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I don’t want that.
I want him to make love to me with wild abandon, with the synergy of two people who find refuge in letting go.
Chapter 20
Drew
I really was prepared to spend our wedding night celibate. I was. If that’s what she wanted, I was prepared. Stilling my desire was hard, but I’m accustomed to meeting challenges.
Lindsay’s change of heart is an honor. It’s a sign of trust, of commitment. I’ve served her well if she can feel passion and excitement, crave intimacy and caring.
I have to do this right.
I have to make it so good for her.
Steam surrounds us, left over from the bath, making her skin dewy and her eyes so big and round, pleading with me to touch her everywhere, kiss away the hurt, make her remember what it’s like to be loved and wanted with an all-consuming need that she’s the center of everything, of the world, of my universe.
She’s damn close to being holy, a goddess, an altar for me to worship. Maybe my kisses are enough. My hands, rough from work and years of field exercises, feel so unworthy of her flesh as she matches me, touch for touch, sound for sound, breath for breath.
We step out of the bathtub and I reach for a towel, thick and abundant, drying the ends of her hair, patting her back, her shoulders, her arms, then sliding over her breasts, belly, ass, and legs with the attentive care of a man who can’t get enough.
“Drew,” she whispers, like moonlight spins itself from her heart and comes out through her mouth. The rush of my name from Lindsay makes my heart beat double time.
We’ve had sex twice since she came home, my body fully inside hers, once reverent, once playful and fast, speedy and insistent.
This time she is my wife. We are connected by choice, by law.
They say that an orgasm is a little death. If that’s true, then what is the resurrection? We come back to each other after the divine, after relinquishing our bodies, our blood, to the mad rush of climax. We bond over shared flesh, by opening ourselves to each other, by saying I do.
As I lead her to the bed by her good hand, help her under the covers, then prowl up her sweet, fine body, her curves tight and bruises lessening, I find myself wanting to die a thousand times while inside her.
And only her.
“You lead the way,” I say softly, breathing hard, practically shaking from holding back. Part of me wants to kiss her, slide into her, ride hard and make her moan until she goes hoarse from pleasure, until all her fear has been fucked out of her, until we’re both boneless and nothing but our bodies and mutual pleasure exists.
That’s her call, though.
The other part knows she needs a tender touch to tease her out of the remaining fear that lingers on her skin, a tight, taut feeling that is tangible. I give her a long, languid kiss, wet and slow, waiting for her cues. When she starts to squirm under me, moving her legs so she’s pressed against my thigh, rubbing against me with a rhythm as she turns breathless, I know what to do next.
“My shoulder,” she gasps. “How can we do this? I’m -- ” She laughs as if this is crazy, as if her gunshot wound is her fault. As if she’s embarrassed by it.
“We’ll do it,” I respond, moving down her body, brushing kisses on her nipples. “Between your shoulder and my broken finger, we both have to adjust.” I continue kissing her in the fine valley between her breasts, down her creamy belly, then finally where she tastes like wordless nirvana.
I open her and she widens for me, urging with little sighs and her fingers in my hair. The pure joy of being invited to do this makes me rock hard. I want her so much. She wiggles, her body taking on a rhythm I follow, her voice begging as she says my name with increasing fervor.
My good hand slides under her, cupping her ass as my face and tongue move in whatever way I need to give her this. She deserves all the pleasure I can create, and I want her to take until she’s sated.
Abruptly, she stops me, her hand fisting my hair and pulling up. Our eyes meet and she is blazing, fired up with passion and trembling. She breathes hard, each exhale loud and hot.
Then she says,
“Let’s make this official. I want you in me, and I want you to make love to me. Please, Drew. Please. I want to come with you inside me. I want you more than I thought I could.”
Lindsay
“I will. Just wait,” he whispers, one hand on my breast, his thumb and index finger curling around my nipple, the taped pinkie finger hard and strange, but endearing. His other hand moves between my legs and oh! Oh!
He slips a finger inside me, three sensations all combining at one. Breast, clit, and that finger all work together in a choreographed way as all my thoughts dissolve, my body moving in whatever way it needs to seek more pleasure.
