Page 62 of A Love Song for Dreamers

Before we broke up, I felt powerless. In the moments we’d lost ourselves in physicality, trying to connect in any way we could, we somehow missed eachother.

This is theopposite.

I kiss her in the kitchen while she kicks off her shoes, in the living room as I unbutton my shirt. I kiss her in her bedroom, ignoring the desire to look around. Curiosity can wait. We’ve waited longenough.

I unzip her dress, slide the straps off her smooth shoulders, and watch it fall to thefloor.

The way she looks at me, hungry eyes filled with lust and emotion, makes me want tohurry.

Idon’t.

I’ve never had a problem with patience, but I’ve had a problem withappreciation.

I won’t take a moment of this, ofher, for grantedagain.

I strip away the rest of our clothes, piece bypiece.

My shirt andpants.

Her bra andpanties.

I’m covered in ink, the words I could never say painting pictures across my body like she used to do with herpen.

She’s slim and unmarked, a blank canvas that’s familiar and fresh atonce.

I touch every inch of her, cupping her breasts that fit perfectly in my hands, sucking her dark nipples until she moans myname.

My lips caress her shoulders, her throat, her waist, herhips.

I make love to her the way I’ve wanted to for weeks,years.

For the first time, I’m not afraid of what’s between us. I take itall.

I touch her body as if she’s mine forever instead of just fornow.

She kisses me with the openness she’s always had, the confidence that’snew.

Her palm slips between us to wrap around me, forcing a hiss from my throat as pleasure spirals up my spine. Every muscle in me clenches, right down to the hand I spent two yearshating…

And I wantmore.

I want her around me, so tight I can’tbreathe.

Inside me, in the space between the atoms that make up my muscles and skin andbones.

When the fire inside me won’t be checked, I walk her toward the dresser, lifting her. She studies me with half-lidded eyes under dark lashes as our lipsbrush.

“Areyou…”

My words are hoarse, the first sound in the silence that’s not the slide of fabric or the pant of breath or the moan of asigh.

Annie nods. “Do it,” shewhispers.

Fourwords.

They’re all we needtonight.

When I press inside her, it’s slow. I thank a god I’ve never prayed to before as every inch of her takes every inch ofme.

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