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“No?” Andre draws out slowly, so slowly, then sinks back in. My blissful sigh and arched back—yeah, he likes having that effect. Brown eyes scorch into me, reading my every reaction.
He draws out again, then presses back inside, brushing over hundreds of nerve endings that I didn’t even know I had. I whimper, rocking my hips up to meet him.
So. Good.
“So this,” I pant, lost for breath even though I’m lying on my back, “is what all the fuss is about.”
“No,” Andre grits out, bracing one hand by my head and changing angle, scooping his hips up to hit a new spot inside me. Sparks flash behind my eyes, and heat rushes over my skin. “This is special.”
The quilt drags against my sweaty skin, and I’m so over-sensitized already, writhing and gasping. “Does that mean you’ll want to do it again? Definitely?”
“Every day for the rest of our lives, Faith. Trust me on that.”
Trust him.
After four lonely years, after all but giving up hope… I need to trust him. Trust that this is real, and we’re in this for the long haul like he says.
“Promise?” I grin up at my neighbor, trying to play it for a joke, but he sees right through me. Of course he does.
Andre bends down and kisses me, long and deep and soulful. He’s still moving between my legs too, rocking in and out, and it all feels so good that I forget to breathe. “I promise,” he says against my lips. “This is it, sweetheart. I’m yours.”
And as we move together, clutching and moaning, pillows kicked to the side… I feel it too.
The certainty. The soft whisper of fate.
It fills me as Andre thrusts harder, faster, reaching between us to thumb my clit. It scorches through me as he sucks on my nipple through my white vest top, soaking the fabric until it goes see-through, then leans back to blow on the hard bead until my toes curl.
Mine. Mine.
This man is mine.
And he fucks me just like I need.
Like he owns me; like this is his act of worship. Like this is the single most important thing he’s ever done, and like he’ll spend every day honing his craft to make me scream louder—just like he said.
And I dreamed of this so many times, but my daydreams didn’t do this man justice. I forgot the details, you know? I didn’t consider the way his abs flex, the muscles pressing against his twisted black t-shirt; the way his long hair hangs down and tickles my throat. Forgot to add the low grunts and rough hands and scrape of teeth on my neck, and the merciless way he works me higher and higher.
I’m putty in his hands. Helpless to do anything except buck and whimper and plead breathlessly for more.
And he gives it to me. Andre Silva is a generous man.
When I can’t bear it any longer, tensing up on his cock, waves of pleasure battering me like an ocean storm… my neighbor frowns down at me without blinking. Like he’s committing this to memory too.
Like this has cracked his heart wide open.
I collapse back in a trembling heap. Andre moves to pull out, but I cross my ankles around his back again. “Nuh-uh,” I mumble, way beyond words now.
“You’re sure?” A tendon stands out taut in his neck.
“‘M sure.”
He fills me up with one endless, warm, wet flood.
* * *
One year later
Dear Hattie,
