Absinthe Of The Heart

by Monica James

As our tongues spar, ready to wage a war where we both win, London slips his hand between us. Everywhere he touches sends ripples of pleasure straight to my toes. However, when he circles my clit with the pad of his thumb, everything shifts, and the focal point is my needy center.

  I’m still slick and delicate, so when London inserts a finger into me, I bow off the mattress, the feeling amplified tenfold. “Such a greedy little thing,” he hums against my lips.

  “I am when it comes to you,” I gasp, spreading my legs farther. He works his way in slowly, testing and stretching, preparing me for what’s to come.

  “More,” I plead, fumbling and guiding him to fill me to the brim. He adds another finger, all the while massaging my center with skill. A sheen of sweat coats my body, adding to the velvety slide as he rocks against me, his fingers never missing a beat.

  The knot begins to build low once again, and as good as this feels, I’m ready and needy and the only thing that will suffice is him burying himself deep within me. I’ve been a selfish lover. It’s now my turn to give.

  “My turn,” I state, gently coaxing him to a standstill. I kiss his lips before rolling us over so I’m straddling him.

  He looks up at me with nothing but love, a vision that will forever be singed onto my soul. With my name staring back at me, I raise my hips and grip his hot shaft, stroking him up and down. A profound breath escapes him as he arches his neck into the pillow. His hot weight has every part of my body slavering, and unable to wait for a second longer, I guide him into me.

  We both hiss when I rub his tip along my entrance, coating him with my arousal. Inch by inch, I lower myself onto him, biting my lip because the stretch is almost to the pinnacle of pain. But that ache rapidly fades and is replaced with complete euphoria.

  London places his hands low on my hips, his gaze flicking downward to see where we are connected. When I’m halfway down, he stops me from progressing, suspending me on his cock. I attempt to shift, needing so much more, but he holds on tight. “This is everything. It changes everything. I love you. Promise me…never run from me again.”

  I place my palm over his thundering heart, over my name, and seal our fates forever. “I promise.”

  Satisfied, he loosens his hold, but just when I think he’s handed over the reins, he slams my hips onto him, impaling me to the hilt. My body undulates, as I’ve never felt this full.

  “Then I’m yours.” His offering sends me into overdrive because it’s what I’ve wanted to hear for so many years.

  Raising his hands in surrender, he silently gives me permission to take what I want, and all I want…all I’ve ever wanted was him.

  Placing both palms flat on his chest, I begin rocking my hips. Slow and steady at first, as he’s so incredibly big, but when I see him tonguing his upper lip, a look of utter possession slathered on his cheeks, I buck faster and harder, needing to unite as one.

  He groans, watching the way my breasts sway as I ride him like a stallion. “Faster,” he orders between small, erotic breaths. Each stroke hits me in just the right way, but I quash down my need to come because I want to feel him explode around me first.

  I bounce on his lap, the feeling of him re-entering me countless times taking my breath away. Stars flash behind my eyes, but I continue to dominate him, powerless to stop because this feels so good. Slapping one hand behind me and resting it on his knee, I grind on his shaft, the friction hitting my clit every single time.

  “Fuck,” he hisses, gripping one hand on my waist to help with the measured momentum. A wildfire begins to burn at the tips of my ears and work its way down.

  His abs ripple and roll, the sycamore tree on his flank coming alive as his breathless rumbles fill the air. I take him in, admiring every inch—his besotted face, his glorious body, but most of all, my name imprisoned over his heart.

  The love I feel for him will rule me, dictate me from this moment forward, and the thought of belonging to him irrevocably has tears pricking my eyes. My mind takes a back seat, and I rule with my body and heart. I devour him, bouncing and bucking until the familiar burn takes over, and I chase my release, unable to stop. I shatter around him, milking him, certain I’ve bled him dry.

  He is still hard, indicting this has only just begun. “Ready?”

