Tonight—just for tonight—I let her in.
I let her in the way she let me in, telling me every heartbreaking detail of her early life. I want to tell her that it’s made her strong. That every hardship she’s endured has made her remarkable.
But I don’t have the words, and I’m not sure she’d be ready to hear them even if I did.
Instead, I show her. I show her with kisses, first on her sassy mouth, then along the sensitive column of her throat.
I tell her with my hand drifting over her side, her hip, her thighs, until we’re both panting for more. More touching, more contact, more everything.
I slip a hand beneath her sweater to where her skin is hot and just the slightest bit damp. I unhook her bra, then slide my hand upward, palming her breast, heavy and perfect in my hand.
She groans, twisting her wrists to be released. I relent, only because I need her naked and writhing beneath me.
I peel her sweater over her head, both my hands cupping her breasts before the garment even hits the floor.
She says my name on a sigh, almost like a prayer instead of the usual curse. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the importance of the moment, then realizing I don’t want to.
I open them, looking into her face as I use my fingers to tease her nipples, holding her gaze as I lower my mouth to her.
I know this woman’s body better than I’ve known anyone else’s, and I know that for all her strong feistiness, her breasts are sensitive. I keep my touch light and teasing, my kisses soft and fleeting.
When I finally wrap my mouth around a nipple, sucking with gentle pressure, she arches into me, her hands holding my head close.
I’ve never been so damn hard, and my need to drive into her is strong.
Instead, I ease my hand beneath the elastic of her yoga pants, stroking her lightly over the soft fabric of her underwear until wetness greets my fingers.
We both moan the moment my fingers slip beneath the fabric, touching her for real. She’s wet and more than ready for me, but again I restrain myself from ripping off the rest of our clothes and burying myself deep. I want to be careful with her, want to prolong the moment.
I stroke two fingers over her, pressing and circling, teasing, until her panting breaths are punctuated with pleas. I ease a finger inside her, my thumb circling.
The moment before she comes, she stiffens slightly, and I move up, capturing her mouth and every cry as she tenses around my fingers, bucking beneath my hand.
I know then that I’m totally lost to this woman, because bringing her release feels damn near better than anything I’ve experienced in the past.
The moment doesn’t last long as a peak sexual experience, though. The minutes that follow far surpass it.
She pushes me to my back, her hands drifting over me, getting rid of my clothes, kicking off the rest of hers until we’re both naked and shaking with need.
My hands find her hips, urging her forward, over me, but she wiggles away, bending and wrapping her lips around me. I fall back on the pillow with a groan, my hand reaching out, skimming over her back, over her perfect ass, then up again, fingers tangling in her hair.
I let her work her magic as long as I can stand it, which I’m embarrassed to say isn’t very long.
My hips arch, and I pull her back with a gasp. I need her, but not like this. I need . . . “Inside,” I manage.
Sabrina doesn’t hesitate. She digs around in my wallet for a condom and rolls it on. She moves over me, pausing for a heartbeat, then lowering, sinking onto me. Clenching around me.
We freeze as our eyes lock, acknowledging the moment. The importance of it.
Then my hands find her hips, and we begin to move. She sets the rhythm, sultry and languid, and I cooperate. Up until a point.
I lift, moving deeper, urging her on. More.
She complies, her hips circling faster. Her head dips back, her hair wild down her back, her breasts on display in all their perfection.
I’m gone. She destroys me. With my last ounce of self-control, I press my thumb to her center, ensuring that she falls with me when I go over the edge.
We don’t just fall. We fly.
Until we crash.
She collapses forward, and I pull her to me, rolling us to our sides, our bodies still joined, our beating hearts pressed together in a thundering rhythm.
When I catch my breath, I press a kiss to her forehead, and her hand slides over my waist, drifting over my back in an idle caress.
After a few more moments of silence, I feel her smile against my chest. “I’m not doing very well with my no-hookup rule, huh?”
I smile and smooth back her hair, pulling away slightly so I can see her face. “You didn’t hear me complaining. Besides, I figure we’re smart enough to get away with it.”
“Get away with what?” she asks, tracing a nail down the center of my chest.
“Sex without the other stuff.” Love.
“Ah,” she says lightly, and I know she heard my silent addition.
We say nothing more as we drift into a sated sleep, and it’s not until I wake much later that I realize she didn’t confirm my sex-without-love assessment.
For the life of me, I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.
28
SABRINA
Sunday Night, October 8
“For the tenth time, you don’t have to escort me up here.”
“You know, that’d be a lot more convincing if you had a purse dog and were a light packer,” Matt says as he detangles Juno’s leash from my roller bag again. “As I see it, you have a huge dog who can’t walk five steps without getting tangled up in a suitcase packed for a European relocation instead of a weekend getaway.”
“You can just say you’re mad that I made you go to that farmer’s market today,” I say, sniffing the enormous bouquet I have cradled in one arm while being careful not to drop the large white pumpkin in the other.
“I’m not mad. But I still maintain that you over packed. And that pumpkins are supposed to be orange.”
“White pumpkins are very in right now,” I say, setting said white pumpkin on the floor at my feet so I can pull out my keys.
Matt unclips Juno’s leash from her collar, so she’s the first one into the apartment. Matt and I follow, and though I’ll never admit it out loud . . . it is a lot of stuff.
I’m not usually one for farmer’s markets. Give me delivery or couture any day. But today, when Matt and I took Juno on a walk, we stumbled across one, and somehow I let myself get sucked into the charm of it.
I’ve been sucked into the charm of the entire weekend.
And much as I know it was probably a mistake, I can’t bring myself to regret a single moment. Not the long lingering meals, the champagne-fueled brunches, the sex, none of it.
Spilling my guts on Friday night had been scary, but it had also done something wonderful for the rest of the weekend.
See: farmers market.
Also . . .
I give Matt a coy glance, waiting to see if he’ll bring it up first.
He catches my eye and grins as he refills Juno’s water dish. “I’m not asking for it.”
“But you know you want to.”
“Oh, I want to,” he agrees, setting the dish in front of my panting dog. “But I want to win more.”
I purse my lips. I like winning, too. But I also like my cell phone. The worst part is, it was my own idea.
On Friday night as we waited for the steaks to finish grilling, I noticed both Matt and I checking our iPhones, I suspect more out of habit than anything else. I issued a challenge: Who could go the longest without it? We turned them off then and there and traded, so neither would be tempted to sneak a look while the other was in a different room.
It was weird, but also surprisingly freeing.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve simply let myself be present in a moment, any moment. There’s something entirely too vulnerable about being alone with your thoughts, with no Facebook distraction, no incoming email, no matter how inconsequential.
There’s something even more vulnerable about being alone with your thoughts . . . and your worst enemy.
Except he’s not.