Page 41 of Never Bound

“It’s Luxembourgish,” he said.

His French always turned me on, but hearing him speak his native language was different—startlingly intimate as if I were gazing into a keyhole at his childhood.

“It means, um—crispy.”

“Crispy?” I exclaimed in horror.

“I swear to God, it’s a compliment,” he said. “In the sexiest language there is,Mäi léift.”

“And what wasthat?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Bedroom?”

A month ago, if I had been asked to imagine the room where we’d go all the way—after overcoming the pearl-clutching horror of imagining it at all—I wouldn’t have imagined anything close tothis. I wouldn’t have imagined a quaint pink patchwork quilt over a queen mattress, a round gold mirror above the headboard, a vintage hat rack in the corner, or two shelves over the bed lined entirely with ferns, their fronds trailing lazily down the walls.

But a month ago, I wouldn’t have imagined a lot of things.

Like seeing his cock. Liketouchinghis cock. Or like settling myself dreamily on that pink-and-white quilt, watching his immense erection drift toward me from the doorway like some fantastical dream, still slick with silvery water, cradled in my line of sight by nothing but his slim, strong, masculine hips and that summery, sandy patch of hair it nestled in.

“Was that all me that did that?” I asked, sucking in a breath.

“You know it was.”

And I had never imagined his broad hand now curled around his shaft, stroking, turning it to steel, nor the way my body was already responding to how his utterly intoxicated eyes drank me in as my entire form unfolded itself across the bed for him—legs spread, pussy drenched, insides and outsides moaning and clenching with anticipation at what perhaps he had, just like me, hoped and prayed—prayed? Okay, prayed—to get the chance to do.

I squirmed, suddenly thinking about the bathroom cabinet. But there was no need. The condom, far from being out of reach, was already somehow in his hand and half unwrapped. Because of course. But just as he was about to roll it on, he paused. “Hey, do you think she knew ahead of time? Because, well, you wouldn’t thinktheywould need—”

“Don’t overthink it,” I said.

“You know me,” he said. “Hard not to, but I’ll try.” He turned to me. “You ready for this?”

“Why do you always ask me that?” I said with a giggle.

“Because I want to be sure,” he said, unrolling the condom the rest of the way, and confidently slid himself into a comfortable position over me, the bedsprings reacting predictably to the addition of his mass, his damp golden locks tumbling dreamily over his eyes as I stroked it back playfully to reveal them again. “If you want, we could—”

“Yes,” I said, nestling my head deeper into the pillow and briefly closing my eyes. Searching for fear, for anxiety, for doubt in body or in mind—and finding, for the first time, none.

I opened them. And still found none. “I’m ready.”

“All right, then. Remember to breathe.” And he penetrated me. I gasped, but it was true: I was soaked to the bone and totally ready, in every way, to receive him.

“Ngh,” was all I could manage at first, nails digging into the flaxen sheets as he pushed with his thickness, stretching me to my limits, every ridge and vein of him caressing my walls as he bottomed out, locking our hips together.

It took a minute of pure animal instinct before I could finally settle into his rhythm. His movements were gentle and slow, giving me time, easing me into the motions, letting my hands run all over the muscles of his chest and back and shoulders, all the cruel souvenirs of a world determined to leave him broken.

But it wasn’t them I held. Instead, my imagination had supplied, for my pleasure, the perfect, unmarred body nature had intended him to have if everything hadn’t gotten so fucked along the way, and I took a second to hold that body, to hold that man—the one that in some other universe I might have known wholly and completely.

But that didn’t last because that boy wasn’t mine. My boy was this one, and the scars, too, made him who he was. And now, they rose up unchecked beneath my fingers, insisting on themselves, and his body flexed and unflexed under the pressure of each of my fingertips as though even the touch of me, as light as it was, was unbearably intense. His eyelashes fluttered.

“Need to breathe, too,” he reminded himself with a labored gasp, and we both laughed.

“Is this everything you thought about?” I whispered.

“It’s everything I dreamed about,” he replied, even as he bent down to nuzzle his beautiful face against mine, his voice somehow coming from far away now, a place of wonder. “You’re my dream come to life, Lou.”

There’d been shocks and revelations that night, but none more than that his shoulders were shaking, that powerful body now aching and vulnerable, his voice shot through with the kind of emotion I didn’t expect to hear from him or any man, on this night or any night. His rhythm continued slow, deep, languid, musical. I was silent for a moment, my breathing in time with his breathing, my body expanding and contracting in time with each thrust as I sipped from the cup of this moment, of this limited yet timeless present.

“God, do you have any idea how good you’re making me feel right now?” he half-murmured, half-moaned. “The way you’re taking me like you were made for me.”

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