Page 42 of Love Letters from a Libra
“Would you like to come back to my place?” I asked. The invitation was simple and straightforward.
His eyes met mine. “Yeah,” he answered.
We packed the equipment in his car, then I followed him back to my place.
Inside my apartment, I watched him set the telescope case down with care.
“Would you like some tea? Or maybe we’ve had enough for one night.” I laughed.
“Yeah, I had enough tea, but not enough of this,” he replied, closing the distance between us. The kiss that followed carried more heat than the one in the park. We knew where this was leading, and there was no need to rush the journey.
My hands found their way to his locs. My fingers threaded through them as his arms wrapped around my waist, drawing me closer. We moved through my apartment without breaking contact, navigating around the furniture and shedding layersas we went. By the time we reached the bathroom, the last of my practical thinking surfaced through the haze of desire. “Shower?” I suggested. We’d been lying in that park all night.
Jules smirked. “You trying to cool me off or heat me up?”
I turned on the shower, pulled off my remaining clothes, and stepped inside.
“I’m definitely trying to heat you up.”
“I’ll follow your lead.” Jules stepped inside behind me.
Steam rose around us, water cascaded over our skin, and we explored with deliberate attention, our hands now soapy and clean. The vulnerability of truly being naked with someone washed away all pretenses along with the day’s dust.
Jules pulled me into a kiss, his hardness pressed into my stomach between us. His fingers found their way between my thighs. The middle and pointer fingers pushed inside, releasing my wetness. Jules dropped to his knees and covered my clit with his mouth.
“Ahh.” I whimpered, my knees trying hard not to buckle as Jules tasted me. His tongue moved greedily as he moved it around in circles, occasionally dipping inside and then slurping me as if I were an oyster on a half shell. Just as I was ready to cum, Jules stood from his knees, turning me around and bending me over. He inserted himself, and almost instantly, the pressure had me screaming in pleasure. The curve of his dick stroked my G-spot.
My mouth fell open as I let out a satisfied moan.
“That’s it, baby. Give it to me.” Jules pumped harder now, and I clenched around him, which did something to him because he dug into my insides. Jules cursed under his breath right before he lost his shit and released.
He turned me around and pinned me against the wall, bending his knees slightly to reinsert his dick. My shit was super sensitive now.
“Look at me,” he whispered at one point, and I did, finding his eyes open and present, holding my gaze as we moved together. This was what undid me the most. Not the physical pleasure, intense as it was, but the complete presence that he brought to the moment. Not part of him; Jules was completely with me.
When we finally made it to bed, after making love in the shower, we were both blissfully exhausted.
“Stay with me tonight,” I murmured, the words slipping out before I could analyze my thoughts.
His arm tightened around me, and his answer was immediate and uncomplicated. “I’m not going anywhere.”
After sleep claimed me, I was aware of a new feeling settling in my chest, not the desperate hope that was accompanied by previous relationships, but something steady and more grounded. Something that felt remarkably like peace.
In the morning, I woke up to the weight of Jules’s arm around my waist and his breathing against the back of my neck, the unfamiliar but welcome warmth of another body in my typically solitary morning routine. I eased myself carefully from his embrace, turning to study him in his sleep, face relaxed, locs spread across my pillows like dark rivers, vulnerability written in the softened lines of his usually composed features.
He didn’t stir as I watched him lost in the small details I couldn’t fully appreciate in our previous encounters. The slight curve of his lower lip, how his lashes rested against his cheeks, and the barely visible scar near his left eyebrow. This intimacy felt more significant than anything physical we had shared the night before.
I slipped out of bed, pulled on an oversized T-shirt, and headed quietly to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. Afterward, I headed to the kitchen. The familiar morning ritual of making coffee grounds felt surreal, knowing Jules wasasleep in my bed. I moved through the motions, grinding the beans and setting up the coffee maker.
As the water heated, I noticed my laptop open on the kitchen counter, yesterday’s blog draft still waiting to be completed. Those words stared at me, technically accurate but suddenly feeling hollow, as if I were performing the astrologer persona rather than speaking my truth. I slid onto a stool and opened a new document. The blank page waited as the cursor blinked patiently, and I began to type.
Maybe love isn’t written in the stars after all.
I paused, considering what I had just written. Zanaa Scales, astrologer, suggesting that perhaps the cosmos didn’t dictate our heart journey. I continued typing, allowing the words to flow with care.
I spent years looking upward for answers, tracking planetary movements to explain human connections. I’d mapped charts and analyzed conjunctions, believing the blueprints for finding and recognizing love were somewhere up there.
The kettle clicked off, but I barely noticed.
