Page 38 of Half-Hearted
Three thrusts. It took him three thrusts to go from careful and measured to fast, wild, and all-consuming. The room was filled with sounds of skin slapping against skin, of two people fighting for breath. Of moans and groans and incoherent mumblings and, “Joel. So good. It’s so good.”
He palmed my breast, working my nipple with his magic fingers as he continued to brush against that sweet spot with every pump. I cried out, hips slanting to meet him thrust for hard thrust, falling apart as he murmured encouragements. Told me I was beautiful. Said he was sorry. That he loved me. That he missed me. He loved me and he missed me and he was never going to let me go. “Never again,” he kept repeating. “Never fucking again.”
It was too much.
All of it.
Too much.
A third all-consuming wave of pleasure swept over me, until I was gasping, shuddering, and clenching, and the last little bit of Joel’s self-restraint crumbled. He pumped into me harder, in a more erratic, messy rhythm that had been ripped straight out of my fantasies. I’d fantasized the hell out of him losing control like this, of wanting me so badly that he just snapped.
Joel grunted my name when he reached his own climax, and I savored every bit of it. Every hard breath, every pulse and spasm and vibrating limb.
And when it was over, I held him and he held me, our consumed, satiated bodies pressed against each other, refusing to let go.
Eventually, he peeled himself back enough to kiss me softly, caressing my skin like I was the most delicate, precious thing in the world. Then he was murmuring again, sweet little praises accompanied by more silky kisses.
That was when I knew. Honestly, I knew. Seventeen years of waiting, of wishing and wanting and heartbreak, and I’d do it all over again for him. Just to experience this moment.
“I love you, too,” I whispered to him.
His chest stuttered against me, and it took him a moment to quietly ask, “Really?” Almost like it was too good to be true.
So I said it again. And again. And I kept repeating the words like he had, until we were rumpled into another tangle of limbs and panting pleas and deep thrusts. I said it a thousand times that night, the next morning.
And eight months later, when he knelt in front of me and asked me to marry him, I said, “Yes.”
12
Joel
Eight MonthsLater
“He cried.”
“I didn’t cry.”
Alexis rolled her eyes and mouthed, “He cried,” again to Jane and Priya, both of whom were doing an extremely poor job of hiding their giddy amusement behind tiny sips of their candy-colored drinks.
Alright, I may have cried a little when she said, “Yes,” but I wasn’t going to admit it out loud.
“I believe it,” Raj interjected. “His eyes were suspiciously wet when he asked me to be a groomsman. It’s the sole reason I said yes, knowing the devastated weeping my rejection would likely inspire—”
I kicked his shin under the table and took a big, macho gulp of my mango daiquiri, ignoring the immediate, painful brain freeze that followed. I withstood it stoically, barely even wincing. Like aman.
Raj laughed and patted my shoulder. “I kid. Congratulations again, you guys. We couldn’t be happier for you.”
It was hard to believe that eight months ago, I’d wanted to snap that exact hand in half. In my defense, though, said hand had been attached possessively to the lower back of the love of my life.
After the party, Alexis had insisted that I reach out to him and apologize for my behavior. “He’s really nice!” she kept saying. “Honestly, I think if you’d met under different circumstances, you’d be really good friends. He’s got kind of an odd sense of humor, really dry and a little self-deprecating, but also kind of eccentric. It’s weird. I think you’d be into it.”
She’d been right. I’d messaged the guyonceto apologize, and he’d wormed his funny, charming way right into my life. We’d been friends ever since.
There was another warm round of cheers, smoothly kicked off by Raj. I tipped my drink forward, unable to hold back my smile as I looked around the table. The whole soon-to-be wedding party was here. Almost. Four bridesmaids, one bridesman, one maid of honor, and six groomsmen. So everyone except for the best man.
I was starting to worry about Ethan. He was always traveling, always working. No breaks, no days off. And it kept getting worse, not better. He’d started to miss holidays, birthdays, and life milestones, too obsessed with his job and following in his late father’s footsteps.
I’d tried talking to him a dozen times, but it was like talking to a stubbornly rigid brick wall. He didn’t see a problem, so there wasn’t anything for him to fix.
