“I want you,” she breathes softly. Almost missing the promise in her words, I suck in air, not knowing if she’s ready for it. For me. For us. For this. Especially after our conversation tonight. She waits for my response, not looking at me but gripping my arms at this point and trying to convey it with the pressure.
Tilting her chin up, needing to see her facial expressions, I lick my suddenly dry lips. “Josephine,” I request gruffly, unsure of how much restraint I truly have. “I need you to be specific. Tell me what you want, spell it out for me. I don’t want to cross a line.”
Her eyes flutter slowly, sweetly, the lashes meeting her cheeks. “I want you,” she enunciates, her expression alight with fear and desire, swirling together to make a toddy mixture that swims through me. What does she want? Me to hold her? Kiss her? Love her? Fuck her?
Maybe she just needs me to be here for her. Maybe she needs a sweet and platonic touch. Her expression can show so much but tell so little. She pulls on the waist of my slacks with her right forefinger, her touch separated by my tucked-in shirt. Even then, it takes a lot not to groan. We haven’t touched in months. It was my attempt of trying not to push, knowing she wanted more than fucking.
“I need you to give me something better to remember on this night, old man.”
“If I push too hard, tell me, okay?” I request, hoping she sees that tenderness is what I’ll offer.
“You won’t, but yes, okay.” She nods as she says this, almost as if she needs me to both see and hear she’s sure.
I grip her face, wanting to feel her pale rose lips against my mouth. Swiping my thumb across her chin to put this moment in memory, I watch her smile. Her teeth nip at me as she playfully shakes her hips.
Instead of swatting her ass like I want, I kiss her. Her lips are stiff for only a breath, her surprise leaks away with my control. We battle, her tongue fighting mine, her teeth hitting mine, and our flavors intermingling. She’s sweet like I remember, perfect like I can never forget, and all mine for now.
She moans as my tongue brushes the ridges of the roof of her mouth. I guide her backward toward our bedroom, the one I’ve yet to taste, touch, or experience her in other than sleeping. After she nearly stumbles, our lips not leaving one another, I lift her, waiting for her to clutch me in that delicious way I crave.
Joey doesn’t disappoint, digging her heels into the dimples on my lower back. As we make our way to the room, she rips at my shirt, uncaring that it’s Tom Ford and expensive as shit. She pulls it from me right as I lower her on our bed. Her expression heated, she touches her puffy lips with a grin.
She leans back, and her robe comes undone, revealing her lack of attire. She’s bare. One hundred and ten percent naked. It’s almost as if she’s untouched and innocent and not like the vixen who battled me for months with her tongue, body, and words.
“Fuck,” I grunt as she pulls the robe off, leaving it underneath her like a display, making her my very own meal platter to feast upon.
“What’s it going to be, old man?” Our eyes connect as she bites her bottom lip, the way her teeth glide over the flesh has me coming undone. I’ve waited for this moment, and now that it’s here, my nerves overwhelm every inch of me.
What if I hurt her?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Past
Joey
The way he’s eating me up with his expression alone has my legs quaking with need. Desire pools in my belly and lower, wanting—no—needing his touch. He’s been so sweet and gentle, and that’s not what I want. Though the memories are few and far too many, I remember the way he handled me in Vegas and at Francis’s house. I’m not a gentle doll who desires sweet touches; I’m more of a fuck doll who likes being hammered into, and he knows it.
“Fuck.” His single word has me nervous with excitement. It’s that kind of thrill that skates up your skin, buzzing along the way.
“That’s exactly what I want,” I respond, trying to hide the heat flaming my skin. His eyes are connecting with mine, and there’s a question there, possibly more, but I don’t want questions or reassurances. Him inside me is my only desire right now. Stroking deep like I know he can and gutting me from the inside out with his cock—that’s what we need.
I waggle my finger at him, desperate for him to touch me, to go faster, get rougher, and take, take, take.
