Falling into You

by Jasinda Wilder

I think he senses this in the way I suddenly attack him. We were just kissing, making out, touching a bit, and then I rear back and look down at him and see his vibrant sapphire eyes sparkling in the starlight and moonbeams and his eyes are taking me in like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and I just…lose it.

  I dig at his jeans, fumbling frantically at the button and at the elastic of his boxers and at his shirt. I’m panting with need, crazed.

  He stills both of my wrists in one of his hands and lifts my chin with the other. “Relax, Nell. Slow down. ”

  “I can’t, I can’t. ” My voice is not mine, it’s almost a squeak, and I don’t squeak. “I need you. Right now. ”

  His eyes are calm but hungry. “I need you too. But slow down. I’m here. I’m here. ”

  He pulls me down against him so I can feel his hot flesh and hard muscle and his arousal against my thigh.

  “It’s not enough. I need you inside me, Colton. Please. ”

  He brushes a wayward curl aside with his thumb. “I know, baby. But breathe for me, okay? It’s alright. ”

  I realize I’m hyperventilating. I’m not okay. But Colton makes me okay, not because he fixes me, just because he’s him. He’s unchanging. He’s raw and rough and kind and smart and nearly illiterate but so brilliant and so talented and so f**king hot it’s absurd and he’s mine. And all that makes me okay, because he loves me, even when I run away and even when I’m hyperventilating.

  I breathe. I slow myself down, one breath at a time, like I’ve been learning in therapy, and slowly, I begin to find a semblance of sanity.

  And then Colton stands up easily, lifting me in his arms, and carries me to the spare bedroom in his parents’ house where he’s been sleeping. The house is empty, silent in the way that only empty houses can be. His mom and dad are gone, finally taking a much-needed weekend away together.

  Colton lowers me to the bed, and I catch a scent of his cologne and shampoo and whiskey. I watch him, stare at him, drinking in his rugged, masculine beauty. He strips his shirt off, doing that sexy guy thing where he peels it straight up over his head, stretching the slabs of muscle on his stomach and chest. Then he flicks open his jeans button, and I’m a trembling mess watching him unzip achingly slowly, teasing me. The jeans slip off to the floor, and his underwear are tented. He’s not self-conscious at all. He hooks his thumbs in the gray elastic waistband and draws the black cotton over the head, baring himself to me.

  God yes.

  I can’t help biting my lip and smiling at the sight of him, standing straight up, tip glistening. He’s naked, standing over me. I reach out and grasp him, pull him to me. He climbs onto the bed and kneels above me.

  “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he murmurs.

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  “You should fix that,” I say.

  He grins and draws my yoga pants off, then my panties. His mouth descends on mine, and this kiss isn’t delicate or gentle; it’s needy. Demanding. I stroke him, caress him, slide my thumb over the wetness at his tip, explore the veins and ridges and the silk-and-steel contrast of him.

  I keep expecting him to slide into me, but he doesn’t.

  “The doctor cleared you for this, right?” He whispers it gently.

  I just nod and try to pull him down to me. He resists, though, staring down at me, eyes inscrutable. I don’t know what his hesitation is, I think I’ve made my need clear.

  Then he’s rolling to his back and drawing me onto him, except he lifts me so I’m laying on him back to front. He shimmies upward, adjusts the pillows so we’re reclining, and god, this is f**king incredibly comfortable and sexy as hell at the same time. I’m laying on top of him, and he’s nudging my entrance. I lean back to press kisses to his jaw, and get lost in the taste of his skin while he leans away to dig in the drawer for something. I hear a packet ripping and he rolls it on smoothly. I barely register this, tasting the salt on his neck, but then his hands are on me, arcing across my ribs and pinching my ni**les so I’m gasping and moaning and reaching down between our legs for him, guiding him where he needs to be, pressing him into me. Oh…oh god.

  I keep my fingers on the joining of our flesh while he slides in, and the feeling of his latex-coated flesh moving against my desire-wet folds is intoxicating, sexy as anything I’ve ever felt. I can feel us moving, feel my petals stretching from his thickness, feel the moisture slicking us both, and then my fingers join his at my clit and we’re stimulating me together. My other hand is at his jaw, and he turns his face into my palm to kiss it. He’s kneading and caressing my br**sts while he fondles my swollen nub and his thighs are tensing, turning to rock and my legs are draped to either side of his and lifting me up and sinking me down. I can just barely reach his sack, so I caress him there, cup him, stretch a bit further to rub my finger on the tiny slice of muscle just behind it.

  His breath is hot on my neck, and his voice murmurs my name, chants his love for me, repeats how beautiful I am, how perfect, how amazing. Each word from his lips is poetry, a song rhythmed to the sinuous grind of our bodies.

  There’s no start, no stop, no him or me; there is only us, only perfection, only meshed souls and merged bodies and dizzy pleasure.

  At some point, I come, and the release is endless, wave after wave of delicious pressure and wafting heat and billowing ecstasy and a rush of love so powerful I can’t breathe past it, can only rest my head on his shoulder and keep coming around him and whisper his name as my prayer to our love.

  There’s no magical healing in this. I won’t wake up tomorrow fixed and joyful. I’ll still hurt and grieve.

  But moments like this, with Colton? They make it all bearable. He doesn’t fix me, doesn’t heal me. He just makes life worthwhile. He helps me remember to breathe, shows me how to smile again. He kisses me, and I can forget pain, forget the urges I still have to cut for the pain that erases the emotions.

  He slides his body into mine, and I can moan with him, breathe with him, moan, each single breath a song, and for the minutes and hours spent devouring his love for me, his love inside me, I can only be his Nell, the one without scars and ghosts.

  When he comes, I come again, and I whisper the words that have come to almost replace I love you between us: “I’m falling into you. ”

  So true. When we come together, when we kiss, when we drowse into sleep side by side, we’re falling into each other, and that’s when I’m okay. When I’m falling into him.

  THE END