Page 94 of Between Us

“I want to stay right here—forever. With my cock buried inside your sweet pussy and your perfect tits in my mouth or hands.”

“Adrian,” I whimper. It starts out as an almost inaudible mewl but with each time I repeat it, it grows louder and stronger. Mimicking the way my pleasure overtakes every inch of my body with each of his deep thrusts.

“Is that what you need, baby?” he asks, mouth still pressed against my chest. I know he’s asking about the way he’s playing with my clit since he’s never once assumed he knows my body better than me. Instead, he always looks for confirmation that I’m enjoying this as much as he is.

I nod emphatically, to the point where words are out of reach. It’s just our bodies and spirits together now.

“Me too.” His voice is low and desperate as he removes his mouth from my breast and drags them up to my lips. It’s a hot, possessive kiss as he pumps into me harder and faster. “I’ve needed you forever, I think.”

“Forever,” I repeat. It’s both an agreement and a promise. My body tenses, almost at the precipice of it all.

But it’s the feel of Adrian’s body against mine—every muscle slowly starts to tighten as his hips move more erratically—that sends me over the edge.

And by the way he grabs the globes of my ass and pulls me onto his length one final time, holding me there as his body pushes him through his orgasm, I know we shared even that intimacy together for the first time.

The realization makes me smile, feeling a sense of not totally foreign hope and completeness in my chest. Adrian’s panting, leaning over me. Accepting the fact I’ll never have my fill of him, I wrap my arms and legs around him and pull my body flush against his, kissing him deep. After a few minutes, he slides out of me, and carries me to the bathroom, so we can clean up before bed.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Blake

Thismorning,Iwokeup feeling more anxious than at any point yesterday. It was almost paralyzing, as I laid in Adrian’s bed, him sleeping next to me while I tried to gain the courage to face my dad.

He woke up soon after I did and stayed there with me, laying soft kisses on my skin and offering words of encouragement, until I knew I needed to do this before any of us—my dad, Adrian, or I—saw each other at work this morning.

Now, as I stand outside of my house, I’m nervous to go inside for the first time in my life.

Biting my lip, I stand at the bottom of the steps and just stare at the door. More than anything, I’m embarrassed and a bit ashamed of the way I acted toward my dad.

I wasn’t lying about why I never wanted to call my dad and not want to put him in a position that compromises his boundaries again. But the way I lashed out at him was out of line. I didn’t mean any of it, and I know none of it is true. I knew it as the words were falling off my tongue, I just couldn’t stop them.

Usually, my word vomit causesmeembarrassment. Not ever harm to someone else. Especially not someone I care about.

The front door opens slowly, and my breath catches in my throat. It comes out in a whoosh when I see my mom standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and hip on the frame. But it’s the soft, maternal smile painted on her lips that gives me the courage to take the first step.

When I’m only a foot in front of her, she pulls me into her arms. “Morrita,” she murmurs into my hair. “I’m proud of you.”

Pulling back, I look at her in disbelief. “You shouldn’t be. Hasn’t Dad told you?”

Running a hand down my head, hair loose and air drying from my shower this morning, she nods. “He did. And I didn’t meanthat—it’s not our conversation to have. I’m proud of you for being here this morning. You’re allowed to take time, but you can’t avoid these hard conversations either.”

Quietly, I tell her, “I know. I don’t want to hide from them anymore.”

Even if every hard conversation doesn’t result in positive changes, it doesn’t mean they aren’t important. And over the last couple of months, Adrian’s given me the space, and safety, to grow more confident in myself; to learn to trust the intentions of others.

With her arm wrapped around my shoulder, she guides me into the kitchen where my dad’s already putting together breakfast burritos. The one he’s wrapping, I know, is for me. I’m the only one in the family who likes my tortillas a little more burnt and crunchier.

When I walk into the room, he looks up and there’s a soft tilt of his lips. It’s sadder than the one I got from my mom.

“Hi, Dad,” I greet him. Slowly, I take the seat next to my mom and watch as my dad finishes putting the burrito together and pushes the plate toward me.

“Hi, honey. Do you want coffee?” I shake my head. Adrian already made me coffee and breakfast, but this feels like an olive branch. One I don’t deserve—it pinches at my heart anyway. Turning toward the cabinet, he asks, “Juice?”

My eyes suddenly fill with tears—my guilt and love for this man growing exponentially. Nodding, I mutter, “Sure.”

His brows furrow, pouring me a glass of pineapple juice before he leans his hands on the island across from me. The look on his face is open, as much as it is expected.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, the first tear sliding down my cheek. Clearing her throat, my mom grabs for her plate and moves to stand. I gently grab her wrist. “No, no. You can stay… Youshouldstay.”

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