Captured(58)

We need no communication. Even as I think, I can’t take it like this any longer, he’s sliding my feet over and off his shoulders and I’m wrapping them low around his waist. He’s above me now, his weight on mine, and I’m clinging to him with my heels locked around his ass, which flexes iron-hard as he pistons into me, slow and steady and rhythmic. Arms around his shoulders, a hand on each of his shoulder blades. I claw at him, heedless of how hard. He knows that clawing of my fingers down his back means I need more, need it harder and faster, and he gives it to me just like I want it. I feather my fingers through his hair at his nape, because I know it drives him absolutely wild. And it does. He buries his face in my neck and, thank god, now I can move properly. I can f*ck him back, f*ck up into his thrusts, take him deep and give it back harder. I hold his head, cradle his skull, loving his breath on my breast, forehead, on the slope of my tits.

We’re lost to each other in this now. Whatever it means, whatever this becomes and wherever it goes between us, this is the culmination of so much buildup, so much emotional devastation and mental turmoil and physical anguish, so much need and desperation and heated foreplay, and it’s exploding between us, through us, melting parts of my identity to his, our souls forming anew, parts of each of our essence becoming a xenolith within the substance of the other in some metaphysical ouroboros. He moves, and I move with him, breath and breath and breath, moan and hum and groan and curse and plead. So close.

His grunts of exertion are beautiful to me.

I put my mouth to his and devour his lips, eat them. I drink his mumbled plea of my name: “Reagan….”

The syllables drawn out—Reeee-gannnn—

And I match him with the whispered song of his name as we merge and merge and merge: Derek…ohDerrrrrek. I don’t need to swear, don’t need to call out to God or to pant out the social epithet “god,” because in that moment, in that timeless time when I’ve abandoned myself to him, to this, to us, despite the blasphemy it might be, in this moment with Derek, he is God, all the god I need.

We come.

We detonate sun-hot, my shrill shriek harmonizing with his feral roar. His cock is a driving force within me, squeezing between the clamping walls of my core, and yet nothing is more potent than our orgasm. It’s neither mine nor his, but ours. It lasts and lasts, his groans and sighs matching my screams and whimpers, mirrored and tasted with kisses that miss mouths, lips found and tongues tangling even as we both moan and shift together, writhe together, his hips pounding into mine, my ass lifting clear off the ground to slam my * into his thrusting.

After an eon of metamorphic climax, we slow and pant together, and finally he must slip out of me, and I take all his weight onto me, love the exhausted collapse of him onto my breast. I cradle his head still, kissing his forehead. His fingers trace idle swirls on my boobs and sternum and nipples. He shifts aside and removes the condom, ties the end in a knot, and tucks it into a back pocket of his jeans, starts to move off me.

“No,” I murmur, pulling him down onto me again. “I like it.”

I wasn’t going to say “like,” but I’ve thought that troublesome, tricky other word too often in the course of this experience with Derek.

So he stays, stubbornly letting a portion of his weight slide off me, though his head remains on my breast, his leg thrown over mine.

Holding him like this is its own kind of heaven.





CHAPTER 15





DEREK





Somehow it’s dusk. Did we doze? It doesn’t matter. She seems to like the way I’m lying half on top of her, even though I have to be heavy. At some point, she starts weaving her fingers through my hair past my ear, over the top of my scalp. I could very seriously purr when she does that.

Her fingertip touches my chin; I lift my head and look into her sky-hued eyes. “I’ll go ahead and be the first to say it…whatever that was” —she pauses, for effect or to gather her thoughts, and to brush my hair out of my eye and trace from temple to jaw— “it was the most—I don’t even know.”

I swallow hard. I was half-hoping I’d imagined it. The ramifications are scary. “It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before,” I admit.

“No kidding.” She lets out a sigh that is part laugh, buries her nose against my forehead. Inhales. “I’m glad it wasn’t just me.”

“What was that, then?”

She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know.” A moment passes. Several. She kneads the muscle of my shoulder. “Can we go back?”

I have a tripartite emotional reaction to her words. I think she’s talking about what just occurred between us, and I’m relieved that she wants to go back, too, but I’m also devastated that she might want to take it back, and then I think, with a thrill, that she wants to go back so we can do it all over again.

And then I realize that she means literally, physically, go back to the house. Go home? Is that right, for me? Is that my home? Do I have a home? Yet another epiphany hits me—this one more frightening than the others—and it’s that her home, the farm, the barn, this little remote scrap of Texas, is the closest thing to home I have, that I’ve ever had since joining the Corps right out of high school.

“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”