  “For what?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

  He answers what a second later when he lifts me from his lap, and spins me around, only to slam me back down when I’m facing the far wall. My head is spinning, but I don’t have time to recollect my thoughts because he gently pushes between my shoulder blades so I fall onto all fours. He fills me once again.

  “That,” he whispers into my ear as he drapes his body over mine, biting the side of my neck. “I was just warming up.” Rising, he pulls out of me, only to sink into me over and over again.

  My breasts swing below my bowed body, my nipples scraping the blankets, adding to the stimulation overdrive. He rocks into me from behind, his hands controlling the angle of my hips because he knows all the right moves to make me feel like I’m dying inside.

  He pumps into me so vigorously it brings tears to my eyes, but I take everything he gives me, an instant addict to this feeling of unrestrained hunger. He grunts and hisses, increasing his brutal strokes until I can no longer take it and collapse onto my stomach.

  He hums with the sight of my ass high in the air, but he never misses a beat as he owns my body, drawing me closer to the threshold once again. “Welcome home, Princess.” I’m unable to vocalize a response because he’s robbed me of breath.

  This is the first time I’m glad to be back…back home where I belong.

  London twirls his hips and strikes me hard—the money shot—and I scream in utter delight. His rumbles resonate all the way through me, and I feel him pulling back, about ready to join me. But I clamp my muscles around him. “Bring it home,” I shamelessly demand, and he growls, unable to refuse my command as he spills his seed into me.

  The tremors hum through our bodies for minutes after we’ve both had an orgasm that has left us sticky, breathless, and spent. When we finally untangle our limbs and settle beneath the covers, London kisses my lips and promises me the world.

  “You are my home. Always and forever.”

  His vow has me closing my eyes and falling into a deep, happy slumber because now I know…we are always and forever.

  I have been bitten, spanked, tortured, and worshipped within an inch of my life, and I have loved every minute of it. Just when I’d collapse in utter exhaustion, London would bundle me into his arms and torment me once again. After orgasm number five, I lost count and just surrendered, but we both did.

  There was an underlying gentleness and a sense of fulfillment every time we touched because we both knew this was finally our time. Now that the sun has risen and the dawn has peeked over the storm clouds, I can see clearly for the first time in a long time.

  I have no regrets about what I did. I know I should, but I don’t. It’s difficult to feel remorse when the foundation of your relationship was based on a lie. Lincoln lied to me, and although it was a lifetime ago, I will never understand why he did what he did.

  He dragged me into his sick plot of revenge, a scheme I never wanted a part of. Things could have turned out so differently for me, but now, the stars have aligned, and I have found my true north. But a weight settles in my belly, a foreboding premonition of things to come. Things won’t be easy, but they never are with London and me.

  The view from the balcony is awe inspiring. I can almost taste the magic in the air. I’ve been out here for countless minutes, pondering on what happens now. I know we face a lot of hurdles, but we will tackle them together. I can only hope love does prevail all.

  A small part of me was angry with my mom for what she did to London’s mother, but I now understand that she never had a choice. Love is messy, inconvenient, and at times, heartbreaking, but when you find it, you’ll do anything to hold it because you’re at its complete mercy. Love ruin
s you, but when you find the one you’re meant to be with, you’ll move heaven and hell for that one single moment in time.

  “Hey.” Just like right now.

  My skin prickles and memories of what he did to me flood my senses. “Hey.”

  London wraps his arms around my middle, embracing me to his chest. “You sleep okay?”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “The hour I managed to squeeze in between your groping, it was great.”

  He makes no apologies as he rubs his morning hard-on against my back. “Making up for lost time.”

  His comment brings home the fact we have so much to discuss. Our lives are so different; we live in different states. But we’ve taken the first step, and like most journeys— that’s the hardest one to take.

  London senses my grave train of thoughts and kisses the side of my cheek. “I’ll make us some coffee. Meet me downstairs?” I nod, thankful he gives me the space I need.

