Page 68 of Where the Little Birds Go (Little Bird Duet 1)

“I. Need. You,” I repeat.

She exhales a breath.

“I. Love. You.”

A tear sticks to her eyelashes.

“And I’ve never stopped.”

She bends down and presses her chest against mine, sending racks of shivers down my spine from the contact. We kiss. We cry. We breathe. And in the slowest, gentlest fashion possible, I flip us over and guide myself inside her until I’m seated fully.

I think about the past and kiss her.

I think about the present and caress her.

I think about the future and hold her.

But the cool depths of reality tell us that this moment is temporary, so we make the most of the weight and warmth and the need that our bodies crave. I vibrate with it so brutally as I slowly enter her again and again.

The softest exhale of my name from her parted lips as I take my time with her has me swelling. She wraps her legs around me, and angles herself up so I’m further in. We both moan as we find our pace, my body coming down completely on hers, and pushing as deep as I can until there’s no clear indication of who is who.

Her fingernails rake down my naked back, digging in with a pain that I welcome. I want her to mark my flesh and engrave herself into my existence for good.

Because I meant what I said.

I need her.

I need her fast wit and sarcasm.

I need every emotion—good and bad.

I need the feeling that has cemented itself so concretely in my chest that tells me how stupid I was when I was eighteen. So fucking stupid. I need it all, even if it destroys me and what I’ve built for myself because nothing compares.

So, I breathe the words over and over again, punctuating each one with the deepest thrust that brings us closer to the edge.

“I need you.”

The bed creaks.

“I need you.”

Her breath catches.

“I need you.”

Her nails pierce my skin.

My hips move into a circle, grinding down on her until she’s making the noise that is music to my ears. She tightens around me with every push, and the kisses I land on her chest, collarbone, neck, and lips all bring her closer and closer.

Yet, nothing quickens my pace.

This isn’t screwing or fucking or a one-time thing between people who don’t care. We’re consumed and that’s the problem. We care too much.

I make love to her slowly, finding her hands and intertwining our fingers because I need this—the contact, the warmth, the empty promise that rests openly between us. Once it’s over, then everything we’ve been through is final.

It’s over.

It ends.

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