Page 63 of ClickBack

He goes still in a way I recognize from the first night.

“You said that before.”

“I remember.”

“I figured you were caught up.”

“I was very caught up. I was also right.”

This time I get to watch him receive it. He looks down for a moment, then back at me, smiling without the easy confidence he usually brings to being looked at. I touch his face. He turns into my palm before kissing me.

I leave the bed and draw him back toward the dresser, working my hands beneath the waistband of his joggers. When I kneel, he reaches toward me and stops.

“You don’t have to.”

“I heard you.”

I take him in my hand, then into my mouth. Slowly, watching the change in him. He braces against the dresser, and I take my time, easing back when I need to, learning how much I can take without making a performance of it. His hand rests at the back of my head. He lets me move.

“Giselle.”

I look up. His eyes are closed, and hearing my name while he can barely manage the rest makes me want to keep him there a little longer. I stroke him, take him again, and feel his fingers spread against my head before he asks me to come up.

He helps me stand. I kiss him and turn toward the bed.

“Lie down.”

He does, watching while I open the condom. I roll it down him, climb over his hips, and take him into me slowly. The first stretch reminds me why I cannot be impatient with this man. I steady myself with my hands on his chest and lower myself until I am seated fully, his balls warm against my ass.

“Jarrett.”

His hands are on the sheet beside him. I cover one with mine and put it on my hip.

“You can touch me.”

He does. I start moving, finding a rhythm I can keep, and the pleasure gathers again while I watch his face. When I lean down to kiss him, his hips lift beneath me. I catch his shoulder.

“Again.”

He meets me on the next movement, and I lose the sentence I was trying to put together. I say his name instead, then ask for more. His grip firms at my hips. The bed taps the wall, and I have a brief, ridiculous thought about the portrait waiting safely in the hall.

Then his hand comes between us and I stop thinking about anything outside this bed.

When holding the position becomes too much, I ask him to turn me over. He does it carefully, supporting my shoulder, and I bring him back to me with both legs. I can hear the music beneath us, a song I have listened to a hundred times without ever associating it with this room, this man, my own voice getting less recognizable the closer I come.

I reach for his hand. He gives it to me, keeps the other where I need it, and stays with me through the shaking. When I can look at him again, his control is nearly gone. I draw him closer and kiss him while he finishes, my hand still in his.

For a while, there is nothing we need to say.

Then I remember Canada.

“What time do you need to leave?”

He closes his eyes.

“That soon?”

“Not yet.”