The Ex Talk(84)

He stands behind me, cupping my breasts, pushing kisses into my neck. My skin is flushed and my hair is already wild.

“We look good together,” I say as his hand drifts down between my legs, and just like that, I’m ready again.

I watch in the mirror as he slides a finger along my slickness before dragging it up across my abdomen, leaving a wet streak there. The teasing is torture, and I fucking love it.

“You make me wild,” he says. “I lose my mind when I’m with you like this.”

When the pressure starts building, building, building, he draws back again. I let out something like a growl. Still, he doesn’t enter me, continuing to use his fingers until I come again, my breath fogging up the mirror.

“You have amazing self-control.”

A strangled-sounding laugh. “No. I don’t. I’m dying. I just wanted to see you come at least a few times before I buried myself inside you for the rest of the night.”

At this point, my legs are gelatinous, so I’m happy to collapse back onto the bed, even happier when he rolls me on top of him. I will never not love how he feels inside me, the heat and the pressure and the silk of him. We go slow for a while, languid movements that stretch me inch by inch, his eyes never leaving mine. Deeper. Despite his fondness for teasing, we never go slow like this, not when we’re connected this way—we’re usually too hungry for each other by that point. This new rhythm we find, it’s torturous.

“Come with me, baby,” he says, and maybe it’s the command or the term of endearment or both that sends me over the edge with him.

We hold each other for a long time afterward, as though waiting for aftershocks. It smells like sweat and sex and some kind of pleasant hotel room air freshener, but no part of me wants a shower.

“That was—” I start, unsure how to verbalize it. I need to know he felt the same intensity I did. That it felt different to him, too.

He cups my head to his chest. “I know.”

Eventually, we head into the bathroom to shower together, which takes significantly longer than any shower should and is, on a related note, the best shower of my life. We slip on plush white hotel robes and order room service, then climb into bed and find a bad movie on TV.

“Tomorrow,” he says, squeezing my hand.

“It’s only a day away, as they say. Are you nervous?”

“A bit of stage fright,” he admits. “But as long as I know what I’m doing, and we’ve been planning this for weeks, then I’ll be fine. And I know the show. I feel good about it. You’re not having second thoughts, are you? About telling everyone?”

I shake my head. “No. This, between us . . . it’s right.”

His eyes crinkle at the edges, and he says, “I was so mad about hosting this with you at first. Not just because we weren’t being completely truthful, but because you are so fucking cute, and I knew I’d be flustered around you.”

“Stop,” I say, pounding at his chest. “You did not!”

“I swear!” He crosses his heart. “You were the cute Puget Sounds producer, and I was this obnoxious reporter who only cared about the news, and you hated me.”

“Reporter with a master’s degree,” I correct. Then I admit, “Fine, fine, I thought you were cute, too. But definitely still obnoxious, which made it annoying that you also happened to be cute. As soon as you rolled up the sleeves of your shirt, I was done. Toast.” I run my hands along his arms. “Forearms are like . . . unspeakably sexy to me.”

“Ah,” he says. “If only I’d known sooner. I would have worn short-sleeved shirts to every Ex Talk taping to woo you.”

“Psh,” I scoff. “I’m not that easy.”

“No,” he agrees, “but so worth it.”

We finish the movie and the two slices of red velvet cake room service delivers before shucking off our robes and slipping back into bed.

“We should go on vacation together somewhere.” Dominic’s fingers play through my hair, lingering on my neck, tracing my spine. “Not for work. Just for us.”

It suddenly sounds so, so nice, and hearing him suggest it tugs at my heart. “We should,” I say wistfully. “Where would you want to go?”

“Greece,” he says without hesitation. “Maybe it’s cliché, but I’ve been obsessed with the mythology since elementary school. I went as Hermes three Halloweens in a row.”

“I’d be down for Greece. Or Spain. Or Australia.”

“A whole world tour.” He presses his lips to the top of my head. “It’ll be perfect. No email, no internet . . . just you and me, exploring ancient ruins and eating excellent food.”

“Perfect.”

The weight of that desire feels heavy, especially with what we have to do tomorrow. I want to stay in this dreamworld as long as we can, this place where we can talk fearlessly about the future and know we fit into each other’s visions of it. This is real. I have to keep reminding myself because otherwise I’m not sure I’d believe it.

He drifts off to sleep first, his fingers going still in my hair. I lie there quietly for a while, burrowing closer, listening to his breaths. I’m still half unsure how we got here but mesmerized by it nonetheless.

That love I thought I felt earlier—I’m certain of it now.