Her hips move to the rhythm, and her eyes droop closed.
“Keep your eyes on me,” I command. “I want to see you come.”
Her eyelids flicker open. Her lips part. My balls are pulled up tight, ready to unload, and I’m only holding on because I want her to come again.
My hands clutch her hips and her legs wrap around me, but we keep our eyes locked as the thrusting becomes faster, harder.
Then she’s crying out my name, her pussy convulsing, her face scrunched up in ecstasy. It’s the look of wonder in her eyes that pushes me over the edge.
I explode into her, shooting out the pent-up frustration from the last eighteen months, giving her everything I have and hoping it’s enough.
We cling to each other, our bodies slick with sweat and trembling, our eyes locked until the quivering finally subsides and we collapse onto the bed.
We lie together, face to face, our noses almost touching. Jodie smiles a sleepy smile, and her eyes dance in the carefree way I remember.
My heart is full, my body spent, and my soul feels, for the first time in months, content, calm, and stable. No longer in darkness but held in the light, the light that can only come from love.
EPILOGUE
KIEREN
Seven years later…
The high-pitched notes of some boy band play out of the jukebox, and I wince at the screechy tones and cheesy lines.
On the barstool next to me, Jodie wiggles her hips in time to the music, her leg jiggling and her mouth humming the words between sips of her virgin Seabreeze.
“If you want to dance to this, then I will. That’s how much I love you.”
She shakes her head emphatically. “Oh no. I only know it because they play it at Layla’s Jump Jam class.”
That’s where we are now, making musical choices based on what our kids want to listen to. I can’t remember the last time I put on music that I wanted to listen to. Well, time to change that.
I set my non-alcoholic beer on the table and stride to the jukebox. It’s full of tunes I don’t recognize, and I have to flick through to a disc labeledAmerican Classicsbefore I find what I’m looking for.
“Learn to Fly” by the Foo Fighters, the first song Jodie and I danced to and the perfect tune to play on our anniversary.
As the generic pop tunes are replaced by grunty guitar, I get withering looks from the other patrons who don’t look like they’re old enough to shave, let alone drink.
But I don’t give a shit. The only thing I care about in this moment is dancing with my wife.
“Come here.”
I curl up a finger, beckoning Jodie onto the dance floor. She gives me a shy smile, playing coy like that first time I met her.
Her face carries more laughter lines these days, but she still has the power to take my breath away.
Jodie sets down her drink and sashays onto the dance floor.
I pull her close to me, and the scent of jasmine and baby milk fills my senses—the scent of home.
“Happy anniversary, baby,” I murmur into her ear.
I take her hand in mine, and the other I slide around her waist. It glides over the soft cotton fabric of her summer dress.
It’s not a song for slow dancing, but we make it into one, swaying to the music with our bodies pressed firmly together.
I can feel the outline of her thighs through her thin cotton dress, and it makes the blood rush through my body straight to my dick.