Page 77 of Love Always

I hand it over and climb into the front seat.

“I’m ten minutes away. You want to go to my place maybe, have a beer? Relax a little bit?”

“Oh my God, that sounds amazing.”

“I’ve got that extra deep bathtub with jets.”

“Even better.”

΅

Mateus’s apartment seems smaller somehow. Neat, tidy, but smaller, more empty than last time I was here and then I knew why. He isn’t here much anymore. The last two months he’s lived up in Echo Bay.

I keep my coat on. Still cold. I shiver.

“Let me get a bath going for you,” he says.

“How about a bath going for us?”

He smiles for a moment, but his eyes seem sad.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not very graceful getting in and out of the bathtub, let’s put it that way.”

“So? I’ll help you. Is that okay?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t quite formulate words.

What would Claire do? Claire would be direct.

“Mateus, this thing where I help you once in a while has to be okay, otherwise how is this going to work? We need each other. I think that’s the way it should be.” I can’t believe I’ve just said this. It surprises me and I think it surprises him.

“But I don’t need your help,” he says.

“I know you don’t, but I’m here anyway. I’m happy to make things easier for you once in a while. Just like you do for me. The pillow? Muffins? Anticipating my every need? I can do for you once in a while.”

He grabs me so hard and so fast I drop my pack. My face tips up to his. He puts one arm around me and we are so close. Another hand lies against my collarbones and slides down to my left breast. At this touch, my heart rolls under my ribs, his tongue parts my lips and enters my mouth, probing soft and tender and then harder. I hear him sigh. Pulling his shirt out of his pants I start unbuttoning it and then everything is just a flurry of moves, fast, nothing soft and tender this time. We can’t wait to get naked. He peels me out of my coat, sweater, shirt. I drop my pants. Stepping out of my jeans I stand in front of him in just panties and bra.

There’s a button or two left on his shirt near the bottom hem, but I can’t wait and start to pull the shirt off over his shoulders, peeling it down around his arms. I forgot to unbutton the cuffs. The moment he starts to struggle those pegs flit through my mind. I watch how his chest moves with each breath, dark hair swirling across the flat of his pecs. The muscles of his abdomen flex above his belt. I slide the shirt down further, reaching around in back where his shirt bunches.

When I push him down on his sofa, the shirt gets caught behind him. It’s like bondage-lite, but so fucking sexy. He’s stretched out, with his feet on the floor, looking up at me, unable to move his arms. Sitting up, he tries to shrug the shirt off, but he can’t. He’s sitting on it, binding his arms uselessly to his sides, his wrists trapped in cuffs. He struggles again, but I stop him with a kiss. I straddle his lap, making sure those arms stay secured, lean him back, gently kissing him deeply, my hands on either side of his neck, feeling his throat working against my fingertips.

He looks up at me with those dark eyes. I pull away and then move to kiss each of his temples, his cheeks, his jaw line and then back to his mouth. He moans a little and shrugs his shoulders trying to get rid of the shirt a third time. I lay a hand on each bare shoulder and push him back into the sofa cushions and lightly dance my fingers over his skin.

“You need to relax.”

“What are you doing, Laurel?”

It takes a second to realize what I’m doing, what I’m trying to do, maybe a little scared to do. But every time we have sex, he just overwhelms me. For once, I want to overwhelm him. I want him to feel what it’s like to be caught in something bigger than him, bigger than us. And if he can’t touch me, I have a chance.

And so, it begins.

Fingernails gently scrape across his chest, moving to nipples. I grind my wet panties against his crotch and feel his cock swelling, straining against his suit material. His frame shudders and his head tips back over the edge of the sofa.

“Oh my God, Laurel. Why … are you … doing this…” This comes in gasps and not as a question. He wants it.

“I’m doing to you what you’ve done for me,” I whisper. “And we’re going to do this as slowly and methodically as it needs to be done.”