He smirks, his lips tilting at the sides. That fucking smirk always gets us both into trouble. It breaks down my barriers and fucks me the same way I know he can.
He slowly shrugs off the rest of his shirt. The one destroyed by my impatience and costs a small fortune—not that I care. It stopped my hands from roaming, so it needed to go. It gives me the opportunity to stare at him. Really stare at him. He’s usually super stand-offish when it comes to his body. There are scars everywhere, I’ve seen glimpses. You can tell he tried hiding them with tattoos, covering up his past, something I know nothing about. When he reaches for his pants, my impatience rises. He’s purposely going slow to torture me.
I sit up, and my hands go to his slacks. His eyes devour me as I unbutton and unzip them. Dragging them down with his boxer briefs, my eyes connect with his cock. It’s huge. Way bigger than I remember. It doesn’t help that I gulp loudly, and he chuckles, only making me more nervous. Without asking, I touch his velvety length, loving the feel beneath my fingertips.
“Josephine,” he hisses, his face one of pain.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, knowing it’s not from me doing something wrong, but more than likely the three months he’s gone without sex or intimate human touch. I grip him, not knowing how he likes it but hoping the knowledge I have is enough. A guttural groan escapes his thick throat as he glares down at me. It’s not an angry one, but heated, like fucking coals that have basked in the flames for hours.
Toby’s knees connect with the mattress, forcing me to lie back. He kisses my left shoulder, trailing to my collarbone, all while I stroke him softly, teasingly, wanting more but unable to push him to the brink. His lips, feather-soft and hot, make their way to my throat. He licks, swirls over the veins, and sucks with purpose. Marking me. Claiming me.
I moan as his left hand grips my hips, rubbing his thumb in circles, taunting me. “Please,” I whimper as that same hand grips my breast, kneading it reverently. He flicks my nipple, making me hiss in approval.
“Please what?” he torments, moving his mouth over the pebbled flesh and flicking his tongue over the tightened bud.
“Fuck me,” I plead, widening my legs.
“Shh, Sous,” he hushes, bringing our lips together. A moan tries slipping out as his fingers spread me, dancing flagrantly over my clit. I buck into him, wanting him to fill me. It’s been so long; a slow, torturous burn that exceeds anything I’ve ever had to wait for.
When he pulls back, his eyes are vibrant green, edgy, full of worship and lust. He’s holding back, but this time in his eyes, it’s not because of anyone other than us. The way he gazes at me is with remembrance and hope. A future.
“I love you,” he whispers, the bereft moment without air as I’m trying to gain back my mind hits me. “Breathe, Josephine.” And I do. Dissolving into a pile of ashes beneath his strong body, I flutter away, soothing the air between us.
Letting out a strangled noise that doesn’t match the heady sentiments rushing through me has him halting.
“I love you, too.” It’s merely uttered, barely there, not hesitant but cherished with the emotions displayed between us both. He cants off the bed, using his arms as anchors and hovering over me with ease. His tattoos blare at me, each one telling stories of love and pain and a life that brings me the man he is today. He’s going to make love to me. Something I’ve never experienced before.
“You act like you’ve never done this before,” I utter as he worships me with his eyes. His expression morphs into a shy boyish grin.
“I haven’t.”
“What do you—"
“Let me show you,” he promises, in
terrupting me, before kissing my mouth. It’s chaste and soft, sensual and sweet. His arms flex as he lowers himself, tracing his lips over every sensitive piece of flesh visible. I shake with barely abated desire, needing more, wanting everything he’ll offer.
His mouth hovers over my center, his breath hot and decadent as he waits for my go-ahead. “Please,” I nearly hiss. He’s much more controlled than me right now. Keeping my hands to myself and stopping him from going slow is killing me.
When he lowers, a sigh escapes me as the press of his tongue swipes languidly down my slit. Contentedness and desperation mingling in one breath. My fingers brush his scalp, unable to hold still.
