Page 86 of (Not) The One
An exhalation stutters from her, hitting the air in a jagged little burst as I lower myself inside her one more inch, muscle memory clenching around me as though to draw me in.
I grit my teeth and groan, the feel of her my fucking undoing. I want to hew a vessel from her bones because this feels almost biblical. This feels as if she belongs to me as I lean down and kiss her again, our chests pressed together, our hearts beating as one.
‘I want to strip you down,’ I grunt, releasing her wrists to push myself inside her with a snap of my hips. ‘I want to feed you my breath in the place of your own.’
I want to own your body and your heart.
‘Oh, God, yes!’ Her hands wrap around my neck, her heels hooking around my thighs, but not before I withdraw, feeling the loss of her heat as I pull the latex barrier from my cock.
‘I want you bare, pulsing around me.’ My heart is deafening as I wait for her response, unprepared for a rebuff. But there’s nothing unsure or incomplete about her answer as she brings my head down for a passionate kiss.
It seems we’re both gripped by madness.
By love and madness.
I don’t have the brain power to ponder an answer, not as her gaze drifts from my cock to my face.
‘James.’ One word so heavy with meaning as I show her my truth in this form, our joint moans hitting the air as I slide myself home.
22
Miranda
‘Good morning, sleepyhead.’I wake to the feel of a hand at my cheek and the sweet whisper of my name, rather that the clang of discord from downstairs somewhere or the wet press of a dog’s nose.
‘What time is it?’ I begin to crawl upwards using my elbows as leverage, but as a breath of cool air hits my nipples, it all comes back.
The things we did but didn’t say.
The opportunity to talk that turned into sex.
I’d blame avoidance, say that avoiding “the talk” with him last night was because I’m a chicken, but that’s not really the case. Yes, I craved the human contact, and the feel of his arms around me and his chest beneath my cheek was the reassurance I needed, but beyond that, last night was about attraction. About us, not about our situation. I knew before I stepped in through his front door—knew before he delivered one of his kryptonite neck kisses—that we’d be having sex that evening.
I just didn’t know what form it would take, or how he’d look at me. How he’d touch me, or how I’d weep with a final kind of relief.
‘Oopsies.’ Delights discovered in the darkness aren’t always easy to drag out into the light, I decide as I pull at the sheet, recovering my modesty. James smiles sort of silkily at me from his position perched on the edge of his wonderful, cloud-like bed. I don’t think I’ve ever slept as comfortably as I have in his bed. Inthisbed, I mean. I’m pretty sure it’s the physical comfort of his bed, and not his presence, that makes me sleep like the dead.
Pretty sure.
Or I might have passed out from exhaustion. Or lack of oxygen. How can it be that sex with him makes me forget to breathe?
I glance over to where original-looking shutters cover the row of tall windows on the far wall. The farthest is open a little, the warm morning sunlight dipping into the room like a thief. The room is large and airy, its colour palette a study in whites and greys is quite calming rather than stark. An ornate original fireplace dominates the wall to my left, the wall to my right filled with white framed charcoal sketches that, on closer inspection, appear to be of an erotic nature. Women, or maybe a woman, in various poses, figurative rather than literal, faces indistinct. There’s nothing base about the images. In fact, they’re quite beautiful.
Whitewashed floorboards, tactile fabrics, and a silver velvety rug bring the room together as a pale sectional sofa and large TV complete a more masculine looking media nook and a sumptuous dressing room beyond.
‘No need to cover yourself on my account.’ His expression calms the sudden jangle of my nerves at his words. Warm looks don’t speak of judgement. Of the talk we avoided or of the night of sex we had instead.
Just be yourself, Mir. There’s no use pretending to be someone else or even a better version of yourself. God knows you won’t be able to keep that up for eighteen years.
‘What time is it?’ I find myself smacking my lips together like a nana who hasn’t yet put her teeth in as I then wonder if I can be a littlelessMiranda for a while.
‘It’s a little after half past five.’
‘Urgh, only God and the sparrows are awake at this time.’ I rub a finger under my eyes, contemplating how muchslutty pandaI look this morning again. ‘What are you doing up so early?’
‘I’m a perennial early riser. And I’ve got a flight to Berlin this morning.’
‘Oh, okay.’ My stomach sinks like a heavy stone, yesterday’s worries creeping back in. ‘Will you be away long?’Calm down, needy Nora. If he’s taking a flight to avoid this, to avoid me, he’s more likely to head to Buenos Aires than Berlin.
