Page 89 of False Start
“God, I’m so fucking sorry, Z.”
His voice sounds like home. His cologne smells like every good memory we’ve ever had. And he feels like the only man I’ve ever loved. The man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with. And now it’s all gone. But I yearn to feel something other than the deadness inside me. I want something to replace the dull ache in my bones.
“Show me,” I say as I pull away and look up at him.
He searches my eyes for my meaning and quickly finds his answer. Desperation rolls off him in thick waves. “Baby, we shouldn’t do that. We need to sit down and talk. I can find someone to counsel us tonight if you’re willing. We can find our way back from this.”
We can’t, and one day, he’ll realize he fucked our future up when he allowed her to put her mouth on him. He’ll realize he went too far and we reached a point of no return. “Take it or leave it, Quarterback.”
He considers me for a long moment, bites on his lip, and starts to talk a few times before he does. “You know I’ll take whatever scraps you throw my way, but for the record, I...”
I cut him off when I wrap my arms around his neck and lift myself. He catches me around the waist as I lean forward and press my lips to his neck.
“Fuck, Z.”
He thrusts up against my center, and it’s the first thing that’s felt good since we split. I crave more and devour him like a starved woman.
“Z, come here,” he whispers and attempts to have me turn my head to kiss him.
The thought of my lips on his… it’s too much too fast. I unwrap my legs from his waist, ready to run away. I shouldn’t have let it get this far.
He pulls me back against him and thwarts my escape. “You can’t kiss me?”
I turn my head away from him and refuse to answer, and I swear I can hear his heart break. I wish I had the emotional capacity to empathize with him, but he gutted me and left me on empty. There’s nothing left. I manage to get away from him and far enough away that I drop my robe and pull my matching silky purple nightgown over my head. “Here are the scraps. We can do it my way or not at all.”
He inches toward me, shy and unsure. With unsteady hands, he reaches out to touch my breast, and then his hand travels up to my cheek. “Let me kiss you.”
“Take it or leave it.” I turn around and show him my back as I take a few steps toward the couch and bend over with my ass in the air. I rub my ass and moan at my own touch.
“Fuck,” he groans as his feet bring him closer to me. He reaches out and caresses both of my cheeks with his hands before he squeezes both sides. His right hand travels to the center of me and his index finger slides up my middle, taking my wetness with him. “Baby, you’re so fucking wet.”
“Yeah? I’m ready for you,” I tease, hoping he doesn’t back out now. I need this and don’t want to go find a random person at a local bar. It seems like a lot of work and risk for a relatively low payoff.
He unzips his pants and presses the length of himself against my ass.
“You need a condom,” I tell him, suddenly nervous about having sex with him after spending not only our separation without it, but every day since the Super Bowl.
“Zhanna, I don’t own condoms,” he says with a bit of attitude in his tone. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not having sex to need condoms.”
I shouldn’t believe him. I know, but I do, so I back up and reach between my legs to hold him in my hand. God. He feels good. I line him up at my entrance and push back.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses and immediately stops my progress. “Babe, it’s been a minute. You’re going to have to go slow.”
I can’t go slow. I can’t let it be that intimate, so I keep an even tempo and listen to him moan and groan my name. I feel him jump inside me and know he’s close, but I’m not. I stop and give him a reprieve.
“Thank you,” he says, out of breath.
He leans over my back as his hands travel up my sides and over to my breasts. He peppers kisses along my shoulders and the back of my neck. Tears well in my eyes at the tenderness of it, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face.
“I love you, Zhanna,” he whispers.
And then he begins to torture me with slow, long, deep thrusts. If it didn’t feel so fucking good, I’d make him speed up. As usual, he plays my body like a fiddle and brings me to the edge of bliss time and again before he finally allows me to crash over. And the wait is brutal. He doesn’t want it to end, but it has to. I can’t keep guarding my heart against this and hope to stand a chance.
I increase the speed and at first he tries to fight it by grabbing my hips and holding me in place, but I win out.
“I’m going to come,” he warns. “You’re so fucking tight.”
He begins to meet me thrust for thrust, hard and steady, deep and long, as he tells me how good I feel. His hand weaves through my hair as he pulls my head back and presses his lips to my ear. “Feels so fucking good. Are you coming for me again?”