He spreads me with his fingers, his mouth taking control of every spasm raging inside me, seeking exit, yearning for release. He touches me in a way of remembrance, as if it’s our last day, soft like snow, fragile as ice, savoring me like a last sip of wine. His grunts only further my devotion to keeping his head between my thighs, and the way I’m tugging his hair only makes him go slower.
The bed shifts as he rises, but before I can complain, he’s lifting me. My heart races, thinking he’s going to impale me, but when he only rests me on top of his abs, confusion takes over.
“I need you to take a memory from me, too, Josephine.” Our gazes connect, and there’s pain there, not residual but effervescent, cresting through his chest into mine; it’s subduing me with its strength. “Purify my sins, Sous. Ease them like only you can and replace them with yourself,” he pleads, gripping my thighs. There’s an unspoken vow.
He lifts me, forcing me upward. When my thighs are nearly around his head, he places a gentle kiss on me. “Erase every memory, Sous. Every touch and taste before you, make them dissolve. Love me until it’s only you and me.” With a shaky nod, he’s placing me on his mouth. The first swipe of his tongue has me grinding down on him, hissing as his teeth bite into my flesh. He holds my thighs with brutal rashness, bruising me and pressing his fingers into my soft flesh as if touch’ll fix this. Fix him.
Whenever this moment went from my ease to his, it doesn’t matter; the only thing that matters right now is the current flushing through my system, eradicating every bad memory experienced without him.
We’ll slay our demons together.
Our love will set the world on fire.
Darkness binds us, branding us at this moment, and as he becomes reckless beneath me, pushing, biting, flicking his tongue masterfully as if re-memorizing a nightmare as a daydream, I’m gripping the headboard of our bed to carry the impact.
As the stars in the sky expand and swallow the dark, Toby beckons me in the same way. His body interlaces with mine, taking every ounce of fight by embedding us together, taking, taking, taking.
“Toby,” I moan, and he clamps down on my clit as I let go. I’m riding his face as the sky explodes around me, detonating my vision of rudimentary intimacy, switching it for sublime euphoria.
My high settles, and he’s moving me down him, his face red and slickened with my release.
We are neither here nor there but exist in a time lapse. We are stolen kisses. Unspoken truths. Midnight wishes. Everything and nothing, as our eyes communicate and our souls merge, sealing our fates as one.
We are soulmates; we are purloining constellations, revering the sky.
“You breathe life back into me, Sous.” A tear slips past me, not understanding what memory I replaced, but the hope on his face, swallowing the fear he reflected often, makes every wordless action crush my chest with the affection I’ve long thought were lost to me.
Breathe, Joey.
“It’s my turn to do the same for you,” he promises before flipping me over and taking my mouth and body for the first time since we’ve reconnected. Cherishing, caressing, loving every scarred inch of us both, replacing every heinous memory with pure ones.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Present
Joey
Memories of sweetness blur my vision, reminding me how far we got before snapping. Our love a bone under too much pressure, fracturing until useless.
Toby has every right to hate me. Even I hate me.
After the door practically yells at me as he slams it, the shower starts running.
What are we doing? Why am I still here? And the more pressing question is, why is he?
We’re married, yes. I love him, yes. If that’s all there is, what’s the point?
I want to be the couple they write songs about.
Where there are books and movies based upon the passion they share.
Never-ending. Constant. Inspirational.
Is that too much to ask?
It’s been over a year since everything went to hell.
It took him time to gather himself, but now we’re back here. Hollow Ridge. The place we both openly loathe. Where she is. He acts as if I shouldn’t care, but even when we were happy, he loved and adored her, all while lying in my arms.
The bandages our love wrapped around him were temporary gauze, faulty enough where her love always leaked through, wreaking its infection throughout us both.
You don’t know true pain until you’re making love with the man of your dreams, and his mind is stuck on the one woman he’s always loved most. He calls me the ice queen, the bitter bitch, the frigid north, but does he not realize he’s made me this way?
He did this.
To me.
To himself.
To us.
We were happy.
In love, if I’m truthful to myself.
