And he kissed her then, hard, desperately, hungrily, with all the need that was thick inside him. He kissed her, and he held her close to him, and then he moved one hand away. She felt his fingers brush against her stomach as he sought the waistband of his swim shorts and pushed them downwards. His legs moved, freeing him of his impediment, and then he was naked against her, his arousal hard to her stomach.
Yearning was like wildfire, advantageous and determined. It flicked over her, demanding her attention and indulgence. It was a force too needy to ignore, and she didn’t want to ignore it anyway.
But hurt was too strong to be forgotten, and he had hurt her badly.
‘I hate you,’ she said seriously, pulling away from him long enough to stare into his eyes, to show him that she meant it. ‘This is just physical. It doesn’t mean anything.’
A muscle jerked in the base of his jaw. He looked as though he wanted to say something, and for a moment she hoped he would argue; but then he nodded, pulling her to the end of the pool that was shallower so that his feet touched the bottom. And then he brought his mouth back to hers and beneath the water his fingers sought her underwear, pushing them away easily. He had barely removed them before she lifted up, wrapping her legs around his waist so that he could easily slide inside her, deep inside her.
He did so, thrusting slowly at first so that she moaned into his mouth, her fingers lifting of their own accord and tangling in his dark, wet hair.
More tears filled her eyes, thickening in her throat as memories slammed through her. The perfection of this was a cruel irony, given their emotional discordance. Yet she didn’t resent it. She was grateful for it. Grateful at least for this connection.
In all her life, it was undoubtedly the most meaningful, even when it meant so very little to him.
She dropped her fingers to his shoulders, digging them into his smooth, tanned flesh, rolling her hips as he pushed deeper.
He slid his mouth down to her neck, nipping the flesh at its base, moving deeper and faster. She gripped his shoulders as the world began to fade away from her, as pleasure began to eclipse everything else, just as it always had. She tilted her head back, and her breasts surfaced above the water so that he could lean forward and catch one nipple in his mouth, flicking it with his tongue.
Her breasts were so sensitive. It tipped her over the edge. She cried out into the night sky of Venice, the ancient sky with its prehistoric stars; she cried out, she held him and she drifted away on a wave of pleasure, on a moment of perfection. But he didn’t let her come back down to earth. Even as she was trembling, he lifted her back, crushing her to his body and moving to the steps; lifting her higher; spinning her so that he could place her bottom on the edge of the pool.
He brought his mouth down to hers, pushing her backwards so that she was lying flat against the tiles that surrounded the pool. His mouth worshipped her, tasting her mouth first, then her breasts, licking the water from them at the same time he layered new needs, wants and memories across her. His tongue teased her stomach and he smiled against her belly, then dragged his mouth lower, to her womanhood, her core of femininity, lashing her once with his tongue so that she moaned and arched her back.
‘Tell me what you want,’ he invited, the words roughened by emotions she couldn’t understand, emotions that did something new to her, something dangerous.
Skye stared upwards, her mind fuzzy, desire thick in her blood.
She wanted her husband. She wanted him kissing her, making love to her; she wanted it all.
You’ll be begging me to take you...
‘Tell me what you want,’ she challenged, the words husky, her breath burning in her lungs. She pushed up on her elbows, glaring at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with defiance even as she was riding a wave of pleasure that was robbing her of sanity.
His smile was lightly mocking. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ And he brought his mouth back to her most sensitive flesh, so that she could no longer think or speak—she could only feel—and she felt everything. She felt the cool breeze on her flesh, the night around them; she felt the moon looking down and the stars watching on; she felt his mouth, she felt his hands, she felt her heart, she felt her raging blood.
‘Please...’ The word escaped her mouth before she could catch it and she bit down on her lip, hating that he had been right. That she had ended up asking him to take her once more. That she was close to begging for him.
He didn’t stop.
He didn’t gloat, either. And she appreciated that. She arched her back and his hands ran upwards along her sides, holding her steady, and then he pushed away, moving over her, taking her once more, thrusting inside her and answering all the questions she’d hadn’t known to ask.
It was perfection, yet it was also so flawed.
As if he could read the thought, even before she knew that she’d had it, he brought his mouth to hers. ‘This has always been perfect between us.’
But it wasn’t perfect!
It wasn’t perfect
to want someone so much when it had nothing to do with love.
All the fantasies she’d had about life and relationships and marriage and family and belonging disintegrated. Yet, maybe this was enough.
It felt like enough, being made love to by—no, having sex with—her husband. It was easy to think that everything would be wonderful for ever more.
‘It’s crazy,’ she whispered, but she didn’t stop moving beneath him, writhing, feeling, welcoming, needing.
‘Si.’ Speech was impossible as he moved faster, deeper, kissing her in time with his body’s movements so that she was dancing to a rhythm all of his making.