Page 36 of Camera Chemistry
“You first,” he says with that familiar selflessness. Before I can snake my hand between my legs, his fingers are there, circling and rubbing and pushing me over the edge. I tumble gladly, the free-fall well worth the climb, and I collapse into an exhausted heap on the mattress.
“Come in me, Aiden,” I say through tired breaths, reaching back to touch him anywhere my hands can find.
And he does. Through a long groan and two more rocks forward, I feel his release. He pumps in me until he finally stills, stilted pants gasping for air filling the room.
“I think I’m dying,” he says. “Dead at forty-five thanks to the way you ride my dick.”
I burst out laughing and ease myself off him. “I’ll mourn you.”
“Show up naked to my funeral so I can appreciate your ass one more time.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
We climb over each other and shuffle around on the bed, finding our way back to the position we started in. Me, in his arms. Him, a kiss to my forehead.
“I’m going to need multiple hours of recovery,” he admits. “I haven’t gone this many times since… fuck. Ever, I think.”
“And they say men get progressively worse with age. I have some data to submit.”
“Let me make sure I don’t go into cardiac arrest first. Are you okay if we put a brief pause on physical activities? Then you can continue to research.”
“Aiden. We could go the rest of our time together without having sex again, and it’d still be the best night of my life.”
“Good. I want to just… be with you.”
“And what does that entail?” I ask, snuggling into him.
“Some quiet for a few minutes. A shower when my legs can move properly. Talking. Making a second dinner. I don’t care. Just want to enjoy you.” He buries his face in my hair and sighs. “Ten hours with you, and you’re already one of my favorite people. Scary, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. There’s sweat on my back. My hair is a mess. I need to use the bathroom, and my calf is cramping. Still, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. Nothing has ever felt more like home. “Terrifying.”
TWENTY-TWO
AIDEN
We lie together for an hour.We’ll talk occasionally. She shares a story about her family. I mention the secret signedLord of the Ringsmovie poster I have in my closet, and how I’d grab it if there was a fire. For the most part, we’re quiet, holding each other and reveling in the silence. There’s no urgency to speak. It’s still and peaceful and fuckingperfect.
Eventually, Maggie drags me into the bathroom to shower. I turn on the water and she shrieks about it being too cold. Something lethal in my chest twists and turns as she splashes me with droplets, elated laughter ringing in my ears. The longer I stare at her—naked, a nasty bruise sprouting on her neck from where I sucked her skin, tousled hair and a smile on her face—the more painful the sensation is.
It hits me suddenly.
I don’t want her to leave. I want her to stay here. Not just for tonight, but for many nights after. I imagine a toothbrush next to mine and her scrubs in my hamper. Hair ties on the vanity and scented soap on her side of the sink.
Instead of being an adult who has open conversations, instead of proposing a real date rather than something confined strictly to the walls of my apartment with an expiration date, I keep my mouth closed and nudge her in the shower. It accommodates two people well, and there’s plenty of space to sink to my knees, water trickling down my chest as I prop Maggie’s leg on my shoulder. I tell her to put her hands above her head, to keep her eyes on me, and then I eat her out because it’s easier than saying I could see her fitting into my life.
I bring her to the brink and stop just short of finishing her off. Multiple times. One minute, she curses me and calls me an asshole. In the next, as her toes curl over my muscles and she lets out a sob of desperation, she calls me God, a hymn I want to hear every day.
Her balance is shaky. Her thighs quake. Still, she behaves. Her hands stay in place, her eyes stay open, and she’s listening so well, being sogood,I know she deserves to be rewarded. I ask her to pass me the detachable shower head. I bring it to her clit, holding her steady as she comes—twice, because, fuck me, she’s perfect. She whispersthank youso beautifully, and I want to get the words tattooed on me so I can remember them forever.
I stop the water and grab a towel, drying her off. I take my time, massaging her muscles, running down the length of her body, appreciating every divot, every dip, every curve. I kiss her dry skin as I go, savoring the heat under my lips.
In a fit of selfishness, I steal one more orgasm from her as I run the terry cloth between her legs. It doesn’t take much, hardly a graze over her clit and the slip of my finger inside, until she’s coming again, juices from her pussy running down my hand.
I gather her in my arms and bring her back to bed, the discussion of a potential second meeting shoved away, locked in a compartment I can’t open, because this arrangement is what we want. I refuse to jeopardize what we have going with a silly declaration of feelings, no matter how poignant they might feel.
I haven’t bounced back yet physically, dick still soft and spent, so I tie Maggie’s hands together with one of my patterned neck accessories. I cover her eyes with an eye mask I have in my dresser from an overnight flight a couple years back. I tease her, touching every inch of her body until I know exactly what she likes and where. She gets frustrated with me for being so slow and thorough. Her wrists yank against the tie, the skin under the silk turning pink. I flip her on her knees and spank her for rushing me, another check off her list.
After I make her come, I can tell she’s depleted. I hold her close, stroking her damp hair and listening to her talk about how she got into neurosurgery.
