Page 66 of Hats off to Love

Our eyes stay locked on each other. I understand the question he’s asking, and he understands how I’m answering. He mumbles something else against my lips, but with my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I can’t understand him.

Guiding himself to my entrance, he pulls his hand free so his forearm settles next to my head, and with his cheek pressed against mine, he pushes in.

I have never wanted anything as much as I want this with him. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest.

“Stokes,” I whisper, voice almost pained, not physically, but this is ruining me emotionally.

“I know, sweetheart. Me too.” He rocks out then pushes in again, filling me completely.

How did we get here?

How did we go from hating each other with a passion to literally being in the throes of passion?

Pausing to let both of us adjust, he shifts his head and kisses me so tenderly I feel my eyes prick with unwanted tears.

And then he moves.

At first it’s slower so we can adjust to the enormity of what’s happening, and then it’s faster as he finally gives in to what he wants, what we both want.

Words tumble from his lips. Some are incoherent, others I understand perfectly.

“So tight.”

“So perfect.”

“Mine.”

And I am his, for as long as he wants.

Stokes has his way with me. Stokes makes love to me. Stokes does it all. I should be more of a participant, but he’s owning me so completely that I know he needs it to be this way, and so do I. I’m letting him tell me without words what this is doing to him, how unhinged he feels but also how devoted, and I am here for every sound, every move, every moment.

Sitting back on his heels, he pulls my hips with him to keep us connected. His gaze finds mine through the darkness of the room, and he reaches forward to trace my collarbones. He lightly palms my breasts before he drags his hands down the center of my body to my thighs, and his thumbs slowly explore where we are connected. He’s mesmerized. He’s worshiping my body and rubbing me in a way that has me shaking. All the while he is still rocking back and forth inside me.

There’s no way I’m going to be able to hold out, and there’s no way I’ll be able to wait for him. It feels too good. He feels too good.

“Just let go,” he whispers, and with my eyes clamped shut, I do. Bright white heat flashes behind my eyelids, a feeling close to adrenaline but more rapturous races through my bloodstream, and as my breath leaves me, I know without a doubt I am in love with him. This isn’t just the aftereffect of endorphins and what we are doing; it is soul-deep. It is stitched into my very being.

Falling forward, he pushes my hands up over my head and stretches me out as his chest lays against mine. His face suspends over me, his cheeks are flushed, and his hair is slightly damp, loose pieces falling over his forehead. He slides his hands up my forearms until we are palm to palm, and he threads his fingers in between mine. Holding tight and squeezing with a force meant to anchor him, I wrap my legs around his waist and hang on as he loses himself inside of me. His expression, his sounds, his smell, his warmth—I want to bottle it and keep it forever.

No, I want to keep him forever.

Period.

24

Is it cliche to say I am floating on cloud nine?

Because I am. There’s no other way to describe this lightness in my head, my chest, my limbs, my heart.

Just a few days ago, everything felt so heavy, but not today. Stokes has one hundred percent removed all the pressure and anxiety that was darkening my door. He was there for me, literally and figuratively, and I can still smell his presence in my room. Just the memory has me blushing and feeling giddy.

Along with that, the tough part of the season is officially behind me, and now, as I head into this final week, it’s smooth sailing.

Stokes stayed the night on Saturday. I’d like to say we got some sleep in, but we really didn’t. Sure, there were a few power naps here and there, but inevitably, his hands or mine would reach out, and we would start all over again. Fingertips brushing over my hip, my foot rubbing against his calf—that was all it took to create the spark and send the fire blazing. Stokes teased that we had years of wasted time to make up for, but I don’t want to look backward, only forward to what the future ahead of us will look like.

I never thought this would be me.

I never thought this would be us.