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I float with the gift of his praise, leaning forward to steal a quick kiss.
He allows it for a moment and then he pulls me back, separating us just enough that I’m cold in the hotel suite, and he must register it. The chill in the air is evidenced all across my body, but he doesn’t move to bring me closer or wrap me in his arms.
I’m suffering in this small way, and he likes it, which makes me like it in return. It’s confusing how this all works, how intrinsically we’re tied together. His pleasure is my pleasure, his hurt is my hurt. It never worked that way in my past relationships, and the significance of it, while thrilling, is also terrifying, which is why it’s taken me so long to surrender to this, to open myself up to the potential for real hurt.
“I trust you,” I tell him, needing him to know.
Trust is as important to me as love. Trust is not a surface feeling, not something you get to share with strangers. The absence of family in my life means the circle of people I hold dear is extremely small. In fact, I’m not sure there’s anyone outside of Sonya, and because of that, I’ve had so few people I could rely on. It’s always felt like me against the world, but now I sit on Jonathan’s lap, laid bare before him, and it feels like I’m resting on bedrock. Though I may shift and falter, he’ll still be there beneath me. Always.
He finally uses his grip on my neck to bring me forward for another kiss, and this time it’s not short. This time, he strings one into another, until our mouths know just what to do, until it seems as easy as breathing. We grow more impatient. Hands rove. His warm palm covers my breast and my fingers twine through his hair.
It’s unfair to have him hidden beneath the barrier of his tuxedo. I groan in annoyance, and he chuckles against my lips.
I don’t care that I hear ripping seams as I free him of his tie. His jacket goes next, and at least this time, he aids me, yanking his arms out of it and tossing it away. He can barely keep up with me as I work on the buttons on his shirt. Soon his expanse of toned, tan skin is a gift I accept greedily. My hands glide across his chest, pushing his shirt off his shoulders as I kiss my way down his sternum, across his pecs, back up to his collarbone. I want to draw upon his warmth, become a part of him. I want unfettered access tonight and every night hereafter.
“Emelia,” he says with a soft chuckle that morphs into a deep groan as I shift on his lap.
The absurdity of us living so long without each other turns this moment into a frenzy. What was I doing sleeping alone in my apartment? Why did I resist the idea of us for so long?
Make love to me. Make love to me. Make love to me.The initial chant is born in my head, but I give life to it, begging him until he’s forced to cup my cheeks and tilt my head back and look me square in the eyes.
“Tell me you love me,” he insists.
“I love you.”
The words slip from my mouth like they’ve waited there my whole life.
“Again,” he says haughtily.
“I love you,” I say, more emphatically this time, exasperated even.Don’t you see it? Can’t youfeelit?
My spark lights his. What impatience I felt a moment ago he matches now, kiss for kiss, touch for touch. His hand slips into my panties, and I rise up on my knees to let him take more, feel more. Nothing will sate me; nothing is enough. His pants come down, and we’re only separated by cotton and silk as I sit back down on top of him and move my hips, trying to ease our suffering.
He winds his fingers in my hair and tugs my head back so he can kiss down my neck and lower across my chest. My panties are pushed aside and impatiently tugged down. I stand and free one leg then the other. He brings me back down onto his lap with a firm grasp on my hips, and then together, we’re moving, rocking, holding our breaths because of how impossibly good this feels.
I want his boxer briefs gone.
I want to reach that final moment, to experience what it will feel like with him inside of me once and for all.
The chair is wide, but not wide enough to accommodate these kinds of activities. I start to fall backward, tilting us as Jonathan laughs. He has no choice but to come with me, to help soften the blow as we land on the floor with athud.
My hands work quickly, tugging on the waistband of his boxer briefs, pushing them down as fast as I can. I look down and my lips part as I take in the sight of him, but I’m only given a moment to register my approval before he steals another kiss and starts to part my legs. A silent agreement is struck as I let him settle on top of me. I pull him down onto me even more, luxuriating in his heaviness. His hand reaches down between us, and he watches my reaction as he starts to press into me, careful to ensure I’m still there with him, wanting this. My nails bite into his forearms as I endure a moment of uncomfortable tightness—just a hair’s breadth away from pain—and then it eases and he stills.
“I love you,” he whispers into my hair.
All the emotion that’s been bottled up inside me throughout the day can’t be held back a moment longer. The tears he swiped away on the dance floor are back as he presses all the way into me. We revel in that feeling. It’s bliss, unadulterated. Then he starts to slowly ease out of me and press back in, slowly, slowly, slowly before working us up into a maddening rhythm. I tell him I love him too.
We’re on the floor, on our pile of clothes, and his hand cradles my head to soften the blow every time he thrusts his hips and hits a point inside of me that makes my toes curl. I feed off of his relentlessness. Again again again. The tempo doesn’t stop. We skirt the edge so that I wince when he goes too deep, crying out when his thumb brushes between my legs, over the exact place where I need relief. My nails dig into his back as I break, tingles ricocheting and rioting inside me, and he pulls back on purpose, hauls me up off the ground, and carries me to the bed. It’s torture and I tell him so, but he ignores my complaints. He takes a good long look at me splayed out on the covers, and I do the same to him. He’s so confident, standing there at the end of the mattress, unbothered by his nakedness. Slowly, he peels around the corner, coming up the side. He doesn’t make his intentions known, and my heart skips a beat when he comes to stand at my side then reaches out to touch me with his right hand. He starts at my neck, no doubt feeling my racing pulse. He holds me there for a moment, and I tip my chin back in consent.
With a touch that’s gentle and featherlight, he slowly moves down the center of my body, down my rib cage and stomach, across my navel. Lower, he covers me with his palm as his middle finger dips inside.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek as I arch up, and the low rumble in his throat makes it clear that he likes the feel of me there, the evidence of our lovemaking coating his finger. He swirls circles with his thumb, but it’s too slow. Intentionally, he doesn’t give me what I need.
I nearly writhe in annoyance, pain, misery.
And then his hand is gone.
My eyes blink open as he crawls onto the bed and picks me up so I have no choice but to climb on top of him as he lies down, splitting my legs across his lap.
