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This destiny is made of him and me.
I guess that’s what I felt four years ago, when he appeared before me, up on the roof. And since I was so young, so angry, so immature, I chose to fight it.
Not anymore though.
I want it now.
I want my destiny.
“It wasn’t easy,” he rasps, his cheekbones flushed, his body heated.
“What?”
“To go back to the time when we hardly looked at each other.”
“God, Alaric, please.”
“You want me?”
“Yes.”
My whispered yes makes the fire in him surge anew.
And this one’s so hot and flaming that it makes him sweat and shake.
It makes me sweat and shake.
It makes me delirious and through that fog I hear him growl, “Well then, your wish is my command.”
His growled words hit my belly and his mouth hits my lips.
And I’m in heaven.
I’m floating above the bed. I’m flying high as I hold on to him. As I kiss him back.
As I pull him close even though there’s no more closeness to be had. Even though I’m as entwined with him as I can be. My heels are digging into the backs of his thighs and my fingers are twined in his hair. His chest is pressing into my swollen tits and his pelvis is digging into mine.
I still try to climb him.
And when I can’t, I moan.
I whine into his mouth.
I ask him to fix it with these little horny noises I’m making.
And for a second I think he’s listening, and he has all the plans of fixing this problem that I have. Because he tightens his fists in my hair, presses his body harder over mine.
But then he breaks all my happy and relieved thoughts when he breaks our kiss.
When he lets me breathe the air that doesn’t come from him.
I’m about to complain that he should come back, that this is absolutely not what I wanted.
But then I’m appeased when his mouth hits my neck and sucks and kisses my fragile skin there, but only for a second. After that, he moves lower. His mouth leaves a trail of wet, hungry kisses on my chest. But since I’m not wearing a low-cut dress — because of him — there isn’t a lot of skin exposed. Which means there isn’t a lot of area to be covered.
Which causes my dissatisfaction to grow.
So I fist his hair and whine, “Alaric.”
By this point he’s at my ribs, his open mouth is breathing on my stupid modest dress and since it’s not happening on my bare skin, it’s starting to piss me off a little.
So I roll and undulate under him, calling out again. “Alaric, come back.”
But he has a mind and an intention of his own because instead of listening to me, he’s moving down and down, his mouth now on my belly button, through the dress though.
God, I hate my dress.
I hate that he made me wear it.
“Alaric, please. You’re supposed to make it —”
My words come to a screeching halt when I feel something. A smack. On my thigh. On my naked thigh.
Which jerks my eyes open — I can’t believe I had them closed until now even through my complaints and irritations — and I look down, and what I see makes me clench my thighs closed.
Only I can’t.
Because he’s between them.
His big, impossibly broad shoulders are between my naked, pale thighs. That look and feel even more naked and even more pale because his bronzed hands are on them. His bronzed fingers are splayed wide and gripping my flesh so tightly, so possessively and authoritatively.
Although as hot and sexy and pussy-clenching and nipple-beading as that vision is, somehow the vision of his ring-sporting pinkie on my flesh, so close to the juncture between my thighs, is even more all that.
And then there’s the dress I’ve been hating on.
It’s all hiked up. All the way up to my lower belly. Meaning my panties, purple and lacy, are showing and I realize why he smacked me.
Why he shut me up without words.
Because he’s looking at my panties.
He’s looking directly at them.
No, he’s staring.
He’s unabashedly, without an inch of shame or reservation, staring at my panties and he didn’t want to be disturbed.
But more than that I realize — now that he told me his secret — that maybe he’s wanted to do this for a long time now. Maybe he’s wanted to stare at me without an inch of shame or reservation for a long time now.
So I let him look.
And I know he’s staring at the wet spot. He has to be staring at the wet spot. Because I’m pretty sure with how wet I am and how my pussy keeps clenching and spasming and pushing my juices out, my wetness has to be taking center stage down there. It has to be super obvious and glaring.
“Alaric,” I whisper, my fingers clutching the sheet now that he’s all the way down there, out of reach.
