Page 154 of Forever Then

Her breast in one hand and the other molded around the curve of her ass, I take control as I move her back and forth, her body fully surrendered to my lead. Picking up the pace, I buck my hips again and her sharp cry pierces the room.

“Tell me this is okay. I need to know I’m not hurting you.”

She shakes her head in a rush. “It’s okay. It’s so good. You feel so good. Please don’t stop.”

I thrust again and again, groaning and grunting into the hot, shaky breaths filling the space between us.

A mumbled curse escapes me. “Gretch, it’s like you were made for me. Every goddamn inch of you is perfect. I swear to God it’s never been this good.” My hooded gaze finds hers, satisfaction gleaming, a moment before she spreads her knees wider and grinds down into me, hard.

She slaps a palm on the headboard, leveraging her weight, before she does it again. Her chest hovers above me and I suck her nipple between my teeth, kneading the flesh with my hand. She gasps and it’s my undoing.

The sounds between us are feral: curses clouded by heavybreaths, groans parsed with the sounds of skin slapping skin,I love youssung to the rhythmic pulse of the bed frame hitting the wall.

Every bit of my need spurs Gretchen on and I hold nothing back. I tell her how good she feels. I kiss her until she yanks her mouth away for air, and when her cries get louder, I’m right there with her.

Her hair tumbles across her face, falling like a curtain around us. I delicately tuck the strands behind her ear then lean all my weight against the headboard and launch my hips up, harder than I’ve dared to try thus far.

“Oh God, yes! There!” she cries as she rocks forward to meet my pace, nails digging into my shoulder. Everything’s faster, harder now, both of us chasing more.

Heat rushes through me. Like gasoline thrown onto a raging fire, shameless lust breathes new life into this love that’s brought us here, leaving me hopelessly, recklessly at her mercy, fully committed to giving her everything—anything—she wants.

Our tempo grows frantic as I arch up into her and she matches me point for point, the weight of our bodies pressing into the headboard to maintain this rhythm. Wood rattles and the bed frame shakes as we close in.

Heavy breaths turn to shouts as she pushes in and down seeking more and I dig my heels into the mattress to give it to her, braced for my own release that is so damn close.

Her orgasm takes her and she shatters. Her fragmented moan splits into a million pieces as it fills every inch of this room, this whole apartment. She’s a goddamn masterpiece. Stunning and shameless in how she rides out her climax to the very end. Body tense, thighs clenching, she cries out her agreement over and over and I crest right along with her, coming on a loud groan. She writhes, rolling her hips to milk every last drop until we reach the other side together, sated, breathless, and completely spent. Wrecked in the most incredible, life-altering way.

I take her face in my hands and lower her lips to mine. I kiss her with purpose and intensity because no words are good enough.

When I was a kid, well-meaning authority figures waxed poeticabout sex being special when you love the other person. Then, I became a hormonal teenage boy and convinced myself that those people only wanted to make me miserable by telling me to wait. Soon enough, sex was just…sex. This thing that feels good in the moment, but can leave you feeling empty when it’s over.

But this…

If I had known it couldfeel likethiswith the right person, I would have waited my entire life for it.

I would have waitedfor her.

“I love you so much,” are the only words I manage. They’re everything I want to say and not enough all at once.

“I love you, too, old man.”

After I dispose of the condom and clean Gretchen up with a warm washcloth, we move to the shower. I don’t say anything and neither does she, both of us content to stand and sway in each other’s arms as the warm water rains down over us.

We don’t talk about the fact that she just lost her virginity. Doing so would minimize what we did to nothing more than a milestone checked off a list, something that’s shaped and remembered by the event itself with no regard for thebefore and afterof it all.

That doesn’t do us justice.

Making love to Gretchen wasn’t a milestone. It wasn’t a bucket-list item. It was the culmination of a thousand puzzle pieces falling into place, a galaxy of stars in perfect alignment, dislodging a trapped coin in a vending machine to finally hear theplinkof metal drop into the chamber—all of it adding up to being exactly where you’re supposed to be with exactly the right person.

An hour later we’re in the kitchen. I’m making another batch of pesto mozzarella grilled cheese sandwiches as Gretchen looks on from her perch on the kitchen counter. Glasses on, her hair is braided over one shoulder. The sleeves of my college sweatshirt are tugged down past her fingertips, knees tucked into her chest, arms wrapped around them, as her fuzzy socked feet rest on the countertop.

I pull out my phone and snap a picture of her.

“Why’d you do that?” she asks.

Someday I want to show our kids that you’ve always been this beautiful.

“You look hot,” is what I say instead.

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