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“I bet they’re happy you didn’t,” he says, and I nod. My parents and I are close. They haven’t met Phillip, yet, but they’ve definitely heard of him.
His fingers tap a slow rhythm on my hip. “Tess kept pushing me to tell her why I was moving.”
“Did she?”
“Yeah. She’s like a bloodhound when she can scent a secret.”
I scoot closer to him, tilting my hips up. “And did you? Tell her?”
Phillip smirks. “Yeah. Eventually.”
“Oh.”
“She was surprised at first and then not surprised at all. ‘When you least expect it,’ she said, ‘that’s when you find it.’”
My breath catches. “Yeah. I have to say, I didn’t expect to meet you on my honeymoon trip.”
He chuckles. “Neither did I, baby.”
“But I’m glad I did.”
“Me, too,” he says softly. His hand brushes over my stomach, but it doesn’t move lower. I tilt my hips up again. “Touch me,” I say.
He chuckles. “Bossy, aren’t you?”
“I’m getting there,” I say, and it’s the truth. With Phillip, nothing is off-limits. No conversation topic, no joke, and nothing I might want to explore. He’s there for all of it, giving just as well as me. It’s the kind of freedom I’ve never experienced.
He inches up the button-down I’m wearing, exposing me fully. I watch him as he watches me. The air on my skin feels cool, but his gaze is hot.
Fridays are usually just like this. He gets into town after a week of work, and we celebrate the start of the weekend exactly like this. At home, indulging in one another.
Then, we spend our Saturdays and Sundays exploring the area, going grocery shopping, or watching movies.
After each weekend, I long even more for the next one. For him.
Phillip’s fingers start to tease and stroke me, right where I need them, and my eyes drift half-shut. There’s still residual pleasure in my body from earlier, I’m sensitive, and it doesn’t take long for my breathing to speed up.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters. “It tugs my heart, all the damn time.”
And I believe him.
Because I feel the same way about him. It doesn’t matter if it’s seeing him wake up in the morning or bantering during long car rides, or even when he’s focused on work emails.
“That’s it,” he murmurs and slides a finger inside me. “God, you’re pretty.”
My back starts to arch. His fingers hasten, circling and stroking and pumping, and then he bends over and puts his tongue to my clit.
I come.
He strokes me through all of it.
I return slowly back to myself, my legs still splayed across his lap, and his shirt half-unbuttoned and bunched up around my chest.
His hands soothe my hips. “That’s it.”
“Wow,” I whisper and look into his warm eyes. The dark-blue is liquid, and a soft smile lurks at the corner of his lips. “I love you.”
His hands pause. My words hang in the air between us, a tangible, shimmering thing. One that can be accepted or rejected.
