It’s love that shines back at me. He loves me, and he knows this is right. That’s why he’s so assured. I don’t tell myself that this is forever or that we’re fixed. I just tell myself that I’m a woman who needs to feel her man tonight. I tell myself that it’s okay not to fight every second. It’s okay to give in to what you want even if it might be destructive.
Our lips meet, and this time determination peppers my movements. My tongue swipes against his lower lip, teeth nibbling at the corner of his mouth. I shower my man with all the love I can’t bring myself to verbalize. He takes my mouth, just as determined to make a point. I’m not sure what either of us is bartering for, but it feels like the stakes are higher than they should be. I just want tonight. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Our kiss heats up into something not suitable for a public place—at least not suitable with a teenager walking around. I’m sliding myself over his lap, back and forth, creating the most delicious friction. My body warms from the effort, and I find quickly that Wyatt is enjoying it as much as I am. But it’s not enough.
“Upstairs,” he grunts through our kiss.
I nod and wait for him to lift me like he used to. From a sitting position straight to standing with little effort. But he doesn’t, instead he maneuvers my legs to the side and forces us to each bear our own weight as we move to stand. “Gettin’ old, babe.”
I don’t think of Wyatt as old, not ever, and definitely not while looking at him. But I don’t say anything because I’m no spring chicken anymore either. We stand, and he offers me his hand. I take it, and he gently tugs me toward the stairs.
“You haven’t seen our room yet,” he says with a husky tone. It’s laced with a mixture of desire and desperation that sends a thrill through me. Over his shoulder he shoots me a devilish wink. “You should see the place where I’m going to be sinking into your pussy every night.”
Instinctively, I grip his hand tighter and don’t let up until I can breathe again. A shudder runs through my entire body, leaving me unable to walk. When I don’t move, he eyes me over his shoulder again and says, “I want your pussy, babe. Not gonna wait for it.”
I flush and let out a shuddering breath.
Holy fuck, have I missed him.
CHAPTER 17
We make our way upstairs slowly and quietly, pausing every few moments to take a deep breath or squeeze each other’s hand. He’s concentrating hard on something. I can practically see his brain spinning from here, but I don’t comment. Whatever he’s working through is personal, and I don’t want to ruin the moment by making inappropriate comments or saying something that will upset him. It’s strange, though, the way he’s acting. It’s like he’s a nervous teen boy who’s never done this before. And to be fair, I didn’t even get that boy. By the time I met him, he’d already moved past that stage, so this is entirely new to me.
He pauses at the top of the stairs before leading me down the hall to our bedroom. My life feels like some kind of incongruent mash-up of pieces that don’t really belong together. It’s like there’s a very definite line between my life with Wyatt and my life without. I’ve been without him for so long that I think I forgot what it’s like to have him with me. I never want to be in that place again—where I don’t automatically know when he’s around. Where my body isn’t so used to his presence that it searches for him when he’s not with me. When the crushing loneliness suffocates me. When the only proof that I was ever loved is the sound of our kids talking. When the only thing I have to hold on to is the desperate hope that one day I’ll have him again, if even for just a few minutes.
By the time he opens the door and closes it behind us, I can barely stand to hold his hand. I’m charged, my body racing with need and an electricity I can’t ever remember feeling before. It’s like being on fire and submerged in ice at the same time.
He gives a small tug on my hand, but when I don’t move, he turns around and pulls me against him. We stand there for a long moment, our eyes fixed on each other. His eyes are clear, not glazed over and not red. His pupils aren’t dilated, and he’s steady-footed. My lower lip trembles as I take in the sight before me. Wyatt Strand has always been gorgeous, whether he was eighteen with a boyish charm and wide-eyed view of the world, or he was a little older and more mature. Now, though, he’s something else entirely. For the first time since I got back to town, I think I’m really looking at him. Not even the other day when he told me to look at him did I really see what he was talking about. I’ve spent the better part of two decades looking at him, seeing the man he is and the man he could be if only he tried.
But right now all I’m seeing is the man he’s become. Strong, determined, patient. This Wyatt is everything he ever said he was going to be all those years ago when he took me to bed for the first time.