I cry out as soon as my finger glides across my clit, and his chest heaves, the confusion in his eyes melting.
“Good?”
“I want you,” I whimper.
“Show. Me.”
I push a finger inside, and he kisses me hard when I cry out again.
His kiss, his smell, his groans, and my touch are overwhelming. I am lost in an orgasm that is so intense I can’t even breathe.
He pulls his lips from mine and watches me intently—my lips, my fingers, my hips thrusting—and then his gaze is back to my lips.
When I can no longer move, I pull my hand away. He looks at it with intense concentration and bares his teeth, causing my insides to clench with need once again and a quick sharp breath to escape my lips.
His nostrils flare, and then he licks his lips.
Hungry.
I lift my finger to his mouth, and he opens, licking my finger then sucking it hard. His chest vibrates with a groan, and he closes his eyes.
When he pulls away from my finger, our eyes connect. His become wide and wild, his chest heaving on a groan. Then he stands, undoubtedly as fully aroused as I am. I want him so badly.
I begin to sit up.
“Don’t move,” he demands.
I can’t move. I feel a mix of emotions; exhaustion the prominent one. Therefore, I close my eyes, lie back, and roll to my side, pulling the pillows beside me.
I think I hear water running, but it may be the rush of my blood moving through my body.
When was the last time I allowed myself to drown in desire? When have I been this captive by need, yet felt free? It has been years.
Guilt threatens to rear its ugly head as I allow the memories of when the last time was start to creep back in.
It’s been seven years since he left. He would want me to be happy.
I always thought it would feel like a betrayal to myself, to him, to our love. Of all places for me to feel half-alive again, it’s here, in the city he so badly wanted me to see.
I look up when I hear Angelo coming out of the bathroom. He walks over to me, freshly showered and in the same sweats covering his lower half, his shirt in his hand. His hair is long, thick, and wavy. He is the total opposite of my Gregory. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like I’m betraying him.
Maybe it’s time to let go. Isn’t that what I came here to do? To find a way to make peace with my past? Romance wasn’t in the plan, but plans change, right?
Angelo looks at the pillows, and then at me, before he sits on the side of the bed, takes the pillows, and throws them on the ground. Then he unexpectedly lies down beside me. I suppose he expects that I get him off now.
Part of me is excited to explore the masterpiece he has made of his body. But, as I place my hand on his abs, he tenses. I then slowly move my hand down his hard yet soft skin, and he stops me by pulling my hand up and placing it on his chest.
“You don’t want me to—”
“Took care of it myself. Go to sleep, Tatum.”
“You’re staying?”
“That’s what you wrote.”
He read my words. Part of me feels vulnerable. I have written plenty of books. The lines between non-fiction and fiction once seemed so distinct. Having Angelo beside me after making my fantasy a reality, I can’t help feeling like all the lines are blurred. With every passing day, this project Melanie assigned to me is getting deeper into my mind than anything I have done before.
I lay my head on his chest and feel him hold his breath.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No,” he grumbles, placing his hand on the side of my head and holding it in place. “Go to sleep.”
His tone isn’t one of frustration or annoyance, but rather pained. I can tell this is as much out of his comfort zone as it is mine. However, it soothes me. His command. My surrender.
He said sleep, and I do. I fall asleep smelling him, all man, all him, mixed with hotel soap.
***
When I awake, he is gone, and I am left hugging my pillows tightly. It’s not as pathetic today as it has been in the past. They smell like him.
I sit up and see that my phone is on the charging dock, and next to it is my journal and a pen. I didn’t put either there, so he must have. It makes me smile.
What am I thinking?
I don’t understand him. I don’t know what to think of a man who acts like him. I guess I don’t have to. I asked him to be my muse. I asked to use him for my inspiration. This isn’t supposed to be a soul seeking journey. This is about a romance, not reality.