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It’s weird, but I found myself missing him. I wanted to hear his voice. Laugh at his jokes. Listen as he droned on and on about coding.
Anything.
I just… needed to connect.
So I tried to start up a topic.
I got two words in before Hansley started kissing me.
My lips caved to him.
And I kissed him back.
His fingers inched over my skin and I widened my thighs to rub against him almost naturally, instinctively.
He groaned.
And then he peeled my clothes off.
My shirt hit the floor.
Then my pants.
I tried to maintain the conversation. Probably not the best time for it, being naked and all, but I hadn’t seen him in over three days. As much as I wanted his touch, I wanted his company too.
Hansley didn’t see it the same way.
Grunts were his only replies.
He wasn’t listening.
His eyes were on something else.
His fingers were somewhere else.
And when he started touching me…
Well, the best laid plans shattered.
Last night, he came at me with a purpose, with a vengeance.
There was no music playing, but I felt like we were moving to the tune of an angry guitar solo filled with screaming and hard, trashing climaxes.
Last night wasn’t the sweet, tender touch I experienced at his parents’ house. It wasn’t the teasing passion of the morning after.
My husband was desperate. Like a dying man feasting on his last meal.
Frantic.
A little unhinged.
I didn’t understand it, but I felt it.
Beneath the pleasure and the lust, there was darkness.
Pain.
Some other emotion I couldn’t identify.
