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“Thorn,” I cry out, trembling, half a question, half a pure response to the way he's lodged so firmly inside me.
He rocks back to look at me, rattling the chair as I clutch at him. Another grind of my hips and his bottom lip drops. His entire face is red as he tries to keep himself together.
“I forgot,” he moans, his fingers digging deep into my thighs, the intense bite of pain eating at me.
“What? What do you mean you forgot?”
“I thought I'd taken them all down.” He chokes out, screwing his eyes closed in that way he does when he thinks he’s totally fucked up.
My entire body stiffens around him as I stare down at him, trying to process what he’s saying.
He never asks me for pictures. I’m always the one snapping photos of us when we’re out. Hell, I even changed his phone background myself.
I try to heave in a breath, but I’m already choking up.
I honestly thought there was a point where I couldn't love a person more. Like there was a cutoff or a peak. I’d get to that peak and say, okay, I’m in love with you, that’s it.
But every single time I’m with Thorn, he fucking destroys me with shit like this.
I keep thinking we’ve found our limit. That we’d just go along as we are. Some days would be better or worse than others, but my feelings would mostly stay the same.
“You, um…” Thorn’s gaze dips. “You’ve done some great shoots.” He clears his throat. “And I really like the images.”
No, he doesn’t. He doesn't just like the images. That photo is dumb as fuck. I can just fucking tell it isn’t the poses or the set or the brand or whatever excuse he might make if I ask him. He might tell me the truth as much as he can, but he hides so much from me that I have to find the right way to ask him.
“How long?”
He presses his lips together as the muscles of his jaw tense.
“Thorn, baby, how long have you had that photo for?”
He’s groaning as his chest heaves. I shouldn’t force him; I might make him close up even more. I have him pinned by his cock and I’m not letting up.
I roll my hips and he shudders again, his back falling into the chair, his body slack.
Because maybe he had the photo lying around in an old magazine or something. Maybe he found it online because Heinz refuse to remove it from their fucking online archives. Maybe he’d only had it sitting there for a few months since we started dating, and he’s taken the time to put it in a little blue picture frame, so it had to be special.
I want to hear him say it. I need him to tell me.
“Three…”
“What?” I say too harshly as I squeeze my ass around him. I have to know.
He’s gasping, his expression too stark, wheezing under me. We’re reaching the danger zone. Shaking hands, pupils blown, his mouth opening and closing.
I grind on him, trying to bring us back down, sparks of pleasure whipping through me as he responds with a thrust that has my eyes rolling into the back of my head, but there's no escaping.
If I push him any harder, he might end up hyperventilating. I try as much as I can to watch out for it, to make sure he’s always surrounded by fucking peace because he deserves it so much after what he’s been through since he was a kid. But I need answers.
“Thorn,” I say, leaning forward to nudge my nose against his cheek, dropping kisses across his forehead, trying to sooth him even though both of us are trembling.
He opens his mouth just as I place a soft kiss on his brow above his glasses, pulling back to hear him properly.
“Three years,” he rasps, barely getting the words out. But they still come.
He coughs deeply enough that it vibrates through my body. He's panting, looking up at me with fear etched into him, and it’s my fault, I've done that to him And I’m too taken away to control myself.
“Fuck,” I say on a hushed breath. My trembles turn into shakes as he holds me, his nervous look boring into me. I lift my hands, cupping his face, my index fingers on his glasses so he can’t escape. “Fuck, Thorn. Three years?”
