Forever With Him

by Stacy Travis

  “You taste like a summer peach,” he said with a growl near my ear, sending a shiver over my skin. “Every delicious bite.” His lips and glorious tongue marked a trail down my throat and between my breasts, which he began massaging with his hands. He yanked down one cup of my bra and bent his head to lick and suckle my nipple, thrilling every nerve in my body. With my hands lassoed above my head, taking off my bra would have required wizardry, so he briefly unwrapped the shirt, removed my bra, and rewrapped my wrists.

  “Chris, I need my hands back. I want to touch you.”

  He shook his head again. “Not yet. I intend to take a slow, detailed tour of your body with my tongue. And then—only then—will I let you touch me.”

  He wasn’t normally so bossy. Actually, he was never bossy. But I loved it.

  And he wasn’t kidding about using his tongue. He circled my nipple, coaxing it to harden and throb against his mouth while he sucked and massaged. My eyes closed at the sensation, and my hips bucked up against him. He gripped my hips with his knees and stilled them, which only caused my need to build even more.

  “Chris,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “You have to let me touch you.”

  “Not yet.” I could tell he was getting off on the control, but mostly, he was enjoying how he’d turned me into a writhing, pleading recipient of his whims. “Not until you surrender completely. I want you to trust me, trust me to see you come undone.”

  “I do. I trust you,” I panted. I could barely form words. His hand dipped into my panties and found its way to my soft, wet center, and he teased me with a finger.

  “Tell me you know I’ll never hurt you.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  “I’m not gonna make you tell me you love me, because it would be under duress. But I’m going to make you love me. And I’m gonna fuck you with my tongue.”

  Well, now.

  I’d never been with guys who did much dirty talking, and it hadn’t really appealed to me before, but hearing those words from a sweet, hot guy like Chris almost made me orgasm on the spot. “Please. Yes please.”

  He smiled and placed a row of kisses down my stomach to the waistband of my panties, which he grabbed in his teeth and pulled down. He worked them down over my legs until I was naked and bound by my cotton T-shirt. He surveyed my body as if he’d unearthed a masterpiece, and he was appreciating every nuance. He made me feel that beautiful, and I rarely felt anything even close to that.

  “It’s all I’ve been able to think about for weeks—seeing you, all of you.” He’d backed away so he wasn’t touching me at all, and the ache of wanting was doing me in. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to touch me.”

  “Good. Because I need to touch you.” He put both hands on my shoulders, and I felt my skin ignite under each hand. He ran them lightly over my body, pausing to fondle and tease my breasts before moving lower.

  The ache between my legs was driving me to distraction. I needed him to touch me, but I knew that the more I wanted it, the more he would tease and torture me.

  Chris moved toward my feet and pressed my knees up so my feet were on the bed. Then, carefully and slowly, he touched and kissed the inner side of each thigh, starting at my knee and pressing soft kisses to my skin. My body was on fire. My legs were shaking, and I was pretty sure the quiet moaning I heard was coming from me.

  Running his fingers over the sensitive skin he’d just kissed, Chris leaned between my legs and exhaled a hot, sexy breath at my center, and I felt my skin melt and my insides clench.

  Then he paused. I almost screamed out to him, begging him to touch me. But I knew that would fuel his torture, and I was committed to moving things along. I felt his hands gently part me. Then his tongue found my center and licked slowly, softly, making my hips rise against him and my legs return to their ceaseless shaking.

  “Oh my God, Chris. You’re killing me.”

  He looked up, his eyes blazing, and smiled—or rather, smirked.

  Then he waited again. I leaned my head back and started counting silently to myself. It was the only way I could think of to keep my brain from exploding and my body from writhing with pent-up desire.

  He took mercy on me with his tongue. He licked and sucked and devoured me until I couldn’t hold on any longer. My hips rolled against his mouth, and I broke free of the T-shirt binding and grabbed his hair in my fists as my orgasm built and soared until it shattered me.

