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“I’m meant for this.”
My fingers weave through her soft hair as I pepper her face with kisses, from her forehead to her nose to her perfect parted lips. “I want to treasure you. Cherish you. Adore you.”
Her back arches as I trail my mouth down her neck. “You do that every time.”
I slip down her body, worshiping every freckle, every crease, every birthmark. I spread her thighs and feast on her, taking my time, bringing her to the edge of orgasm then pulling back and doing it again. Exquisite torture. I make love to every inch of her until she’s writhing and sweat-soaked, moaning my name and tugging my hair, desperate for release.
And when I finally sink my cock into her, my own desperation blinding me, I gather her closer than ever, our faces a whisper apart, our bodies slick and tangled. She whimpers as I move, slow and deep, rocking against her as our eyes remain locked.
Then I say it: “Junebug.”
Her whimpers morph into a startled cry. Something like disbelief.
Glorious disbelief.
My arms cage her in as I hover over her, fingers twining through her hair, my hips pumping, languid yet fervent. “You were right,” I confess, my lips caressing hers as I feel her thighs cling tighter around me. “That name didn’t come from innocence or some kind of familial connection. It was born out of love. My love for you.” Her eyes glaze with tears, her hands gripping my shoulders. She nods as breathy little sounds spill out of her. “And maybe that love has evolved and blossomed over the years, but it still comes from the same place. And that place is beautiful. That place is pure.”
Wetness stains her cheeks, her lips trembling.
“You’re my Junebug,” I tell her, sweeping back the strands of hair matted to her forehead. I kiss her hairline. “You’ll always be my Junebug.”
She sniffles, sucking in a shuddering breath. “You mean it?”
“Of course I mean it.”
Releasing a tiny gasp, she kisses me hard.
I groan against her sweet mouth as our tongues take over the conversation, and our bodies continue to move together. I thrust into her with lazy, delicious strokes, clutching her in unwavering arms and whispering words of endless love into her ear. I grip the headboard above her while my other hand cradles the top of her head, and my speed picks up as the mattress squeaks and our skin slaps. June pants and moans, craning her neck back, her body quaking with her climax.
And as I follow behind, releasing inside of her, sinking and falling and melting, I know I’ve never felt more alive, more at peace, more grateful than I do in this moment.
For all the tragedy I’ve witnessed, for all the heartache…
I’m lucky.
I’m lucky to have something so good in my life washing away all the bad.
I’m awoken the next morning by a strange, muffled sound as I’m pulled out of a dream.
A nightmare, really.
Every now and then I’ll have a vivid, bone-chilling nightmare about that night. About the night my father woke me out of a sweet sleep where my mind had me dancing on rainbow clouds. Those clouds morphed into black storm clouds the moment my father shook me awake, begging for forgiveness. I still see that manic, desperate look in his eyes. I feel the sweat on his skin. I hear his broken voice telling me to cover my ears.
One more thing, Brant. Cover your ears.
In my nightmares, I do. I always think that if I can’t hear the sound of that gun going off, then maybe it never went off at all.
Rousing groggily, I hear the muffled noise again.
But it’s not June.
It’s not June perched between my legs, sucking me off as the sun spills in through light-blue curtains, glinting her eyes while she peers up at me.
June is still nestled in my arms, naked and fast asleep.
I stir, my eyelids fluttering.
And the sound repeats itself.
