Page 78 of The Art of Dying

He looked at the curves of my exposed skin and sighed, fighting his instincts. “You might be upset later if we don’t.”

I frowned. “Does it have to do with another woman? Were you unfaithful?”

His expression twisted into disgust. “Hell no.”

I grinned. “Then it can wait.” I pulled his shirt over his head and pulled him with me as I fell to my back on the mattress.

Say what you want about monogamy, but sex with the same person over and over was the best kind. Someone who knows and adores every inch of your body, who touches you exactly the way you like, knows how to make you come, makes the effort to still explore ways to surprise you, all while connecting on a deeper level? That was far more exciting to me than endless one-night stands and empty, meaningless sex that usually ended too soon and far before I got any satisfaction out of it.

Kitsch’s tongue danced with mine as his hand traveled down my side, over my thigh and between my legs. His fingers barely grazed over my skin at first and then they were more purposeful, teasing me for several long minutes before his middle finger finally slipped inside. Unlike the bumbling boys I’d been with before, Kitsch didn’t try to press some invisible button inside of me, instead bending his finger as if he was asking me to come closer. The movement made my insides tense, my back arch, and my toes curl all at the same time.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered, digging my fingers into the muscles of his back.

I nearly sat up to protest when Kitsch stopped, only to relax again when his lips made their way down my neck, tracing the curves of my breasts, making a line down the center of my middle, kissing one thigh and then the other, excruciatingly slow while he settled between them. He changed direction, then, settling on the pink skin already wet from the way his fingers had attended to me moments before. I let my head fall back, reaching down to grip his still-damp hair. He moaned against me, making my already sensitive parts scream and my knees quiver.

“Baby,” I whispered. “I want you inside me.”

He ignored me, patiently licking and sucking. Regardless of the way my body moved in reaction, he held back, knowing I liked the most tender parts of me to be touched as such. The magic in the way Kitsch fucked me was how much he enjoyed not fucking me, his restraint in getting to the end, and—unlike anyone I’d been with before—his gratification wasn’t in the result, but everything leading up to it.

My face flushed, my back arched, and I tried my hardest not to pull out my husband’s hair as an intense orgasm ripped through my body, causing a simultaneous explosion and implosion, physical and emotional, rising up within me and rendering me helpless to the spasming of my lower half.

I bit my lip, somehow muffling the cries and moans emanating from my throat.

Kitsch kissed my thighs again as I melted against the mattress.

“That was a good one,” I said, breathless.

“Yes, it was,” he said. In one motion, he flipped me to my stomach, used his knee to separate my legs and then slowly positioned himself between them, groaning as he easily slid his way inside me.

His warm chest against me, his lips whispering how much he loved me, Kitsch rocked his hips. His fingers intertwined with mine, he used his feet to move my ankles together, tightening me around him. The position made it a little more difficult for him to fully submerge, but he adjusted his angle, making him groan in my ear.

My cheek flat against the comforter, jerking forward with each of his strong, confident movements, and already in a euphoric state, feeling him slide in and out of me with ease made my eyes roll back into my head.

I squeezed his fingers and then tightened my thighs and arched my back, allowing him in even deeper.

Kitsch thrust into me, his movements more powerful, until he finally came, pressing his forehead against my back, his knuckles white.

His breathing hard, his chest heaving, he leaned over, falling onto the mattress next to me, still keeping one hand in mine.

He looked over at me and smiled, seeming amused at me peeking at him from behind the small wrinkles of the blanket.

“God, I love you,” he said, grinning like an idiot.

“Not as much as I love you.”

He breathed out a few laughs, but then reality set in. His smile faded, and he brought my hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to my fingers. “I hope that’s true.”

“Test me,” I said.

The wind outside picked up, making the shadows on the wall dance. Kitsch used his free arm and laid it over his forehead, still trying to get his breathing under control while he stared up at the ceiling.

“This reminds me of our first night together.”

“Funny you say that. I was worried about the exact same thing back then that I am tonight.”

I perched my shoulder on my pillow and rested my head on the heel of my hand. “Worried about what, exactly?”

“That you’d change your mind about me.”

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