  Oh. My. God.

  I was pretty certain I would never utter a coherent word again, and it didn’t matter. There were no words for what he’d just done to me, anyway.

  When I opened my eyes, he was watching me with a combination of lust and devotion that made me grab for his shirt, which needed to come off. Then his belt and the buttons on his pants. I worked quickly and efficiently, because getting him naked was my urgent goal.

  Chris looked wary, maybe unsure what I might do to return the favor of his delightful torturous game. I beckoned for him to come closer. When he leaned in, I wrapped my hand around his erection and whispered. “You are so fucking hot. I want you inside me.”

  Then I moved my hand away.

  “Fuck, Nikki.” He picked up my hand and put it back where it was. Damn it, I hadn’t tied up his hands.

  I’d thought I could return the favor of his merciless control, but I hadn’t thought through our size difference. In moments, he rolled on a condom, wrapped my legs around him, and crushed my mouth with his.

  It was hands and mouths and tongues and heat until he slowed his movements and paused before lining himself up at my entrance then filling me completely. I gasped at the glorious feel of him and rocked against him in steady rhythm.

  He moved slowly at first, making sure to hit all the right spots. When he rolled his hips, I felt myself building to another orgasm, but I wanted to make sure he was working toward his own.

  And then we were both crashing and falling into each other and reeling off into intense, fiery bliss.

  Chris got up to dispose of the condom, and when he came back, he was wearing the towel. He slipped next to me on the bed and rolled me on top of him so I was resting on the soft plush of the towel and my chest was flush against his. “I’m afraid we’re not going to do much sightseeing this week,” he said.

  “You’re the only sight I came here to see.”

  He smiled and tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my ear. Then he kissed me.

  We kissed for a long time. We were a tangle of limbs with my leg draped over his and one of his arms wound around my back and the other tangled in my hair, which he combed with his fingers. He was quiet, but I knew he wasn’t asleep. I also knew he wasn’t thinking about work. I’d learned to tell when he drifted to the work place, and he was one hundred percent in the moment. It was like watching a hummingbird land for a split second. In that time, it was possible to see the sleek body and nimble wings that allowed it to fly, but in its stillness, it almost seemed beautifully ordinary.

  I loved the moments when Chris was still. I hadn’t felt it when he’d been in LA for twenty-four hours—or even less—when he’d visited and tried to keep our French fling alive, almost in a desperate attempt to stop an inevitable abyss from opening between us. That desperation, coupled with the stresses of his work that he simultaneously juggled, made those times together feel forced, if still enjoyable.

  But as we lay together, I felt him fully give over to the present. It was a lovely thing, the detachment from anything that came before—no memories or guilt or apologies or stress, and no concern for what would come next.

  And I had an epiphany. I knew it sounded grandiose, as if some sort of lightning bolt severed the clouds and sudden clarity rained down. But it was sort of like that.

  “Chris,” I whispered.

  He moved his arm from my back to my hip so he could roll to the side and meet my eyes. “Yeah?”

  “I think I just figured something out.”

  “What’s th
at?”

  I had to untangle myself a little more so I could see him better, but I didn’t want to let go of him, so I carefully moved only as far away as I needed to focus on him without going cross-eyed. Then I sighed. He was so beautiful.

  I couldn’t help smiling at him, just because he was him and I was a hundred percent in. I knew I loved him. There was no other way to describe how I felt. “I understand what it means to be fully present. Right now, the way we are together, it’s like it’s frozen in time. My heart is full. It’s a perfect moment.”

  “I agree. Only I don’t think it’s just a frozen moment. Because I feel this way about you all the time.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  He kissed my temple and kept his lips there.

  “Chris.” My voice was barely a croak, because I felt overcome with emotion and my eyes welled with tears. I struggled to swallow and normalize my voice because I needed it urgently. He heart the struggle in my voice and stroked my cheek in response.

