his load between our heated bodies.

Our dance continued in a quiet postlude of labored breathing and thudding hearts seeking a common rhythm. I rolled off him gently and pulled him into my arms, our limbs entangling. We lay there, sweaty and messy, skin on skin, hearts exposed and vulnerable.

“Thank you,” Onno murmured against my chest, his breath warm and comforting.

“Thank you.” The echo of our lovemaking reverberated in every fiber of my being.

As I held Onno in my embrace, a heaviness settled over me. The knowledge that this bubble of contentment was temporary—a fleeting perfection—clawed at my insides. My chest tightened, and without warning, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.

He would leave. He had to leave. How would I survive without him? How would I ever be able to let him go?

9

ONNO

Three weeks—the span of a heartbeat in the grand scheme of things, yet enough time to turn my world on its head. I lay in Howell’s bed, the predawn light filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the man beside me. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was a silent siren song, lulling me into a false feeling of forever. But forever was a luxury we didn’t have.

As much as I longed to burrow deeper into the warmth of his embrace, it was time to leave. Time to go back to the Netherlands, to a life that suddenly felt foreign, though I’d lived there my entire life. We had spent every waking moment together—exploring the dense greenery of Forestville’s forests, laughing over homemade dinners, getting lost in each other’s arms. And now, the reality of our separation squeezed my heart, leaving a hollow ache where happiness once resided.

I traced the contours of Howell’s sleeping face with my eyes, committing every detail to memory. The way his beard created a perfect shadow along his jaw, how his brown eyes crinkled when he laughed, the softness of his lips when he kissed me.

I was in love with him, and by the way he looked at me, the way his touch lingered, I could only conclude he felt the same. But neither of us had dared to give voice to our feelings. What was the point? It would only carve deeper grooves into our breaking hearts.

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