Page 23 of Without You
He collapsed with a shudder. For a moment, only their heavy breathing could be heard.
“I love you so much.”
Charisse pretended not to hear the words he whispered, but she kept her arms wrapped around him, holding on tight for a little bit longer.
11
Charisse stared up at the ceiling and listened to Terrence in the bathroom down the hall. She still felt him between her legs, his mouth on her skin, his hands kneading her breasts.
What had they done? They’d had sex, that’s what they’d done. She’d loved every minute of it, but they needed to talk. He had a woman in his life, and she had a man in her life. They had messed up.
The years since the divorce helped dull the ache in her chest, and except for most recently, the smiles came easier and more naturally. She couldn’t go back down the road of misery and pain she left behind years ago.
Terrence reentered the room and she held her breath, mind racing to find the right words. She closed her eyes to buy herself more time, but when he climbed onto the bed, he pulled off the covers, and her eyes flew open.
Before she could protest, he used a warm wet washcloth to clean her up, sending a renewed surge of heat through her still sensitive flesh. He tended to her with such care, she simply lay there, watching him. When he finished, he set the washcloth aside.
“Better?” he asked.
“Mhmm.”
They lay on their sides, both uncovered, both naked. Her nipples were hard and her body hummed from the pleasurable lovemaking, but she remained still. She hated him a little bit. Why did he have to be such a good lover? Why couldn’t any other man make her go through the same intense, almost violent waves of passion he awakened inside her?
“You’re so gorgeous, you know that?” Terrence whispered.
“Thank you.”
Her fingertip traced her name written in cursive on his skin. Didn’t his lovers have a problem with him having his ex-wife’s name tattooed on his chest?
“I can’t believe you never covered this.”
“Told you I’d never cover it. You didn’t believe me?”
“I guess I’m surprised.”
Whenever he posed shirtless for the gram—hanging with the fellas, during a workout on the set of a video shoot, or partying at some other celebrity’s pad—her name was obvious for the general public to see. Right after the divorce, occasionally interviewers asked if he would cover it up.
“Why would I?” he’d retort, and he’d mean-mug them, daring them to pursue that line of questioning. The stare off usually ended with the reporter laughing uncomfortably and saying something like, “Just asking.” Then they’d move on to the next topic.
After a few of those awkward moments, he was never asked about her name on his chest again.
“We need to talk,” Charisse said.
“About what?”
“About what happened tonight.”
“What happened is that we had sex.”
“Iknow.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, then reopened them. “But what we did—”
“Shh.” He scooted down in the bed and pressed his lips to her hip. His moist tongue lapped the curve of her skin, and she closed her eyes, shuddering and wanting more.
“Terrence, we can’t. We can’t do this.”
“We already did. What’s one more time?”
Her throbbing core agreed with him.
