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How dare he assume his pain didn’t echo within my own heart, that their loss didn’t leave a gaping wound in my soul?It fractured all of me.The shards of my broken heart still pierce my insides.It’s a torment that gnaws at me every waking moment, a visceral pain threatening to consume me.
“You’re so maddening,” I mutter, the words a whisper to the void of my anger, of my need to save him.And before another word can be spoken, I lean into him, pressing my lips against his.The kiss is a coalition of our shared despair, a desperate plea for comfort.It is raw, charged with the potent mix of grief, longing, and regret.
Our kiss becomes an embodiment of our hunger, an emotional lifeline that revives my wounded soul.We seem to be fixing our connection with duct tape and the heat of desire.We’re offering respite amidst the tempest raging within us.
The intensity of our kiss shifts.It morphs into something hungry, something ravenous that might satiate the longing in my soul.I’m fucking thankful that he doesn’t stop us.Actually, he melts into the kiss, surrendering to the tide of raw need.
I act, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling out his already hard length, and squeezing it gently while our mouths fuse together.
My hands tremble around his cock, as if this is our first time together—or our last.This is the first time we’re not just fucking, but facing his demons, my pain, and our shattered pieces.This might be the last time we’re together like this, that he lets me love him, even when he hates me.And if that’s the case, I have to make it memorable, unforgettable.
Breaking the kiss, I guide him toward my room, discarding our clothes in our wake.Every step he takes, every word he doesn’t say, I anticipate his resistance, bracing myself for the biting words he usually fires when we’re about to fuck.But none of them come.His green eyes, usually clouded with a storm of emotions, are dark with desire, the hate that usually simmers within them absent, if only for today.
“Lay on the bed,” I command, and he complies without a word, a surprising obedience that is far removed from the obstinate man I usually fuck—or fucks me.I’m unsure if I should be worried or comforted by this turn of events.
And so, I’m resolved to this moment, to make this one count.It’s been too long since he’s looked at me like that, hopeful, trusting.In no time, I take his hard length into my mouth, my other hand, already slick with lube, teasing his entrance.As my finger slides inside, a sense of bittersweet intimacy washes over me, reminding me of the fragile beauty of what we once had—what I wish we could recover.
I spend time loosening him up until I know he’s almost on the edge about to come, but I don’t let him.He loudly moans when I put my tip at his hole.I take a deep breath before thrusting inside.All the way deep.I bend down to take his mouth.Kiss him as I fuck him slowly, claiming what I’ve lost, giving him back what he rejected.
This isn’t just fucking.We’re making music.Our movements are as slow as Air on the G String by Johann Sebastian Bach.I want him to know how much I love him, how much I hurt for him, her ...I hurt for the absence of us.
But I can’t help myself and change from a soft tempo to something as fast as Ride of the Valkyries.I fuck him hard, thrusting into him, reminding him of us, even when that might bring the memories of her.It doesn’t take long for the climax.It ripples through my spine all the way down to my balls.And that’s when I feel him freeze and then loudly moan, “San.”
I’m boneless, unable to move.My body entwines with his, not caring about the stickiness between us.I need to hug him, cling to him.The gentle rise and fall of our breathing lulls me into a state of serenity, my racing thoughts slowly quieting.
The exhaustion of the trip to Malibu, of all the years without him being present when we’re like this, tugs at my eyelids, and I close my eyes, hoping he won’t slip away.
I shouldn’t let my guard down, but right now, I let the tension melt.But still, the fear, the anxiety, and the pain dare me to lift my gaze.I find him fast asleep, his features softened.I don’t think I’ve seen him this peaceful in years, not even while he slept during the flight from Malibu.I pray that this continues, and that I can help him fight his demons.
And so, with whispered words barely audible, I confess, “I love you, babe.I never stopped loving you.Sorry we lost her.I’m fucking sorry about everything that happened to you.”
With those heartfelt words hanging in the air, I finally succumb to the blissful embrace of sleep, hoping that when we wake up, he doesn’t push me away, and he stops hating me.
ChapterEleven
Sanford
A subtle shiftin the bed’s weight pulls me from the edges of sleep.I squint against the soft morning light, my gaze landing on the disheveled state of the sheets next to me.Greyson’s side.Something familiar yet painfully foreign wells up in my chest.
The memories of the countless nights we spent together.Sometimes, it was just the two of us.Other times, she was with us.And, of course, there were times when it was them.Our relationship wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, and we tried to balance it the best we could.Until they took them away from me.
Don’t fucking go there, Sanford.
I peel myself away from the tangled sheets and check the time.It’s almost three o’clock in the afternoon.Softly, I make my way to the bathroom, washing away the stickiness left from our earlier encounter.Once I’m done showering and dressed, I pad toward the kitchen.Leaving Greyson to rest, lost in dreams I’m no longer a part of.The bitter thought twists my heart.
What would it take to convince him that we’re still us?
I shake my head, knowing I shouldn’t torment myself.Rummaging through the pantry and the fridge, I gather the makings of breakfast, letting the familiar rituals ground me.
The sharp scent of coffee brewing, the sizzle of bacon in the pan, the rhythmic chop of a knife against the cutting board, each sound is a note in the comfortingly mundane symphony of our old ritual.
As musicians, we sometimes go to bed at the crack of dawn and wake up late.One thing we always tried was to keep our breakfast routine no matter what time we woke up that day.
But amidst the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic pop of oil in the pan, the echoes of our memories persist.They call forth a time when our world was colorful, when laughter danced freely.The memory lingers in my mind, similar to the lingering scent of sizzling bacon, fresh and enticing.
There’s that one morning that appears, like a movie.We were in London, hidden in Greyson’s plush apartment.I chuckle as I remember her calling it a flat with a fake British accent.She liked to give him a hard time.
We were stealing a few days away from our schedules and the prying eyes of society.She had been on a break, her enthusiasm unbridled, her joy infectious.
