Page 117 of Love Sick

Julian

JANUARY, YEAR 2

I’m lost.

Dropping to my knees, I glide my hands up her smooth thighs. I thought her scent was intoxicating, but the slide of her skin against mine is an addiction I won’t ever overcome. I’ll want this for life.

Cold?

How could anyone have this woman in their arms and call her cold? Her uncertainty is not cold. Her desire to please is not cold.

She’s a flustered ball of nerves with performance anxiety, but I’ve spent the last few months learning how to calm the storms. The bruise on my shoulder where she sank her teeth to stifle her cries is proof I’ve finally broken inside.

I’m on my knees before her as she sits at the edge of my bed in nothing but a lace bra and thong, subtly encouraging me. I kiss her knee, moving slow in case she wants to stop me.

Please don’t stop me.

Her hands thread through my hair, manicured fingernails scratching along my neck until she reaches the collar of my shirt and drags it up. She tosses it to the floor, and I return to her thighs, palms sliding past her hips, waist, ribs. I pull her to the very edge of the bed and her legs part around me. I’m struck by the longing on her face. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth, and her hazel eyes are dark and hungry.

My fingers skate around her ribs to the clasp of her bra, undoing it so the garment falls loose, and she throws it beside my shirt. She doesn’t cover herself. Instead, she grabs my face, lips crashing down on mine. Luxurious, decadent kisses shove my thoughts over a cliff into dark dirty places.

My hands magnetize to her body, roaming, squeezing, pulling her closer, and she responds in kind. Those delicate fingers drift over my throat and chest, then descend lower to undo my pants, relieving the near painful pressure.

I have to get her off. If I let her touch me now, I won’t last. My fingers hook around the flimsy lace hiding her from me, and she moves to let me slide it down her legs. I toss it across the room.

We lock eyes.

“Still worried you’re cold?” I ask.

She nibbles on her lip. “I’m worriedyou’llthink I’m cold.”

How? In her arms, I’ve never been less cold. The world could end. The seas could drown us. We could plunge into a nuclear winter, and descend to unending darkness, and I’d still feel her heat.

“You’re hot as the fucking Sahara, Grace.” I push on her stomach so she lays back. “I’ll never think you’re cold.” I nip her upper thigh, coaxing a moan. “God, I love you.”

She has no chance to respond, her words stolen by my tongue and the gasp of air that collects in her lungs. The rest of the evening is a hazy mess of warm skin, messy kisses and learning new ways to torture her with pleasure.

Like I expected, the first time is a quick glide of wish fulfillment, but the next two, I manage to make her bite and purr and squeeze me closer like my weight on top of her is a blessing she doesn’t want stolen.

It’s nearly three in the morning before reality creeps into my dreamy paradise.

I told her I love her.

I hadn’t even admitted that to myself. I’ve never said that toanyone.

She dozes in my arms, her fingers tangled in mine, and I blink at the dark ceiling.

She—

She never said it back.

FEBRUARY, YEAR 2

The next few weeks blur into a muddle of laughter and sex, sleepless nights and shifts at the hospital. We spend every spare moment together.

I’m love sick and she—

Still hasn’t said it.

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