  “Chris, I love you.”

  He backed away slightly so he could study my face. He looked more surprised than pleased. “Is this the duress speaking? Are you still under the fog of orgasm, or do you really mean that?”

  “I think I’ve been in love with you since you kissed me on the bridge in Paris. I tried to stop my heart from going there because it hurt too much when I couldn’t be with you. But you deserve to know how I feel. And I am so in love with you.”

  He ran his hand over the hair at my temple and cupped my face. His thumb traced a circle on my chin, and he stared into my eyes. I was consumed in the depths of his and couldn’t look away. Chris covered my lips with his, kissing me deeply and lovingly, telling me everything I needed to know about how he felt.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chris

  Two things became abundantly clear within two days of Nikki arriving in New York: first, I was happier than I’d been in three months, and second, I never wanted her to leave.

  I knew that wasn’t realistic, given our jobs.

  Or maybe you’ve been using the work excuse long enough.

  I wasn’t ready to see a therapist or think too hard about why I worked so much. I just wasn’t. Even thinking about thinking about it felt like moving a mountain.

  So I chose to focus instead on her and the possibility that she liked being with me in New York more than she liked being in LA with her job.

  From everything she’d said about her work, she liked it, but she didn’t love it. I began to wonder if she would consider a different job that she could like just as much at a firm in New York. Part of the reason I felt justified in asking her to make such a life change was that I’d seen her art. A person couldn’t be so talented and passionate about something and not want to do more of it.

  As I walked across Canal Street toward the Westside Highway, I enjoyed the feeling of chilly fall air and the warm sun hitting my face. Passing a stand of cheap sunglasses, trucker hats, and souvenirs, I stopped and bought a tiny replica Statue of Liberty for Nikki because she’d remarked on the view of it from my apartment and said she’d never been to Ellis Island. We would have plenty of time over the course of a week to take a boat out there, but she insisted she didn’t want to do any sightseeing.

  I was lucky that the production offices of the company behind my next film were in Tribeca, which meant I could walk the few blocks to my meetings. That rarely happened, and I felt fortunate. When I got to West Broadway, I hung a right and walked a couple blocks to Cipriani, where Nikki and I planned to meet for lunch. She was already there, sitting at one of the round outdoor tables under the yellow awning and munching on a breadstick from a glass jar on the table.

  She smiled, and her eyes lit up when she saw me and when I bent to kiss her. I lingered longer than was probably appropriate for a public venue, but I didn’t care. The paparazzi could kiss my ass if they wanted to try to take photos of us, because I kept my back to the street and both hands on Nikki’s face. They would have been hard-pressed to get a good shot.

  Nikki had taken the seat facing the street because she knew I usually liked to face inward. That day, I didn’t care. I pulled my chair around so I could sit next to her, facing the sidewalk. She looked surprised. “Aren’t you photo averse?”

  “Not when I’m with you. They can take all the pictures they want and write all day long about how I’m ‘smitten with my girl’ or whatever the hell. They’re right.”

  She smiled, leaning in to brush my lips with hers. “You’re sweet,” she said. “I ordered us some iced tea. And calamari.”

  “See, you already know so much about me,” I said, teasing because she still kept insisting that we didn’t know each other. I wasn’t sure what it was going to take to convince her that we didn’t need to go through the charade of getting acquainted.

  She stared at the menu. I’d been there before, so I stared at her. A few seconds later, her eyes shifted over the top of the menu to connect with mine. “What?” she asked. “You’re in a daze.”

  “Yes. I’m in a daze of you. I could daze at you until the end of days.”

  “How are you a real person? I feel like you’re someone I’d dream up, but then I’d wake up and realize I have to live in a depressing world where you don’t exist. Which would make me very sad.”

  “I exist.”

  “I’m grateful you exist,” she said, her lashes shading her eyes as she looked down at the menu again. I could see the hint of a smile on her lips.

