He kisses me, and we moan into each other’s mouths as he increases the pace. When I feel myself building, winding tighter with each thrust, I reach between us and circle my fingers. Max stares down at me, unfiltered emotion on his face.
“I love you,” he says and grips the back of my neck before increasing his pace. “I’ve loved you from the start. I couldn’t help it. Everything would have been so much simpler if you hadn’t made me fall in love with you.”
I circle my fingers faster, unable to breathe when the first flashes of my orgasm begin to spark.
“Max ...” It’s barely audible. I have no air. Everything is contracting, tighter and tighter, and he looks down at me like I’m a supernova exploding in front of him.
“Yes, Eden ... fuck, yes ...”
And then I come, and I try to keep my eyes open because this is the first orgasm with the man I love, but I can’t. Wave after wave hits me, and all I can do is moan Max’s name as he keeps thrusting, prolonging the experience for as long as he can.
Then, with a tortured cry, he wraps around me and squeezes. Every muscle goes tight, and my name spills from his mouth over and over again. He presses fully into me one, twice, three times, each accompanied by a sound of debilitating pleasure, and then he collapses onto me, thick arms and legs tangling with mine, melting into relaxation, and we sink into the mattress.
As we lie there, panting and boneless, chests pressed together and hearts beating in shocked, staccato time, I have no clue where he ends and I begin, and against all odds and a lifetime being terrified of this exact feeling, I think I’m okay with that.
TWENTY-ONE
Afterglow
It took a heartbroken mother, an asshole father, and over a decade of conscientious numbing to build a fortress around my heart. And it takes Max one day to demolish it.
For so many years I’ve thought love would weaken me; make me shapeless and weak in a jagged, unforgiving world. But after truly letting Max in and owning up to how I feel about him, it seems the opposite is true. Being with him makes me feel like a goddamn superhero. Every sweet touch and tender look, every time he smiles at me like he can’t believe I’m real, every whispered curse as I pleasure him, fills me with so much adrenaline I could probably outrun a train.
Part of me feels idiotic for being so afraid of this feeling for so long, but there’s still a stubborn thorn of cynicism that needles me, whispering that I’ve stupidly climbed onboard the Love Express, even though I know all too well where it’s going to end up. In these moments my brain gets loud and aggressive, like a drunk squaring up for a knock-down, drag-out bar fight with my heart. In the utopia of Max’s arms, the drunk passes out before doing any real damage. But honestly, I wonder who would end up winning if Max wasn’t with me, constantly reminding me he’s in my heart’s corner.
Maybe it’s this fear that makes me decide to selfishly spend the whole day with him. In between phone calls to the hospital to check on Nan, he cooks for me, showers with me, and keeps me safe and warm. But most of all, he spends a great deal of time entwined with me, showing me time and again how much he loves and needs me.
Apparently, we have lot of sexual frustration to work through, because just when I think we can’t possibly fuck anymore, he’ll give me a look, or kiss me, or walk around half naked, and the smoldering embers of our lust burst into flame again. Yes, I’m getting sore, but the discomfort is nothing compared to how I feel when he’s moving inside me. Connecting that deeply with him is euphoric every time, and a little chafing can’t dampen my passion.
So now, I’m lying in bed staring at him as the early-morning sun peeks over the Manhattan skyline. He’s sprawled on his stomach, his arms wrapped around a pillow; the sheet barely covering the curve of his ass. Too full of thoughts and feelings to sleep, I gently run my fingers over the muscles in his back before pushing some hair away from his forehead. Then I do something I never thought I would with a man: I sigh. As girly and romantic as it is, it’s the only reaction that seems appropriate right now. This beautiful man is mine. How bizarre is that?
My first instinct is to call Asha to download my epic emotions, but right now she’s probably tongue deep in a gorgeous Frenchman, to that’s not an option. However, I still need an outlet, and there’s one sure way for me to purge all of these thoughts that will also help my professional situation.
I lean over and press a soft kiss against Max’s head before climbing out of bed, pulling on one of his giant tees, and going into the living room to take a seat at his desk. There’s a huge iMac front and center, and when I touch a key, it blinks to life.
I open up a blank document and begin typing. The things I’ve learned from Max need to be known by others, and right now, writing them down seems the best way to do that. As with any writing, the best stuff comes directly from the heart, and that’s what happens as I fill the pages detailing my experiences with Mister Romance. It’s not the story I set out to write, and it’s nothing like what Derek will be expecting, but it’s the truth, and it feels good to speak of something so pure in a world that seems to thrive on mockery and criticism. I write about my pre-conceptions of Max’s motives and how wrong they were, I write about his clients and how I misjudged them, but most of all, I write about Max and how he left behind the person he was raised to be and transformed himself into the man so many people needed him to be.
By the time I finish my final paragraph, the sun is fully over the horizon. When I hear Max yawning in the bedroom, I quickly save the document and put the monitor to sleep. I figure I should discuss what I intend to do with it before he reads it, just in case he gets the wrong idea.
When I get back to the bedroom, Max is mid-stretch, and I don’t miss that the sheet is barely covering his epic morning wood.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice muffled with sleep as I climb under the sheet and curl into his side.
“Morning.” I glance down at his erection. “Seriously? Doesn’t he ever get fatigued?”
He pulls the sheet up a little, but the outline is still clear as day. “Not around you, that’s for damn sure. Believe me, I had no idea he had this kind of stamina until you came along.”
I prop myself up on my elbow and look down on him. “Well, don’t get any ideas. I have to go be with Nan first thing this morning, and if you start putting that thing anywhere near me, we both know I’ll be here for hours.”