by Karessa Mann
I get up and search for my clothes, but only find my green lace thong. Beside it is the button-down shirt he wore for dinner, the dinner that is still sitting politely on the dining room table. I slip the shirt over my head, and it falls to my thighs like a thin blanket. I bring the sleeves to my nose and take in a deep breath of him. I smile at the memory of last night and feel an almost giggly pang in my belly at the idea that I was actually in his bed again.
The sound of the shower turning off comes from the bathroom, and I tap lightly on the door, which has been left ajar. He doesn’t seem surprised when I walk in. He wraps the towel around his waist and smirks at my attire.
“Well, you just gave me a reason not to wash that shirt again.”
I blush as I run a hand through my hair, hoping that it’s somewhat behaving itself this morning.
He turns to shut the shower door, and I see the deep red lines my nails left on his back last night in the heat of passion. I gasp and reach out to touch them.
“Does it hurt?”
He turns and smiles. “Not as good as when you gave them to me.”
I return the crooked grin.
“How did you sleep?” he asks as he wipes the foggy mirror with the palm of his hand.
“Actually,” I say, “really good.”
“You always did sleep well when we’re together. Better than when you were alone.”
I hate that he remembers that.
He pulls out his razor from his travel bag. “I did, too,” he says without looking at me.
I smile, relieved he can’t see me in the steamy mirror. He takes out his shaving cream and gives it a good shake before popping the top. I step forward and hold out my hand.
“Let me,” I say brazenly.
He cocks a brow. “I think I remember the last time I let you shave me, you nicked me.”
“Oh, don’t be a baby,” I say, taking the razor from him. “Besides, I’m better now.”
He gives me a look that is close to fury. “Have you been practicing?”
I feel a slight thrill at his jealousy but can’t bring myself to lie. “No,” I say shyly.
His face relaxes, and so I move in front of him and prop my bottom on the sink. He slides between my legs. I take the can from him, and squeeze a dollop of cream into my hands and rub it together. He is watching me intently as I place my fingers on his face and work my hands in circular motions around his jawline. He takes a shaky breath as I bring the razor to his cheek and press down. I love the masculine sound of his rough stubble on a blade. I dip the razor in water and repeat the same step, making a perfect line from his sideburn to his taut jaw. He keeps his eyes on me and then tilts his head to the side to give me better access to his neck. I let the blade glide down the ridge of his chin, and I feel his fingers twitch next to my naked thigh as he does his best to trust me. I bite my lip to hide a smile at his nervousness. I finish one side of his face and move to the other, feeling proud of the job I’m doing. His question about practicing comes back into my mind. I shake the excess cream off in the sink and dab his glistening skin with a warm, damp towel. He smiles with a bit of relief.
“You’re right,” he says. “Much better than last time.”
I stay put with him between my legs as he slaps aftershave on his skin.
“Alex,” I say hesitantly, “why do you think it is that through all the emails we’ve sent each other the last several years we’ve never mentioned…others?”
He looks at me, confused, before my question sinks in. Then his eyes register my meaning. “Do you want to talk about others?”
“No,” I say quickly. I shake my head. “But of course I’m curious. Aren’t you curious?”
He leans forward, his hands pressed into the counter by my naked legs. In all the years we’ve spent corresponding back and forth via e-mail, I have always kept the men I’ve dated out of the conversation, and I knew he was doing the same with me. Although we kept up the pretense that we were friends, and as friends should be able to share these intimate details, somehow we both knew to spare the other person.
“What do you want to know?” he asks. The ego is gone from his voice, and he sounds almost…vulnerable.
I tuck a fallen strand of hair behind my ear and look down at his white knuckles on the counter. “Have there been many?”
“Many?” he repeats, and then thinks of the question, which makes me sick to my stomach and angry at myself for asking in the first place. “Not by most standards, I suppose,” he answers.
Yes, now I am sick. Like a knife plunged into my gut and twisting in slow robotic circles. What did I expect? For him to say no?
He sees my face fall and quickly adds, “Chels, it’s college.” As though that makes it all acceptable.
“How soon after me?”
His face twists. “Why are you asking this? I don’t want to know how many guys you’ve been with.”
“How soon?” I repeat steadily.
He sighs and straightens so that he is no longer up against me. “Three months?”
“Three?” I practically shriek. I was still in full mourning three months after he left.
“Chels.” He repeats my name again, as though that will be enough to calm me.
I shake him off. “Were you in love? Have you fallen in love since…?” I can’t finish the sentence, and as much as I regret asking the question, I feel I need to know.
He shakes his head and leans back into me, this time his hands sliding on top of my thighs. “No, I haven’t.” He tilts his head. “Have you?”
I open my mouth to say, no, of course not. But I couldn’t find the words. I don’t know, maybe I wanted to hurt him just a little, make him feel an ounce of the torment he has made me feel. I close my mouth and decide not to answer. The look on his face changes, and I can tell he takes that as an admission that I have. I don’t correct him, and his fury grows.
“I see,” he growls.
I shake my head, knowing that I have pushed him too far. It was childish to want to hurt him. I know I would be devastated if I thought he loved someone else. The strand of hair I had tucked back falls again, and before I can push it away, his hand is in my hair with a touch of force that was missing the night before. I don’t fear him. He would never hurt me. But I can see my words have awakened an emotion in him that I haven’t seen before, and I instantly get wet at seeing his possessive reaction. He takes his other hand and grasps the back of my thigh, and yanks me closer to him. The look in his eyes is one of ownership and hunger. I tremble with anticipation.
“Only you,” I whisper. “I’ve only loved you.”
