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We’d broken just about every other physical boundary that existed, and hell, we’d come close.
Very, very close.
I’d used my hands and my mouth on nearly every inch of her body, from her neck down. She’d done the same with me. In the bathroom, we knew the exact mechanics of how I could bring her to a gasping release with her hands braced on the counter and me behind her. We’dfigured out how to fit both of our tall bodies into the shower so she could talk me through our favorite scenarios with her hand tight around me, my fingers wrapped around hers as I taught her what I liked.
But whenever we approached that line, when all I’d have to do was lift her thigh up and press in, or roll her over and fit my hips between hers, I sensed her pause.
Maybe Charlotte, just like me, had a small voice behind her ribs that told her to hold back.
If that was the case, I’d never be the guy who forced her to cross the line.
That’s what no one ever told you about becoming a man. A woman’s ownership of her pleasure was ultimately her responsibility. But when she trusted you with it, her comfort level became yours. Charlotte’s pleasure—or mine that came with it—wasn’t something to be weaponized, something to hold against her so that I could push for more.
If there was something between the two of us that I’d never, ever disrespect, it was that.
And what complaints could I have possibly had?
The days passed in an almost unbelievably pleasurable blur.
We watched the Fourth of July fireworks from the bay behind the house, with Daphne and Richard and William and his crew joining us on chairs and blankets to enjoy far more food than anyone needed. When they went home and it was just the two of us sitting beneath a star-filled sky, I pushed Charlotte back onto the blanket, hiked her dress up, and settled my shoulders between her thighs as I explained in great detail how the only other thing I wanted to eat was her.
With her thighs clamped around my ears and my name on her lips, I gave her an entirely different sort of fireworks, and when I let my forehead rest on her trembling stomach, I imagined what it would be like to slide inside her still-pulsing body.
During the day, I made her life impossible every single time she wanted my help with a decision. There were stacks of paint samples,more shades of white and blue and gray and ivory than I ever knew existed. But we made decisions for all the rooms, and it was immensely gratifying to see the changes as they occurred.
And some nights—like this one—when we seemed to mutually decide that a break from the intense physical build was necessary to keep our heads clear, we settled into the kind of normalcy that I’d never experienced before. Not even in my marriage.
Charlotte nudged my thigh and yanked my thoughts back to the present.
“That’s really your only complaint?” she asked. “You’re not ... disappointed in anything?”
Right. The state of the union.
In her eyes, I saw the real question.
Is this enough for you, even though it’s not what was promised?
I could only imagine how vulnerable this question must have made her feel. Charlotte didn’t realize it, but the thoughts were so clear on her face that it wasn’t hard to imagine at all. It was in the widening of her eyes and the way she held her frame perfectly still while she waited for me to answer.
In all the ways we’d argued, in all the ways we’d disagreed, this was the most personal, heart-baring thing she’d ever given to me.
More than her body or the satisfaction we’d given each other.
I slid my hand up her thigh. “If you’re asking if I’m physically satisfied with what we’re doing”—I held her gaze steadily—“the answer is an emphatic yes.”
Her lips quirked into a smug grin.
“Though I wouldn’t hate it if you broke out some handcuffs,” I said lightly. “I may have an unresolved fantasy or two when it comes to those.”
When she laughed, she let her head settle on my arm where it lay against the back of the couch. I closed my eyes at the sound, at the feel of her hair against my skin.
I wanted to curl my arm around her shoulder and pull her tight against me. Tug the ugly crocheted blanket over the two of us, just so that I knew she’d be warm.
But I didn’t. That was a bit too much vulnerability of my own to contemplate.
So instead of telling her that I wondered what it would feel like if she fell asleep on my chest, or if she made those sweet little whimpering noises during a kiss, or if her lips were as soft as I imagined them to be, I let the moment be what it was. Something good and something pure.
Eventually, it would turn into a memory that I’d hold on to when we both moved on.
