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"Liam, please, please, let me come." Her voice is merely a thread.
I plunge inside her and she tightens her legs around me. I push the hair off of her forehead, then kiss her deeply with my eyes open. She kisses me back, and it’s like we are one body, one mind, one soul. I’ve never been this close to a person before. My heart thunders in my chest. Sweat beads my shoulders. Every part of me hurts, and yet, has never been this awake before. I hold her gaze as I begin to move. I piston my hips, and bury myself inside her to the hilt. She digs her heels into my back and holds me captive. I bottom out inside her, and the ball of pressure at the base of my spine tightens.
I pull back, draw in a deep breath, and this time, when I plunge forward, my entire body shudders. Vibrations grip me and shudder through her. One melded together organism.
"Come with me, right now."
She cries out as she shatters. I lower my head to the curve of her shoulder and bite down as I follow her over the edge. My orgasm seems to go on and on, and I empty myself inside her. Flecks of black dot my vision, my entire body is one ache, one cry, one pure length of satisfaction as I lean more of my weight into her.
"I’m too heavy for you." I try to move but she doesn’t let go.
She shakes her head, holds me close and I stay there as the sweat dries on both of our bodies. When I finally turn on my back and pull her into my chest, she curls into me, her breathing already deep. I pull the cover-up over our bodies and allow my eyelids to shut. When I open them again, she’s gone.
Goddamn, how could I have slept so deeply that I didn’t realize she crept out of bed? I’m a light sleeper, and the slightest sound usually awakens me. Thanks to the time I was taken and held captive, I always sleep with my system tuned into any sign of danger.
Yes, it’s PTSD, and I did try to see a therapist, but when she seemed more inclined to proposition me than offer me suggestions on how to manage my trauma, I walked out of her office in a huff and decided not to see another. Who knew? The only therapy I needed was fucking a woman I care about. A woman I enjoy holding, kissing, and making love to. A woman whose presence calms me, whose scent arouses me, whose skin is softer than silk, whose curves are made to melt against mine, who’s clever enough to pit her wits against me, who can stand up to me, whose laughter has become the soundtrack of my life in such a short time. Whose mere presence makes me breathless to touch her, and who I can’t bear to be separated from, not for a minute longer.
I swing my legs over the bed and stand up. I reach for my wedding ring and notice hers is still there. Strange. Maybe she forgot to take it with her when she left the room? A cold sensation slithers down my spine. I slip on my wedding band, pull on my clothes, then pocket her ring and walk out. I head up the stairs to her bedroom, but she’s not there. I head to the closet and the clothes are still there. So is her suitcase. I can’t find her handbag, though. I stalk to the bathroom and find her cosmetics are still on the counter. This makes no sense at all.
A cold sensation leaches into my veins. Icicles invade my blood. I race up the corridor to the first guest room on this floor, then the other. I’m not surprised to find she’s not there. She can’t have left. Her clothes—the clothes I bought her—are still here. Her ring is still here. But her bag is missing. I head back to her room and to the closet. Pull open the drawers to find half of them are empty. Her underclothes—the ones I’d had delivered from her apartment—are gone. The other side contains the lingerie I bought for her. I open the other drawer. Once again, the night clothes I bought for her are still here. But the ones she brought with her are gone.
The band around my chest tightens. My ribcage squeezes so tightly my lungs burn. I spin around and survey the contents of the closet. The suitcase is here because it’s the one I bought for her. But the smaller traveling bag which belonged to her is gone. I missed that the first time.
I dash out of the closet and sprint down the steps. When I tear into the kitchen, my housekeeper turns to me.
"Where is she?"
"You mean your wife?"
"Who else could I be talking about?" I growl.
"She left early this morning."
My guts churn. "She left, and you didn’t think of telling me?"
"She’s your wife, sir, I wouldn’t dream of stopping her."
"Fuck!"
I turn to leave when. "Mr. Kincaid, it’s not my place to say this—"
"Then don’t," I bite out.
In the silence that follows, I squeeze the bridge of my nose.
"I’m sorry," I finally say through gritted teeth.
I hear her sharp inhale, then, "That’s the first time you’ve apologized to me, sir."
I spin around to face her. "It’s the first time for a lot of things for me, apparently," I say bitterly.
She nods and doesn’t seem surprised by my vehemence.
"What is it then?"
She blinks. "She wasn’t happy, sir. Since she moved in here, she’s been on her own."
"I’ve been busy."