  When I hear him rustling around for something to wear, I can’t help but turn around and watch him slip into a pair of ripped jeans. They sit low on his narrow hips, emphasizing his wicked V muscle, which I lapped at more times than I can count.

  My cheeks redden to the color of the ripest tomato. Who knew watching a man dress could be as sexy as watching him undress? London’s lips are red and succulent, and his hair is styled into a mussed faux hawk. The tattoo across his heart still takes my breath away. My god, he is so incredibly gorgeous, and I need to stop staring before I throw him down onto that bed.

  He smirks, well aware of the effect he has on me, but doesn’t linger. He shoots a wink my way, before turning and leaving me to wipe the drool from my chin.

  Once my heartrate returns to a semi-normal pace, I decide to go downstairs because eventually, we have to discuss what this all means. I’m completely naked and know that having “the talk” in the nude may derail us from figuring out what to do. The thought is daunting because the road ahead won’t be smooth sailing.

  London’s bedroom is a mess. There are clothes and other objects strewn around the place. An abstract piece of art lies haphazardly where it fell onto the floor when London slammed me against the wall and had me seeing stars.

  I give up on looking for my dress and instead decide to wear something of London’s. The thought of being swathed in his smell is far more appealing anyway. The dresser which served us well last night sits innocently feet away. If only these walls could talk.

  Walking toward it, I open the first two drawers, but only find underwear, socks, and t-shirts. The breeze skimming off the ocean is a little nippy, so I elect to wear a hoodie instead. When I open drawer number three, I’m in luck, but as I push a few garments aside, I get a little more than I bargained for.

  I stand speechless, unmoving, because what I’m seeing can’t be true. I don’t understand; there must be some mistake. But with trembling fingers, I reach for the evidence, the California sun confirming what I thought could never be true.

  Not again, please, no, not again.

  But the proof is staring me in the face. There is no denying it. How could I have been so stupid…again?

  So many emotions coil within, but my survival instinct overrides any other. I’m a scorned woman on a mission as I reach for a blue sweater and slip it on. Taking three deep breaths, I tuck the evidence of his treachery under my arm and commence my walk of shame.

  A small voice inside me is screaming, demanding I rethink this decision because there is no way this is true. There is no way he could do this to me. But I force it down because this is far easier than having to figure out how we can make this work.

  He is a Sinclair…and I will always be a Brooks.

  A staircase has never looked so daunting because I know once I reach the bottom, I doubt I’ll ever be able to get back up. But I persevere because this scenario is one I’ve lived through before. My breaths leave me in winded gasps, and I’m on the cusp of passing out, but once my feet descend the last step, I pull back my shoulders and soldier on.

  London is in the kitchen, back turned, hands braced on the counter as he waits for the coffee to brew. He’s none the wiser what I’m about to do.

  Peering down at the proof in my palm, I persuade myself to speak before history repeats itself. “I’m really disappointed in your creativity. I expected more.” I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the tears. They can wait until after I leave because once they start, I doubt they’ll ever stop.

  London turns over his shoulder, arching a brow. “I didn’t hear you complaining last night.” I scoff, appalled I fell for his bullshit once again.

  When I deadpan him, not at all amused, his cocky grin fades. “What’s wrong?” His eyes drift to what I’m holding, but as usual, he has the perfect poker face.

  Taking a step forward, I hide behind my bravado because I’m not interested in a longwinded affair. “What is this?”

  London turns, folding his arms across his chest, obscuring the tattoo, and for that, I’m glad. “It’s a sweater,” he replies, pursing his lips, confused.

  “Is it yours?”

  “Yes, it’s mine. So what?” My heart shatters into a million pieces and this time, nothing will be all right ever again.

  Clutching the black hoodie, I peer at the red dragon on the upper left corner. I wish I’d never seen it, I wish I’d never seen him, because ignorance is truly bliss. This entire time, the enemy was right under my nose, and last night, I slept with the enemy and I liked it. I liked it a lot.

  The letters, they never came from the Rossi crew. They didn’t care for the likes of me. My assailant was closer to home.

