As he kisses me, touches me, pleasure spirals through me like a vortex, swirling from the edges of my limbs to the heart of me, and culminates in a sharp, fast release that makes me whimper against his kiss.
“Christ,” he groans as he brings me with him, easing onto his back. He kisses me slowly, brushes his knuckles along my cheek, and I wedge my leg over his, feeling my body both sensitized and already needy for more.
Our eyes meet. His are tight, his expression almost pained.
“What is it?” I ask.
Christopher sighs against my mouth, shifting restlessly as my leg works itself higher over his, as my hand lands on his stomach and drifts down, over that trail of hair that leads to his erection, thick and hard, arced tight against his stomach. “I nearly came from touching you right now,” he says. “And I just came.”
“That’s good?”
He smiles down at me. “It’s a little disconcerting. First I came in your hand after two minutes. Now this. I have to demonstrate my sexual prowess at some point.”
I can tell he’s being lighthearted by the way his eyes warm as they look at me, the way his hand affectionately rubs circles on my back. I like that we can joke while we do this, that it’s not all long stares and intense emotions. Our laughter is like a life float, when I’m nearly drowning in all the feelings flooding me.
“Your sexual prowess, what you’ve learned from being with . . . others,” I tell him, fighting a vicious stab of jealousy. “I don’t say this as judgment—I don’t think I could ever want or do that. I don’t understand it.”
His thumb circles my palm. “I know. Which is why I feel very lucky, very . . . honored, that you want it with me.”
A weird little lump settles in my throat. “After all you’ve experienced—”
“Kate,” he pleads.
“—will you want only me? Day in and day out, will I be enough?”
His eyes search mine, so intent. Then he leans in, kissing me softly, his nose nuzzling mine. “You think once I had you, I’d ever want another soul? When I had your eyes and your touch and your smart mouth and your vicious races that remind me how damn old I’m getting, that I’d ever look at another and want anyone but you?”
I bite my lip, feeling it wobbling. “Oh.”
“Oh,” he mutters. A muscle jumps in his jaw. His eyes darken as he draws me closer. “Katerina Elizabeth, I told you I’m yours for as long as you’d have me, and I meant it. Tell me you believe me. Tell me you trust me.”
Heat spills through me, longing and need, as he dances his fingers over mine, staring into my eyes. I drift the sole of my foot along his calf, feeling hard, dense muscle and soft, springy hair.
Suddenly I have an image in my head of Christopher asleep, rumpled in his sheets, sunshine sweeping down the landscape of his smooth skin and broad, hard muscles, caressing the curly licks of his hair. I think about photographing him when he rolls over in bed and wakes up grinning, teasing me about my bird’s nest and wrapping a long coil of my hair around his finger. I picture us in the kitchen, quiet and sunlight and dust motes dancing in the air, sitting at the island, me in one of his big soft shirts, capturing with the camera the moment his dark eyes meet mine over a cup of coffee.
I want to chart the years of his life with my eyes, my hands, my camera, when those faint lines at the corners of his eyes etch themselves deeper from so much laughter that we’ll share. I want to drag him places without a plan and only a Polaroid around my neck to fill the walls of this place with garlands of memories captured in tiny squares of joy. I want him for now. For always. And he wants me, too.
For as long as you’d have me, he said.
I plan to do my damnedest to be sure that is indeed a very long time.
“I believe you,” I tell him, my voice sure and steady. “I trust you.”
He sighs in satisfaction, dragging me over his body until I straddle his lap. He kisses my mouth, hot and slow, his hands tracing my body, settling at my backside and squeezing affectionately. I shift over him, easing the ache between my legs as I rub against his length.
Air rushes out of Christopher as he stares up at me.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
He laughs roughly. “？‘Okay’ is a deeply inadequate word for how I feel about this.” His hands drift along my waist. “In fact, I would not mind at all if you . . .” He clears his throat. Is he blushing? “If you moved about two feet up the bed.”
I blink at him, then do the math. My mouth falls open. “But that’s your head.”