Page 116 of Better Hate than Never

She kisses me eagerly, open-mouthed, her touch uneven and unsure, but gaining confidence when I start making the kinds of sounds I can’t help, deep, rough gasps that make me crush heragainst me, make my hips pump my cock into her hand, faster and faster. She takes my cue and moves faster, intensifies her grip. “Yeah, that’s it,” I tell her. “That’s perfect, honey. So good. Just like that.”

She smiles against the crook of my neck and presses a wet, long kiss there.

My body’s tight as I groan and beg for her to keep going, my breathing sharp and short as she pumps me faster and teases my neck, my chest, with more soft, wet kisses.

“I like to kiss you, too,” I tell her, “when we’re doing this.”

“You are kissing me.”

I smile. “More than your lips.”

On a breathy laugh, she falls back on the bed and lets me ease over her, my hand lifting her breast, palming it, teasing her nipple. I kiss below her ear, the hollow of her throat, the place where I feel her heart flying beneath her ribs.

When I suck her nipple into my mouth, she sinks her nails into my back and gasps, her grip on my cock tightening, her pace accelerating.

“God, Kate,” I pant, sucking at her other nipple, rocking my hips into her hands. “I’m gonna come if you don’t slow down.”

“Then come,” she says, pushing me back enough to kiss her way down my neck. When she sinks her teeth into my pec, right above my nipple, and bites, chasing it with her tongue, I shout and come all over her hand, thick and fast.

“Keep going,” I manage, guiding her hand to move. “That’s it. Gentler. Like I did with you. Until I tell you I can’t anymore. Until being touched is too much.” I slow her hand to a stop, easing it away, and drop my head to her neck, breathing roughly. “God,” I groan.

“Wow,” she whispers. “That was fast.”

I bark a laugh and flop back onto my bed, reaching for thetowel on the floor that she abandoned from her bath. Kate takes it from me, wiping her hand clean, then carefully wiping me clean, too, before she tosses it aside. She sits upright, staring down at me, her touch softly trailing my thighs, my hips.

“Come here,” I tell her, easing up on my elbow, hand outstretched.

Kate stares at me still, firelight flickering in her eyes. Then she crawls over me and pushes me right back onto the bed.

•THIRTY-THREE•

Kate

I thought the first time I found a person I wanted to share this with—nakedness, touch, desire—it would feel like a bridge crossed, a height ascended, a power discovered that I hadn’t known before.

But as I crawl across the bed over Christopher, seeing firelight kiss his body and turn his eyes to ochre flames, as my skin touches his and we both let out harsh, winded breaths, it feels nothing like that. Not like I’ve crossed a bridge, but like I finally feel safe to stay with a truth that was always inside me. Not as if a height’s been ascended, but as if I’m free-falling, rushing wind and the promise of a safe landing below, sweet and smooth, welcoming me into its depths. Not like I’ve discovered some new power, but like power itself has dissolved, leaving me and this man beneath me as naked as we were born yet infinitely more vulnerable—our innocence lost, our eyes open, knowing the loss and pain life can bring, embracing each other in spite of it.

“Kate,” he says, his voice low and quiet, his hand warm and rough, scraping back my hair, cupping my jaw. “Come here, honey. Let me touch you.”

I stare down at him, the beautiful breadth of his body, broad, heavy arms splayed wide across the bed, one leg lazily bent, the other hanging, thick and strong, off its edge. I have never wanted someone so much. I have never felt more overwhelmed.

Christopher seems to sense this, because he takes my elbow and gently tugs me with him across the bed, until we collapse together onto cool, downy pillows. He slips his arm beneath my neck and curls me against his body, his other hand low across my back, rubbing soothing circles. I tip up my head to see him, to try to orient myself amid this emotional vertigo. His lips brush the bridge of my nose, then one side, then the other.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“What I’ve wanted to do for a long time,” he whispers back. “Kissing your freckles.”

My cheeks heat. “You like my freckles?”

“Like I ‘like’ your bird’s nest—Ilovethem.”

“Oh.” My hand settles on his waist, then begins exploring his body—dense muscles, smooth, warm skin, these fascinating divots joining his hips to his backside that feel like they were designed for my hands to be there. “These divots are nice,” I tell him.

Christopher smiles against my cheek, then kisses me there, too. “Thank you.”

“I don’t feel like divots should make me feel... squirmy, but they do.”

His smile deepens. “Want to know a part of you that makes me feel ‘squirmy’?”

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