  Home.

  Last night’s admission rings loudly in my ears, cementing the fact that I’m a fucking idiot. “How could you? Do you hate me that much?”

  London Sinclair should be an actor because right now, his innocent act could win him an Emmy. “Are you high? What are you talking about?”

  “Stop it!” I yell, angered he would make jokes. “I know it was you. Your ruse is up. This entire time, I know it was you sending me those letters.”

  There, I said it. I have all the proof I need. I’m holding the proverbial smoking gun.

  The night I saw the hooded figure standing outside my old home, stalking me, I knew that he was the one who had been tormenting me these past six months. I just never thought that person would be the man I love.

  London is my stalker. He said he knew I worked in New York and was a lawyer because he followed my case on the news, but it wasn’t big news here. My parents only knew so much because they read about it online. Has London been stalking me for longer than these letters? How else would he know? Oh, god, this makes sense. I wish it didn’t, but it all adds up.

  The letters, although short, always had a personal feel. They spoke of retribution but never really specified why. Could it be me up and disappearing without a trace angered him because in a way, it meant that I had won? It seems petty, but he has hurt me for less.

  London never liked to lose, and it seems some things never change, like him being a sadistic, vindictive bastard.

  “What letters?” he demands, stalking forward. But I retreat so far backward, he stops midstride. “Princess? Please explain to me what is going on.”

  I shake my head, refusing to fall victim to him again. “I can’t believe I fell for your bullshit again. There is something seriously wrong with me! Just tell me why!” I beg, interlacing my fingers, on the cusp of breaking down.

  “I don’t know what to tell you because I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about!” he shouts, running a hand through his hair.

  “I saw you, the other night, wearing this!” I exclaim, hurling the sweater into his face. He catches it, jaw clenched. “I have been receiving letters for the past six months. The gist of them is always the same. ‘You’re going to pay, whore. Watch your back, slut. Blah, blah, blah.’ The point is, I went to my old house the other night and I saw someone wearing that hoodie.” I jab my finger a
t it. “I had no idea who the sender was, who my stalker was. I thought it was retaliation for doing my job, but how did they know where my parents lived? Where I used to live? They didn’t, because the only person who knew that was you!”

  I’m so angry, I’m shaking with rage.

  “It wasn’t me,” he firmly states, his lies infuriating me further.

  “Then how did you know I worked in New York? How did you know I was a lawyer? It’s not like we’ve got any friends in common who would innocently mention it in passing. I must say, I’m disappointed in your choice of phrasing although I should be happy you actually took the time to send these letters!” Unable to stop myself, I storm forward and slap his cheek.

  I’m expecting him to fight me, to defend his honor, but he doesn’t. He stands with his head bowed, his palm cradled to his reddening cheek. I should run from this house and beg Lincoln for forgiveness. Beg he forgive me for ever believing London, but I can’t. My feet remained glued to the floor.

  “So you have absolutely nothing to say?”

  He snickers, his anger palpable. “It doesn’t seem to make a difference what I say because you don’t trust me. I have told you the truth, yet you don’t believe me. After everything, how can you still doubt me?”

  And that’s the cliffhanger. I know why. And that reason makes me a coward.

  He is not intimidated by me in the slightest and stalks forward, lowering his face to mine. “You’re just afraid of everything I make you feel because I push you, and you’re scared of being hurt. Of losing control. I have always told you the truth. I’m not like Lincoln. I won’t stand by and watch you become everything you hate. I will tell you when you’re being an irrational pain in the ass, like right now, but guess what, that’s what love is! You will sacrifice everything for that person because without them, YOU DON’T EXIST!”

  But I stand my ground and push down my tears.

  “I’m sorry for everything I did to you. I turned you into this untrustworthy, bitter person, and I am so fucking sorry. I wish I could take it back. Every single day, I wish things could have turned out differently for us. That we had different names. And even though I thought I was doing it to save you, I know now that I fucking ruined you.