Page 75 of So Close

Setting down the long-handled spoon, you face me. “Are you afraid?”

“No.”

“Good.” You lean back against the edge of the counter and fold your arms, showing off the beauty of your thick biceps and hard pectorals. Your jeans barely restrain a prominent erection. The top button is undone, allowing the denim to ride low on your hips. You’re noticeably wearing nothing underneath.

You are, quite simply, the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. Erotic and boldly virile. I’m so grateful you’re mine, and I get to have you whenever I need you. The raking glance you give me is a caress of its own – hot, appreciative and possessive. You always look at me that way, as if I’m both priceless art and titillating pornography.

Do you see me clearly, or does the fog of old sentiment blur your vision? Which would benefit me more: acceptance as I am or the forgiveness of nostalgia?

I shift my stance, frustrated and restless. My hunger for you is sharp and urgent. I want so much more from you. I want it all. And that ungratified greed drives me to take you any way I can get you, as often as possible.

You straighten, turn off the burner and cover the pot with a lid. “If we leave now, our last memory here will be that damned flower delivery. I’m not letting anyone or anything change what this place means to us. We don’t have to run. I’m fully capable of protecting you.”

As always, your passionate heart moves me. Who would have thought a woman raised to be contemptuous of love would fall so deeply for a romantic?

You make me want to be a better person so fiercely I can’t imagine not transforming. Larva to butterfly. Sinner to saint.

You prowl toward me, a sleek panther, big and fluidly graceful. I find myself taking an involuntary step back as adrenaline surges through me.

“I’ll catch you,” you warn softly.

My pulse races, and my chin lifts. “I’m not running.”

Your hands encircle my upper arms as if, despite my assurance, you expect me to bolt. Your grip flexes, tightening then releasing. Desire smolders in your eyes, but it’s fury that burns brightest.

“Do you do it on purpose?” you murmur, your gaze on my mouth. “Everything about you makes me want to fuck. The look of you, the way you smell. Just the thought of you makes me hard. You’re a compulsion,Setareh.”

Your thumb lifts to my lower lip, rubbing it. I lick the pad, then suck your thumb into my mouth. The suction is firm as my tongue strokes the calloused pad. You growl, pressing against me, your erection growing with every circle of my tongue.

I release you, and your arm falls to your side. “You’re angry,” I say, and it’s not a question.

“I’m way beyond angry.” You rest your forehead against mine. “Sixyears, Setareh. Six years of being so desperate for you that I thought I’d go insane. And now someone’s threatened you when I’ve just gotten you back. Even rage doesn’t begin to touch what I feel.”

Your love never lessened. I think of the canvas on your wall; you’ve tortured yourself to keep Lily close.

Leaning forward, I press a kiss over your heart. Somehow, I will take that hurt away and replace it with love. Your last memory of us in this house will be of joy, even if it’s a recollection made hazy by mind-numbing pleasure. It’s the least I can do, considering all the pain I’ll be causing you in the future.

You groan as I move my mouth to the flat brown disk of your nipple and kiss it, too. While my tongue flickers over the tight point, I release the steel buttons of your fly one by one.

Your jeans slide to the floor. You step out of them and kick them aside, brazenly naked. I take your penis in my hands, my lips curving when a hard tremor wracks your big body. There is undeniable power in taking control of an authoritative man like you. It’s exhilarating having you in my palms – satin-smooth, thick and feverishly hot.

It’s been strange and wonderful to touch you intimately, yet I can’t shake the odd sense of interloping. It’s maddening, unsettling and dreadful. I want to believe that what we ignore will simply disappear, but I know only honesty can set us free.

And separate us.

I begin a gliding tug from root to tip. I’ve got both hands wrapped around you, one atop the other, but the head of your penis extends past my grasp. I give you a two-fisted stroke, knowing the pressure you like. Your serrated moan rewards me. I brush my lips across your chest to find your other nipple.

Sliding my right hand between your legs, I cup the heavy weight of your sac, freeing my left hand to move faster over your thickly veined length.

“I’ve never been this hard,” you bite out, jaw clenching.

“Not even our first time?”

“I want you more now.” Your hips begin to rock into my grip.

“Kiss me,” I order, touched by your confession that I affect you as no other ever has. When you lower your head to mine, I capture your lips in a breathless melding, indulging in your honeyed flavor. My hold on you tightens, just enough to increase the friction. You weren’t lying – you’re hard as steel, engorged with need. It’s heady. You’re a man who could have anyone but who wants only me, and while I’m always yours for the taking, even total surrender fails to assuage your craving.

As my tongue traces your parted lips, your moan pours upward from somewhere deep and dark inside you. Your extreme reaction makes me slick between the thighs, but this moment is yours, just as you are mine.

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