Page 42 of Heart Strings
Aidan trembles at the maddening sensation but doesn’t pull away. He whispers, “It’s always for you.”
Deep down, I knew that. The songs he sings, the tattoo marking him. What must have been going through his mind as he made my initial a part of his body after we broke up? Was it anger, devotion, or obsession, or simply an act of denial? “Why?”
“I was in Amsterdam and my bass player was gettingsomething at this little tattoo shop. One of my songs started playing and it felt like a sign.”
“I cut off something meant to go on forever?” I ask softly.
“Do you see any strings cut?”
It takes some effort to tear myself from the earnestness on Aidan’s face and get another look at the ink. He’s right: All the strings remain intact. The scissors haven’t followed through on their threat. Now I’m not sure how to interpret the image. Is the point that the thread between us hasn’t been severed?
Keeping his wrists pinned, I lean down and gently lick the outline of the ink. A soft breath of air on the streak of moisture earns me his gasp, a buck of his hips. I let myself straddle him then claim his mouth. Our kiss is a charged conversation. Hot and emotion-filled and desperate.
I tie the ribbon loosely around the post and his wrist with a sailor’s knot I learned that day on the boat. The white satin isn’t ideal, but this knot shouldn’t tighten as he pulls, and I can release it with one yank. I diligently snip the length of ribbon with the scissors and repeat on the other side. As I lean over him to tie the knots, he nuzzles his face into my breasts through my bra. The drag of his beard and the heat of his tongue has me gasping for air. I push a pillow under him to raise his chest, so it’s about level with his wrists. Dexterity is so important to his music—his career, his soul—and I refuse to risk nerve damage.
“Too snug?” I ask, taking the condom from his grasp. “Tell me if you can’t feel your fingers.”
Aidan leans closer to kiss me, and just to tease him, I pull out of reach. Slowly, I drag fingertips along his jaw, his chest, his stomach, as he squirms. Now that I have the chance, I’m givingAidan a taste of the frustration I felt when his music was all around me but he was too far away to touch.
I slide one strap of my bra down and toy with it while he looks on, anguished. The other strap. I comb my fingers through my damp hair and shake it out, buying some time to tease him.
“You’re hell-bent on torturing me, aren’t you?”
“And we didn’t even have to visit the dungeon,” I say, unhooking my bra. My chest drops and Aidan’s eyes flash. Being so close to him but not touching is painful for me, too. I slip off my panties and climb over him.
“Smother me with those tits.”
They’re heavy and aching to be touched. He sucks a nipple into his hot mouth. I cry out at how sensitized they already are. He flicks his tongue against it, nibbling and teasing until I’m delirious.
“I could do anything I want with you,” I remind him.
Flashing a challenging smirk, he jerks against the ribbon, testing its hold. “Then do it.”
Our eyes lock as my fingers curl around his waistband. I tug his underwear off and discard them on the floor. Aidan sucks in a quick gasp as I give him a couple long strokes.
I pull away and reach for the protection, rolling it on quickly. The need, the ache is so intense. I need him now.
“Use me to get yourself off, Lo,” Aidan says, voice ragged with want. “Show me what you’ve missed.”
Something snaps in me. The culmination of two years of longing, of remembering, of resenting. All the nights I cried over him, all the nights I fantasized over our memories. I grab his thighs, push them up until he’s bent at the knees, and climb on top of him.
“What are you—” he starts to ask, but the words shrink in his throat. I reach down to notch his length against me and mount him kneeling, Amazon style. The unconventional position, with his legs spread wider than mine, throws him off, but there’s an undeniable current of excitement. We’ve never tried this before.
Aidan looks deep into my eyes as I sink down. There’s a bit of resistance, and then such fullness that I moan out his name. He’s a dream under me. All flushed cheeks and mussed hair. Vulnerable and exposed.
“You’re gonna break me in half,” he groans.
“Exactly.” I sink deeper, accepting him inch by inch.
He throws his head back, exposing his throat as he vocalizes his bliss. “Oh god, you feel amazing. So gorgeous for me.”
Amazingdoesn’t begin to describe it. Not even close. There’s a familiar, slight sting as he stretches me but my memories did not do it justice. We lock eyes and I feel like the vulnerable one. Because despite everything I tell myself, I still can’t resist him. Aidan must see this. It’s intense, the unflinching stare and the way my body slowly accommodates his. Finally, he’s fully inside. He tries to buck his hips, but I hold his knees up. I want him passive.
Aidan’s forearms flex as he uselessly jerks against the ribbons. The contrast of smooth white satin pinning down his inked muscle is striking. He’s grinning as if this is all he’s ever wanted in bed. And I realize, I’m grinning, too. Because this—trust, compatibility, connection with him—isall I’ve wanted.
“Don’t move.”
Aidan’s brow quirks. “Then you need to move,babe.”