Our days were spent together. At Mi Casa, watching movies at night, exploring each other’s bodies. Everything was perfect. Even after I told him about my inability to have children, we were good. Then we collided, a frisson of explosive anger and resentment. A destruction of hate and loathing waiting for the right time to fulminate.
My curiosity came with a cost.
At the time, it didn’t occur to me that the cost would be too much.
No one ever does.
The splashing of water droplets drowns out my despondence. I didn’t lie to him when I told him I loved him. Tears trail my cheeks as the emotions kept at bay finally frees. There are ten minutes tops to get it all out before he’s back.
This is our routine.
He runs.
I charge.
He disappears.
I drown.
My chest that once barricaded a heart now houses a veinless appendage surrounded by ice-covered shrapnel. Frigid as ice, lifeless as the dead, voiceless as silence.
It’s as lonely as I am.
Can he not feel that?
He used to care. Once, his heart made mine fonder, helped it grow, changed me... but I’ve ruined it.
Only, he’s not the only one bitter about it.
Standing in the same place he left me, I swallow back the emotion. I have seven minutes left. Checking the watch on my wrist, I watch as time fades a little more. Six. Instead of waiting for him, my mind sets on its target. The wine closet.
He did so well. It took me a year to know his truths and see the lies he hid behind. Now, it’s apparent more than ever. He’s broken again, and I’ve taken so much.
I’m the bad. He’s the good. We’re the tainted.
The nickel under my hand sends icy tendrils through me. It’s not the cold from the metal; it’s the awareness of what I’ve accepted. The failure of love, the one I can’t seem to let go.
Turning the handle, I peer inside. Wine isn’t my alcoholic beverage of choice, but it gets the job done and puts a dent in his wallet, so maybe then he’ll notice me. Bringing anything stronger into our house only leads to dangerous situations. Regardless of our shared hatred, handing him ammunition won’t be happening any time soon.
Picking the bottle closest to me, I take it to the kitchen.
Another reminder of what I’ve lost. The counters are bare, as are the cupboards, walls, and everything in between. When passion is lost, is there a cure? Or is it the one thing tha
t never grows back, like a lost limb? Cancerous to the body once detached and unable to be lively once more.
I don’t even frown when thinking of that loss. What does it compare to the rest? It’s nothing. Just like me.
Four.
The clock blatantly makes me aware of how little time I have to soak into this pain. Then I’ll hide it like he does his love. Opposites. Opposing forces that battle constantly. Hatred and the lack of disposition fill my nerves every day.
The cork sounds out, popping like a knuckle as I strain to consume my emotions. Let it breathe, Dad would always say. Too bad for us both, I’ve never cared to be formal. Near the stove, hanging upside down, my wine glasses stare at me. Again, it hits me that not caring is a symptom of despondence, but it changes nothing. Lifting the bottle to my mouth, I drink.
It doesn’t burn, it slides, it soothes, it fabricates fairy tales. It whispers happy fictitious dreams, making it easier for me to accept the reality that has become my life. They say there are some hard to swallow pills in life, but they didn’t tell you that you’d soon choke on those words, nearly dying to swallow back the hand you’re dealt.
Two.
The resounding clock in my mind ticks, promising dread and telling me life isn’t going to be any easier once our door to the bathroom opens. Not that he has a heart to care anymore. It’s like it shriveled inside him like a dying plant. The essence fading away with each day it lacks water and sun to sustain it.
I watched him die like a wilting daffodil, the yellow turning to brown, the petals flitting to the ground, the stem slowly deteriorating as life around it prospers. It’s beautiful. It’s ugly. It’s our reality.
The door to the bathroom swings open, smacking against the door stopper I bought for us when the last few walls received holes from his anger. His temperament doesn’t scare me; it’s never been directed at me, even if his hatred has. Sometimes, I’d rather him beat me black and blue than give me this nothingness. At least with bruises, there’s something. Color. An existence of manifestation and not resolve.
Breathe Page 14