My body talks to him just as much. Seeking his touch, longing for his tenderness and roughness, opening to him, inviting him, and trying to keep him in.
My legs are locked around his waist while he moves into me, my walls wet, the scent of my arousal tinging the air.
My brain is just as aroused, enslaved to his very thoughts.
I never know what to expect from him. I never know what well of pleasure I might find.
He gives me nothing, and then he gives me everything.
This is a dangerous game to play, and he masters it to perfection.
And it happens that it works. It’s always worked with me.
We stay connected for most of the night and eventually fall asleep, embraced.
And it’s the best sleep I’ve ever had.
Late morning, I snap my eyes open. He’s not in the room, but breakfast is.
I climb out of bed, take a shower, blow dry my hair and put my clothes on.
I eat alone and don’t mind it. That is the thing about us. It’s strange how similar we are, and maybe, just maybe, that is the reason we are made for each other.
He enters the room around noon.
He wears a starched, white button-down shirt, dress pants, Italian shoes, and a sleek tie.
His eyes glint with happiness when he locks my gaze.
“Are you ready?” he asks, giving me a swift once over.
“For?”
“Going back?”
He laughs.
I glance out the window. A beautiful new day makes the bay glisten. I’m probably not.
There have been ups and downs, and the ending was dramatic and somehow anticlimactic.
But the time spent with him somehow has balanced that out, removing that horrible impression.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“You do. You can spend the rest of the week here, and we’ll meet again on Friday.”
My eyes go wide.
He makes a beeline for the closet and picks up his jacket.
Do I want to spend time alone in Miami?
“What about work?”
“You start next Monday. That happens anyway. Whether you come back with me or not. We wait for things to settle down.”
“You thought about this?”