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This feeling is old and new. It’s how sex with Drew felt before.
Before.
He’d respected me, back then. Knew I wanted to wait for intercourse. Foreplay had been enough, endless hours of kisses and caresses, of mouths and tongues, of fingertips and strokes.
We’d been so close to making love all the way.
And then it was ripped away from us.
Drew’s watching me, his thumb moving in slow circles against my belly, but he’s waiting.
The next move is mine.
All this new knowledge about the past should take longer to percolate. I should wait, right? Analyze and dissect, think and absorb.
Instead, I lunge, reaching up to kiss him, my fingers in his hair, pressing the back of his head to me, my hips grinding into him.
He is freedom.
In his arms, I am safe.
In his arms, I can feel pleasure.
I wasn't sure whether this was the right way to proceed, but I am now. Every cell in my body screams for his touch. The way the moonlight flutters against his cheek makes me think of butterflies in spring, free and happy on the wind, landing on colored flowers and blending in. Just being.
I watch Drew with eyes that want to be free.
I sense his hesitation. I need to stop it. A kiss seems to be the only way to convince him. The connection of our lips feels so heavenly. I've missed this.
As he deepens the kiss, his hands going to my shoulders, then sliding down to my elbows, the warm press of his body against mine showing how much he wants this, I drift. I don't disconnect.
It's more like finding a new layer inside myself where all the worry and pain, the fear and regret, just doesn't live. It's a place where I can find a new self and study it under the lens of Drew's body.
His heat opens me, making my tongue curious, my hands given permission to stroke his muscled back. He groans, and I startle, the sound vibrating through me. He stops, breaking the kiss.
A part of me aches.
"What's wrong?" he asks, worried, his frown a validation that everything I feel is ok.
"Nothing," I rasp. "Nothing at all."
"If this is too much," he says, his voice firm. "You tell me."
"I will."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"You need to be open with me, Lindsay. No games. No nothing when it comes to being together like this. We're different now."
Oh, boy, are we.
His face is relaxed, the troubled tension gone, replaced by a different kind of pensiveness. I can tell he wants to make sure that I am fine, and that's good, right? It's not like four years ago.
Nothing is like four years ago.
Not one damn thing.
