Page 112 of Lotus

Just as my tongue finds hers, Sydney steps closer to me and slips on the wet paint. I move to catch her, but my footing is hindered by the pants around my knees, and we both topple over, my arms spinning her around, so she falls on top of me. We start kissing again through our grins, and I roll us until I’m hovering over her, our limbs and skin sliding over the paint.

Kicking off my bottoms, I yank down her leggings until we’re both bare, exposed, and vulnerable. I kneel between her legs, gazing down at this woman, dabbled in paint, her thighs and smile spread before me.

She is, by far, the greatest work of art.

I lower myself over her, holding my weight up on my arms on either side of her head. We are eye-to-eye, noses kissing, breath warm and heavy against our faces. Reaching down to line myself up at her core, her wet heat slicking my tip and making me shudder, I kiss her. I keep kissing her as I slide inside, groaning as our tongues dance together, reveling in the feel of her arms wrapping around my neck to hold me close.

My movements are slow, my rhythm seductive and sensual. I savor her, adore her, and when I lift my head to find her eyes, we are connected on a higher level. Pressing our foreheads together, gazes still locked, I whisper with ardency: “I love you, Syd. I loved you then, I love you now, and I’ll love you until my dying day.”

There was never a question, never a doubt.

I love this woman.

Sydney’s hands grasp my face, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye. Her thoroughly kissed lips tip into a grin. “I’ve waited twenty-five years to hear you say that.”

The back of my fingers sweep across her cheekbone. “No more waiting.”

Our mouths collide, her legs curling around my waist, my fingers threaded through her hair as we move together in perfect time. We make love right there on her office floor, bestrewn in paint and sweat and kisses, our hearts finally at rest knowing that whatever comes our way, comesourway. We’ll face the world together—as a team.

The Black Lotus finally has his queen.

“I think I have Ultramarine Blue in my cervix.”

We are in the shower, cleaning ourselves up, watching the water run with the colors of the rainbow. I chuckle as I massage shampoo into her hair. “That sounds unpleasant.”

“Well worth it,” she sighs.

What was supposed to be a quick rinse turns into nearly an hour of laughter, soap fights, and holding each other beneath the jets, listening to each other’s heartbeats. I tell her about Athena’s return and how Gabe has allowed me to keep the raccoon for the time being—as long as she’s consistently locked inside her crate when we aren’t present.

And just when I think we’re ready to get out, Sydney kneels down between my legs and takes me in her mouth… and I one-hundred percent understand the appeal.

My sexual recovery time seems to be remarkably quick when I’m with her.

Clean, satiated, and ready for a nap, we finally step out of the bathtub and dry ourselves off. While Sydney slips into a fresh t-shirt and Christmas pajama bottoms, awaiting her evening festivities with family, she suddenly leaps to her feet and rushes out of the bedroom. “My present!”

I follow with a chuckle, charmed by her enthusiasm, having a vague recollection of waking up on Christmas morning as a child and feeling a similar sensation. I make my way down the stairs, and Sydney is already dragging the large box to the sofa, tearing open the decorative paper. Sitting beside her, I watch with nervous energy as she punctures the tape with her long fingernails and rips the flaps open.

“Oh, my God…” When she pulls out the tissue paper and her eyes land on what’s inside, she freezes for a moment, gaze fixed on the inner contents. “Are these…?”

“Yes,” I say softly. “I picked them up from the police station a while back. I haven’t even gone through all of them—it’s a bit difficult to relive.”

Sydney reaches in to pull out the enormous stack of comics I created while I was in captivity. The creative outlet was my only source of sanity, my only true cure for the boredom. This imaginary world gave me companionship and kept me from rotting away at the bottom of the earth. It truly saved my life.

“The Lotus Chronicles,” she whispers, running her fingertips along the top page, enchanted and in a daze. “Whatever that word meant, or why it was significant… it gave you a purpose, Oliver.” Sydney’s tear-filled eyes latch onto mine as she squeezes the comics between her hands. “You want me to have these?”

I nod. “You’re sprinkled into every single one of these stories, Syd. You were a part of me down there.”

Her wistful smile blossoms with more tears, and we spend the rest of the afternoon skimming through the pages, getting lost in the tales. I can hardly remember creating some of them, as it was so long ago, but looking through them with Sydney by my side, holding my hand, eases the sting of recalling those harrowing, lonely years, locked away inside my head.

Sydney is looking through a very old comic, the pages tarnished and split along the edges, when all of a sudden, she freezes. I watch her body stiffen, her breath catching, and I furrow my brows with worry. “What is it?”

“Is this me?” she wonders, her voice laced with something that resembles…horror.

Leaning over her shoulder, I zone in on the image that has her rattled. It’s difficult to decipher at first, as my artistic capabilities had not yet been polished, but it’s clearly a depiction of the Faceless Man. He was the villain in all of my tales—a man with a blackened, shadowy blob where a face should be.

There is a little girl in the photo with blonde hair.

Sydney’s grip tightens on the paper. “I had pigtails in every picture. Why don’t I have pigtails?”

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