  When I placed the tiny Statue of Liberty on the table in front of her, she yelped and studied its tiny details. “This is adorable. Thank you. And someday, I hope to visit her in person with you.” She leaned in and kissed me.

  “We can go while you’re here,” I offered again.

  “Nope. No touristy stuff. Just you and whatever tour of your hot body you’d like to give me.”

  “This tour guide is at your mercy—I mean, at your disposal.” I couldn’t help but smile at her like a smitten schoolboy.

  Our waiter came by, and we ordered—she picked a salad, and I chose an antipasto platter. I assumed we’d share both, because that was what we typically did without discussing it first or debating about it later. It was yet another sign we were compatible.

  It was the kind of late-fall day when most of the leaves had dropped from the trees, which gave the sun extra places to shine. The sidewalks were their usual busy—people walked to lunch, rushed between meetings, took kids to the park—and sitting outside, even under heat lamps, wasn’t always a given. That was one reason I liked the place. The other was the food, most of which I would not be eating, since it was only lunch and I didn’t want to put myself into a food coma for the afternoon.

  We watched as a squirrel ran down the trunk of a tree and try to make a dash across the crowded street. It barely managed to get across with its life, but somehow fate smiled, and the traffic parted for its tiny paws. “That squirrel needs to reevaluate its life choices,” Nikki said, rolling her eyes. I loved that concept.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Nikki looked up when I said it. We’d had a conversation recently about how she hated when people asked if they could ask something because then they were actually asking two things. I didn’t have a problem with the double question, and I hoped she wouldn’t take the opportunity to bring it up for discussion again. “Sure.”

  “Have you ever thought about turning your artistic talent into a career?” I don’t know what I thought. Maybe that she’d be flattered I thought so highly of her art or that she’d have her eyes opened to something she’d never considered.

  I didn’t expect her reply. “Yeah, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I mean, thank you for the thought. I appreciate that you think I could make some kind of job out of it, but no.”

  “You’re really talented. I don’t know how you can’t see it.”

  She took a bite of her breadstick and a sip of he
r iced tea, being very deliberate in her movements. Was she stalling? “I do see it. I know it’s something I have a knack for,” she said.

  I held up a finger to correct her. “No. You have a gift.”

  “Thank you. Whatever you choose to call it, it’s a passion hobby, but it’ll never be a job.”

  “Why not? I thought you said you didn’t love PR.”

  “I don’t. But I’m good at it, and I like being good at it.”

  “And that’s enough for you? Being good at it but not loving it?”

  “I don’t need to love it. I love making art. That’s my passion. And my friends are my passion. And watching the ocean. My passion is having balance in my life, not doing one thing to the exclusion of everything else.” Her eyes got wide. “I mean, I’m not criticizing your devotion to your career.”

  “No, it’s okay. You’re not wrong. I do devote myself to it, maybe too much.”

  She didn’t disagree with me. Maybe I wanted her to, at least a little bit. And maybe she would if she gave into her love for art and made it a bigger part of her life. “I guess I don’t understand. If you have a passion, and you’re phenomenal at it, why wouldn’t you want to do it as your career?”

  “Because it wouldn’t be fun anymore. If I was trying to make a living at it and turning it into a source of stress, all the joy would go. I’d rather have a job I know I’m good at and a hobby I’m great at that I love. That’s how I’ve prioritized it.”

  “Hmph.” Her perspective was interesting. I grabbed a breadstick and broke it in half. Then, unsure which half I wanted to eat, I put both pieces down on the bread plate. She’d scrambled my logic, and I had a feeling hers was superior.

  I decided that as long as we were at it, I would gently broach the subject of her job and the possibility of doing a similar job in New York. Her own firm had an office there, for crying out loud—it wouldn’t be that hard. But she had to be willing.

  “How was work?” I asked.

  “Eh, fine. Nothing too earth-shattering. I wrote some press releases and had a conference call.”