The rage in his eyes slowly turns to relief, and before I can speak another word, his mouth slams into mine. We both moan out of frustration and need. I wrap my legs around him, and he cups his hands under me and lifts me up to him. I can feel his hardness under the towel and desperately want no cloth between us.
This morning is different from last night. Where before it was like tasting each other again, and feeling the nostalgia of being lost in one another, today is pure desperation for each other. We know this will be the last time we’re together. He’ll leave in the morning, and who’s to say when we we’ll see each other again? I don’t want him thinking of anyone else, and I can see he wants the same from me. I want him like a possession to own. I was his first. He was my first. That counts for something. No one else will ever have that. He could have a million women, and I will still always be his first.
I rip the towel from his waist, and he presses his cock firmly against the flimsy fabric of my panties. I groan in his breath as he kisses me ferociously. I dig my fingernails into the backs of his shoulders as he begins to move his hips, trying to push himself inside me. I twirl my tongue against his as I rock my hips with his, feeling the orgasm building deep within me, and he hasn’t even entered me yet. I don’t think I can take much more of this. I need him in me now. I reach down to pull my panties to the side, but his hand stops mine.
“Please,” I beg, when our lips part for a breath. “Please.”
He looks at me, his cock pushed hard against the middle of my sex, and I am afraid I will crumble at any second. I look back at him and try to read his expression. His eyes are glazed over, and all I can see is surrender.
He drops me to my feet, and before I have a moment to feel confused, he flips me around until we are both facing the mirror. He leans down on top of me, his chest against my back. We stare at each other in the mirror, and I know what I see in his eyes. I see what is in mine, and that is longing, and love and a tormented need to wipe away any other hand that has ever touched the other person.
He pushes his cock back against me, and I lean into him. This time, he closes his eyes and groans as I swivel my ass against him. His head falls to my neck as his lips find my tender skin, and the more his tongue presses into the soft spot of my neck, the more I grind my hips against him. Just when I don’t think I can take it anymore, his fingers find the fragile fabric between my legs, and he pushes my panties aside just enough to slide his cock deep inside me. I gasp out loud and grip the edge of the counter to support my weight as he pulls out and slams into me again, his speed picking up with each thrust. I close my eyes and my head drops as I absorb the sensation of his full length inside me.
He tugs on my hair so I am forced to look up and meet his eyes in the mirror.
“Look at me,” he demands in my ear as he plunges into me. My knees begin to shake and I want to crumble to the ground, but I hold his stare.
“Just you and me,” he whispers as his lips run up and down my shoulder, his eyes never leaving mine.
I feel the familiar rumble, and my eyes start to roll back as I let the pleasure take over. My eyes close as I concentrate on the fire between my legs and the slow, sweet thunder that is roaring deep inside me, ready to break loose and flow throughout my body. I am lost within myself and almost don’t feel him shift until his palm finds the soft bulge of my clitoris, which was begging for his touch. It’s enough to send me over the edge, and I convulse in his arms. His hand continues the circular motion that matches the movement of his hips, and I come again. His other arm holds me up as he thrusts into me with vigorous speed until he comes to a swift stop and cries out as his hands grip my waist and pulls me to him, forcing his shaft as deep into me as he will go. I almost come again but am still shaken from the last orgasm. My body hasn’t recovered yet. His chest collapses onto my back, and we both gasp for breath. I have never been taken like that before, not with a need that was so desperate that he couldn’t seem to get enough of me. It was the most erotic experience of my life.
I slowly lift my eyes to him and he gives me a weak smile. Before long, we are both laughing at our entangled bodies and my torn panties. He turns me to face him and gives me a slow, deep kiss that is a stark contrast to the ravenous lovemaking we just endured. As he kisses me, he unbuttons his shirt, the one I’m wearing, and I’m confused, thinking there is no way he’s ready to go again. But as he slips the shirt off me and we are both standing there naked, he steps back and takes my hand with a smile and says, “Come on, let’s go back to bed. There’s no reason to be up, is there?”
I can’t think of one.
I follow him back to the bedroom and slip between the covers, pressing my bare skin against his. My head falls in the crook of his arm, and it isn’t long before we are both back to sleep.
I wake with a start. My body is trembling, and I once again am confused as to where I am. I had been dreaming but no, it was more of a nightmare, like a flashback in time. The desire in my belly has turned to an anxious wave of nausea. In my dream, I wasn’t eighteen, but twenty-three, only this time I knew what hell I would go through when he left me. I knew because I had lived through it before.
I open my eyes and see him sleeping peacefully beside me, and I want nothing more than to close my eyes and snuggle back against him. But that isn’t reality. Reality is that tomorrow he leaves and returns to his regular life. I am not his real life anymore. I am simply his past. And as much as he may want to be here with me right now, he doesn’t want me enough to stay. And he doesn’t want me enough to ask me to come with him. Tomorrow he will leave to go home, and I will still be here. I can’t bear to let him leave me again.
I slowly crawl out of bed, afraid to wake him. I swiftly search for my green dress, which is hidden under the bed, and my sandals by the door. I leave my torn panties, but grab my matching bra and stuff it into my purse. I move quickly but quietly, afraid to think of what I’m doing and terrified to look at him in case…in case he wakes and asks me to stay…in case I look at him and am afraid I can’t leave him. But it has to be me this time. I have to be the one to go. I hesitate at the door of his room, my breath caught as I contemplate turning to look at him. I can picture his bare chest, which cradled my head as we slept, and his long, lean leg, which crept out of the covers to lie on top of the sheets. I keep it in my head and look straight ahead and not behind me, and then take the first step down the stairway and out the door, away from Alex Burns.
* * *
A Ravenous Reunion will continue in Book 2, due out in February 2015.
