He holds one hand over my mouth as I cry out, inner walls pulsing. I unravel in his lap, blinded by a white sheet of stars.
“Still good?” he asks, kissing my temple.
I respond with a gentle scrape up his back and shoulders.
“Good. I need you so badly right now.” He taps me on the bottom, gently lifting me off his lap. He leans over the side of the tub, fishing in the pockets of his sweatpants hanging over the railing. He locates his wallet, pulling out a condom. I watch as he unpackages it and slips it over himself.
All is right again when he lifts me back onto his lap and eases me onto him, stretching me completely, inch by inch. His gaze fills with the unspoken tenderness and affection I’ve wanted for so long. Now there’s no barrier. No wall. Nothing stopping me from venturing forward. He’s letting me in. Completely.
I move against him, taking more and more of him. My body tingles as I anchor myself to him with abandon, the part of him I’ve only seen glimpses of over the past four months. The part of him he’s never wanted me to see. I’m struck by the realization that he’s giving himself to me. His whole self.
His head drops back as I take all of him. A visible shudder rolls through his shoulders, his low groan vibrating across my throat. His breath hitches, and he holds me still for a few beats, eye contact unbreaking.
“Are you okay?”
“If you move an inch, this is going to be embarrassing for everyone involved. Mainly me.”
I shift slightly, and he makes a pained face. “You look like you’re about to perish.”
“I might. But I’ll die the happiest I’ve ever been.”
Our foreheads touch as we laugh, managing to stay as still as possible. After a few long breaths, he loosens his grip around my lower hips. I ride him slowly at first, speeding up in pace with his enthusiasm, meeting his lips with frantic kisses. He switches his attention between my breasts and my mouth, unsure which way to go as he grips my ass, pressing hard into my flesh under the water.
With one swift movement, he lifts me and turns me outward, toward the city. “Do you want to go inside?” he whispers from behind.
“No. Why would I?”
“Thought you didn’t like water sex.”
I peek at him over my shoulder. “I’ve never actually tried it.” When the admission rolls off my tongue, his eyes blaze.
“First time in the water, huh? Then I better make it good for you,” he says, pulling my hips to grind me to him before placing my hand on the side of the tub. “Hold on tight.”
He anchors his knee on the bench as he positions himself to enter me with a powerful thrust that takes me to a parallel universe of pure bliss. Each movement plunges me deeper and deeper into an alternate dimension where the city skyline glitters like a sea of gold and diamonds. Where the wintery smell of the outdoors is like a burst of new life. For the first time, I realize my real life is ten times better than any romance book.
He’s slowed down now to focus on me and my every reaction. He’s gripping me tight as he moves in and out of me, reviving me every single time. Our breath matches, and soon so do our moans. It’s like we’ve melted into each other. Absorbing each other’s every sensation.
And then the crash hits me unexpectedly, even more intense than the first. My cry urges him on as he rocks into me faster and harder. “Look at me,” he demands, turning my face toward him. Our gazes lock as he shudders over me with a groan that vibrates to my core, holding me tighter than anyone ever has. “I’m yours. Okay?”
“I love you.” He presses a lingering kiss to my neck, sealing everything I’ve ever wanted.
Someone who wants me exactly as I am.
LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—ROOM-ANCE
[Tara appears on camera in front of an overflowing bookshelf.]
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT
TARA: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. I’m hopping on here really quick today to discuss a topic that has been requested relentlessly. And that is forced proximity and room-ances.
Forced-proximity tropes are like catnip. They can take place on road trips, confined to small cars. Workplaces. And the delicious “only one bed” trope. But my personal favorite take on forced proximity is room-ances.
The thing with living with your love interest is that they’ll see you at your weakest moments. Late at night when you have no more shits to give. When you take your makeup and bra off. When you’re flat-out done with life. The most fun room-ances are those accidental nudity moments, where Person A decides it’s a good idea to be naked in the common area and Person B just so happens to walk by at that very moment.
One of the reasons it’s my absolute favorite is . . . well, it happened to me.
[Trevor appears in the frame, albeit begrudgingly. He plants a chaste yet loving kiss on Tara’s temple and peaces out.]
? epilogue
One year later—Valentine’s Day
ALMOST THERE. JUST three more steps.”
The low vibration of Trevor’s voice in the shell of my ear ricochets through me.
“Is this blindfold really necessary? I could have just closed my eyes,” I say as he guides me forward, his palms splayed over my shoulders. There’s an unfamiliar floral scent in the air, masking the usual lemon cleaner scent in our apartment. All of my senses are heightened in the absence of sight, which I am dying to rectify. “Can you at least tell me where we are? Are we in the living room? The kitchen?”
He senses my impatience and preemptively folds both hands over my blindfold to prevent me from peeking. “Ask one more question and see what happens.”
“You know I like to live dangerously.”
“I’ll hide all your books as punishment,” he warns, inching me forward a few more steps.
Something that feels like string feathers against my nose. I scrunch my face to relieve the tickle. “You’re bluffing. You’d have to alphabetize them all over again.”
“As if I don’t already do that on a biweekly basis.” The tips of his fingers graze my cheeks as he gently removes the blindfold. “Okay, you can open your eyes.”
We’re in my old room, which has become the spare bedroom by default since last year. I blink, unsure where to look first, because it’s a literal Valentine’s Day explosion in here. At least twenty helium-filled pink heart-shaped balloons of all sizes cover the ceiling entirely, curly ribbons raining down on us like a weightless curtain.
The life-size stuffed bear I fawned over in the window of a department store a couple months ago, which Trevor argued was an “obnoxious waste of space,” rests on the bed, propped against the headboard. On the bedside table sits a stunning hand-tied floral arrangement, vase overflowing with bulbous pink and white peonies. Next to it is a gigantic Kinder Surprise egg and a fresh bag of Cheetos. And that’s not even the highlight.
The wall to my right no longer houses my sad, overflowing IKEA bookshelf. In its place stands a gleaming white shelf spanning nearly the entire width of the room. Strangely, the books are artfully arranged by color, which Trevor is vehemently opposed to. Nonalphabetical order causes him anxiety.
Even more, this wall of wonder holds hope. After every one of my （many） broken hearts, I wanted to give up on love. And each time, these tender, unforgettable love stories healed me with their happy endings, one by one. Without these blueprints for epic love, I probably would have settled long before now. And I’m so glad I didn’t.