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My words charge her, and soon, she loses herself. Her hips rock faster, my hand squeezes harder, and our bodies move as opposing forces, meeting in the middle with such power the car seems to inch forward. My teeth anchor into various parts of her neck and across her chest, my hand traveling the entire expanse of her body as we crash into one another again and again. Colors become muted, the windows fog and muscles begin to shake.
I’m not sure when the heat sparks, or even when her trembling starts, but it careens into us without warning and all at once.
“Elliot,” she cries my name as her orgasm tears through her, sweat beading at her forehead and tumbling down her temple as she falters with the intensity of it. “Elliot.”
“That’s it, baby.” I retake control, grabbing her hips to push up to meet hers, my release barrelling into me at the same time. “Milk my cock for every last fucking drop.”
Her walls clamp down, the steady release and tightening prolonging the fire blazing up my spine. My head becomes light as my energy drains, pulse after pulse of my cock twitching until finally, there’s nothing left.
Our foreheads fall against one another’s, and we remain connected long after our breathing settles, long after I kiss her softly everywhere my teeth indented, and long after I whisper into her skin how much I fucking adore her.
When we finally leave the back seat of the Impala, Elliot has to hold me steady for a beat to keep my legs from buckling beneath me. He wraps the discarded blanket over my shoulders and says he needs me in the tub so I can be cleaned properly before he forces me to rest.
I silently agree, my heart still lined with worry even though it’s becoming clearer that perhaps this wasn’t just a get-it-out-your-system moment for him.
This was real.
For both of us.
And instead of purging our system of the long-standing tension, we opened up the floodgate.
Even still, I can’t help but let the small inkling of doubt take root.
Annoyed with myself but too tired to hold an internal debate, I follow behind Elliot and into the foyer of his home. Like his car, it smells of nothing but him. It envelops me, pulling me deeper inside, even on semi-wobbly legs.
As expected, his home is modern, dark, and sleek, nothing short of what you’d see in a magazine spread of an interior decorator’s ideal bachelor pad. Only when I leave the foyer and enter the living room, I’m met with a wall at least twenty feet high, made entirely of glass.
The window is seamless, floor to ceiling, and overlooks the entirety of Old Hooks’s Cliff.
It’s breathtakingly stunning, and for a solid minute, I’m rooted to the spot, eyes transfixed on the trees, the small waterfall plummeting into the thin creek below, and the slow trickle of snow from the low-hanging clouds. I don’t even realize my mouth is ajar until Elliot saddles up beside me, tapping my chin playfully. The nervous look has returned, his eyes searching my face as he takes a deep inhale before releasing a sigh and what feels like a secret he’s had for a very long time.
“When you showed me your treehouse and mentioned the wall, I thought the concept was interesting, so I incorporated it when I had this place built.”
“You got an entire glass wall put in because you thought something I said once was interesting?” My eyes find his, disbelief staining my words.
One of his shoulders lifts half-heartedly. “Yeah. Well, that and after you left for college, I found myself up there pretty much anytime I wasn’t working.”
I’m silent as I soak in his words. It could mean so many things, and I don’t want to read into it despite how hard my heart pounds in my chest.
“Even though you weren’t there, I still felt connected to you. Kind of like that saying about being on two sides of the world but staring at the same moon. I don’t know—it just felt right. Then, when I moved out, I knew I had to have it here.”
A vicious burn radiates behind my eyes, the thick, dry knot returning in my throat. “Why?”
He turns, putting his back to the glass window to grip either side of my face. His bright eyes dance over my features, a softness I’ve never seen etched in every corner of his.
“Because for me, sweetheart, it’s always been you. And when I didn’t think I’d have you, I needed the reminder. I wanted to look out this window and remember all the things you made me feel.”
Twice, I try to speak, try to articulate the way his words sink into my bloodstream and light me on fire with emotions I’ve only seen depicted in movies. But I can’t, and luckily I don’t have to. He leans closer, running his thumb over my cheek.
“I am yours. Wholly and truly. Not a day has passed since I laid eyes on you where I wasn’t.”
He brushes away a tear that tumbles down my face. Then he kisses me.
He kisses me in front of the window with the waterfall, in one of the offices that really is an art room he made just in case I found my way back to him, and lastly, in the clawfoot bathtub. And in between those kisses, he whispers sweet nothings, dirty promises, all of which swear that no matter what, I am his, and he is mine.
Always.
TWO YEARS LATER
