Page 29 of Love Letters from a Libra
“Did you know that palm reading and astrology share common roots? Both attempt to map the unmappable trajectory of human life,” he said, his voice smooth as night.
“Are you secretly a palm reader now too?” I joked, watching his finger follow my heart line from the edge of my palm toward my index finger.
Jules smiled. “No, but I notice your heart line is deep and passionate, but it has little breaks in places where it hesitates before continuing.”
I swallowed, surprised by the accuracy of his observation, not just of my palm but of my emotional patterns. “What does that mean in your amateur analysis?”
Jules smirked, but his eyes lifted to meet mine. “It means you love deeply but cautiously, like someone who’s been hurt before but refuses to stop trying. Am I wrong?”
I resisted the urge to close my hand to hide the truth written in my skin. “No, you’re not wrong.”
Something was mesmerizing about hearing myself described through his eyes, particularly by a man I would assume would find such things frivolous. But he spoke with understanding, respect, and knowledge that went beyond casual research.
“You’re someone who’s caught between air and water. You present balance, Libra scales seek equilibrium, but underneath, you crave depth, the emotional intensity of water signs. That’s where you lose yourself.”
His observation landed with such precision that, for a moment, I couldn’t speak his name. Something I felt, but never articulated, was the constant tension between my desire for harmony and my need for emotional depth.
“Maybe I’m tired of balancing. Maybe I want to fall,” I confessed.
Jules shook his head, his locs moving in the ponytail across his back at my words, and the air between us grew heavy. Hishand slid up from my palm, up my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps.
“Falling isn’t always bad, not if there’s someone there to catch you,” he murmured, leaning closer. Why did that make my nipples hard?
“Are you volunteering?” I asked.
He answered, not with words but by closing the distance between us. His lips found mine with gentle certainty. The kiss was nothing like I had imagined, not urgent or demanding, but slow, deliberate, and grounded, as if he were mesmerized by the taste of me. A small sound escaped my throat when his hands slid into my hair.
I’d been kissed plenty in my life, but never like this, never with this strange combination of precision and passion, like he was lost in the moment yet completely present in it.
His mouth moved against mine with the confidence that melted my remaining hesitation and lingering doubts about his recent distance. My hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling solid strength beneath his shirt. Jules pulled back slightly, his eyes asking mine for permission. I answered by shifting and swinging my legs off his lap to straddle him instead, bringing our bodies flush against each other. His hands settled at my waist, steadying but not controlling.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rougher.
“I’m sure I want you. We can figure out the rest later.”
He smiled before kissing me again, deeper this time. Clothing became a barrier that we took off piece by piece, his shirt first, revealing the tribal sleeve tattoo and its full glory, black ink stark against his skin. My T-shirt next. His breath caught as I pulled it over my head. Each exposure felt like a question and answer all at once.
There was something reverent in the way he touched me, as if I were something precious yet powerful. His lips traced apath from my mouth to my neck to the sensitive spot where my shoulder met my collarbone, and I arched into him, wanting more of this, more of him.
When his hands found the waistband of my sweatpants, I lifted my hips, giving him silent permission, and then helped him shed his own pants until we were skin to skin, breath to breath. What happened next was less like sex and more like a communion, a physical conversation that we’d been having since he showed up at my door.
I opened my mouth, welcoming his tongue against mine, tasting the sweetness of the strawberry soda he’d had with dinner. I pulled the band from his locs so I could massage his scalp. Underneath me, Jules was as hard as steel.
Unable to hold out any longer, he lifted me onto him. He groaned into my mouth as I slid down, my juices instantly flowing, allowing me to accommodate his girth.
He let out a low “fuck.”
I rocked back and forth, creating a sweet friction as gentle pressure turned into a heavier pounding. My body responded with its own dialect of sighs and tightened muscles. Jules nibbled and sucked my nipples with gentle tugging.
“How are you this damn wet?” Jules groaned.
My hands moved back into his hair as I brazenly rocked on his dick. We moved together. Sometimes his movements were deliberate and slow, and then urgent, and my responses matched his.
“Ooh, right . . . there! Aaah, yes, . . . yes!” My clit throbbed, and when my release came, it wasn’t just physical. Something emotional broke inside me, a dam I’d built without realizing it.
In response, Jules’s hands gripped my ass as he pulled me down harder and faster until he held me down, gripping my hips. I didn’t move, but my pussy responded by throbbing in a second release.
“Goddamnit, what are you doing to me?” Jules slurred.
