Page 58 of Healing Hearts
She must be close, and I keep licking, sucking, and swirling in the rhythm that I know doesn’t just get her there, but gets her there in a way that drives her a little insane before she tips over. She told me once that she can never decide what she wants more when I do this—for me to keep going or for her to hit the peak.
“You’re right there, Em. You’re right there. You’re doing so good,” I murmur against her thigh as my fingers and thumb keep up the tension.
She lets out an audible whimper, and I go back in one more time. With a tiny bit more pressure, her hips shoot off the bed, and she cries out.
“Oh my god,” she says. “I’ve been thinking about you doing that all day.”
“You only need to ask,” I say, rising over her to make eye contact. “I’ll do anything you want.”
“I want you to fuck me,” she says without even a hint of self-consciousness.
I search her expression, trying to figure out if this is post-orgasm talk or she’s serious. “Right now?”
“Right now.” She hooks her ankles around my waist.
“The timing…” I can’t even believe I’m not already sliding into her, but this feels like a slippery slope. It’s one thing for me to get her off whenever she wants, but it’s another to have sex become a free for all.
“Maybe that’s what we’ve been doing wrong. Too rigid. Maybe we should just do what feels good.”
“Em, are you—”
Her hand on the back of my neck, dragging me into a kiss kills the last of my protest. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe the slope will be slippery and dangerous. Maybe I’ll lose sight of the goal. Maybe this will blow up our friendship.
And it’s that last thought that gives me the tiniest hesitation until her hand is in my box-briefs, shoving them down, gripping me, guiding me to where she wants me.
Who am I to deny her what she wants when she wants it this badly?
“Fuck, Em,” I mutter as I slide in.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone this badly,” she says into my ear as I move inside her.
That comment, coming from her, is the biggest aphrodisiac of my life. I may not have much to offer, but I can give her this. I can give it to her whenever, wherever, and however she wants.
“I love when you’re inside me,” she whispers, clutching onto me. “I love it so much.”
If she keeps saying shit like that to me, I’m only going to last another two or three thrusts, but I can’t deny how much my chest swells to hear it, how good it is to know that I matter in some way to her.
Because we’ve been together so many times now, I recognize the signs that she could hit a second orgasm. It’s rare, but it seems like tonight she’s extra keyed up, which is good because it gives me something else to focus on. With each thrust, eachbrush of our bodies, I watch her reactions shift until I’m driving us both toward the height of pleasure.
And when she cries out my name, I kiss her deeply, and I follow right behind.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Emily
Father’s Day morning arrives in the house like Christmas. Amir is up before the sun, knocking on my door and asking if it’s time to make breakfast for Trent. I convince him to come into my bed for more sleep, and I send a text to Trent telling him not to go downstairs if we’re still sleeping when he wakes up.
When Amir wakes up again, it’s ten in the morning, and I’m sure Trent’s been cursing my instruction to stay in bed. He’s often up and gone to the gym early on Sundays.
My son is frantic, convinced Trent wouldn’t have followed instructions and his Father’s Day dream of delivering breakfast in bed will be ruined. When he goes into Trent’s room to take his order, he’s happy he has to wake Trent up. But I wonder if Trent was faking sleep after hearing Amir’s distraught rambling in the hallway.
Either way, I’m grateful to him for playing along.
Amir skips down the stairs with Trent’s breakfast order of bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee in his head. Trent and I talked about the food we had in the house last night because I knew Amir wanted to play waiter.
Amir puts on his superhero apron, and he shows me how he learned to crack an egg with one hand from some online chef he watched. It’s impressive. Some days I can barely crack an egg with two hands without ending up with some stray shell.
Since breakfast isn’t anything fancy, we’re done in no time, and Amir is carefully balancing the plate in his hands on the way up the stairs. I follow behind with the scalding hot coffee. Trent can drink it straight out of the pot without cream or sugar like some sort of unhinged person.
