The curves of my waist have swelled and shrunk and swelled again under his hands, and he’s held and loved them all the same.
He went from a boy that already looked like a man to something even more otherworldly as the planes of his chest broadened, the valleys of muscle spanning his back dug in and deepened, and the topography of veins over his hands drew sharper lines.
I know it’s wrong, but who could blame me?
It’s like coming home and finally getting into your own bed after the longest trip away. Fresh sheets and sunlight and a morning breeze.
There’s this part of my brain—the tiny logical part that never gets to rule over the obsessive parts—and it’s telling me I’m forging pathways I shouldn’t be forging right now, because this isn’t a fact, it can’t be, he left—it’s just a reassurance and this is going to do more harm than good.
But he whispers, a rough groan where his mouth traces my ear, and I can’t hear anything else, “Lie to me again.”
My nails dig into his shoulders, his palm grips my waist, trailing down my thigh where his fingers tense, hiking my leg up just as he pulls his head back in time with the roll of his hips.
Hair falling forward, waves askew from my hands raking through them, muscles taut and tense, and his full lips parted with another groan.
He’s so beautiful, so lovely, so wonderful, and I think that tiny part of my brain tries telling me horrible things, too, but it’s so far away when he’s all over me and inside me like this.
“Zlatícko. Lie to me.” He says it again when my hips rise to meet his.
I can’t really think of anything at all. I’m not sure what lie I’m supposed to tell, because I can really only think of one thing.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
A moan tumbles from my mouth instead, and I think there’s some truth in it.
He’s the only person who’s ever made me feel so many things, and certainly the only person who’s ever made me feel like this—that I’ll explode from the pressure, from all the ways he makes my body tighten around him.
“Fuck,” Bohdan groans, hand tensing against my thigh when his pace picks up. The muscles in his neck strain when he tips his head back. But when his eyes find mine, they darken impossibly, and his words are rough. “Sloan—fuck—krásná.”
It’s a word I’m intimately familiar with.
One of his favourites when it came to me, actually.
Beautiful.
And when we were together, it was one of the loudest.
It’s loud right now—so loud, in fact, that it’s the only thing I hear.
Three times over in my brain. In his voice, the loveliest sound in the world.
I don’t even hear my own moans grow louder, my breathing getting sharper when Bohdan angles my hips, hands bruising me now.
But I do hear his voice when he speaks again. “You’re so close, I can feel—fuck, fuck, fuck—come for me, please, Sloan.”
He didn’t even have to ask.
Not when he looks like this, sweat-slicked muscles tense, golden-brown hair tumbling over his forehead, dark eyes and teeth biting down on full lips.
Not when he feels like this inside me, either.
And not when he’s him and I’m me.
I do come—louder than I should when it’s not just our suite—but I don’t think I’d be able to be quiet if I tried.
He buries his face in my neck, saying my name a bit like a mantra or a prayer. Over and over and over again when the muscles in his back tighten under my hands, and he follows me into the dark or wherever it is we are.
Bohdan stills, teeth grazing my skin, followed by a soft press of his lips, before he rolls his shoulders and pulls back, off me and out of me, to prop himself up beside me on the pillow.
