Page 46 of Intersect
He grabs himself, sliding against me once and then twice before his cock sits right at my entrance. The tip presses, stretches me and I need more, everything. “Do it,” I beg. He slides inside me slowly, with excruciating care. I know he’s worried, trying to let me adjust, except I don’t want him to go slowly. I’m so stretched and so full I can barely think, but I want more. When he finally bottoms out, he freezes there for a moment, a small, ragged noise at the base of histhroat.
“Are you okay?” he grunts, eyes squeezed tightly shut, holding himselfstill.
God yes. I’d say this aloud but all that comes out is a moan. I arch against him, demanding more, and he gives it to me, slowly pulling out, coming back. We are sweating and slick, gliding against each other, mouths pressed to skin. My nails bite into his back and I clench him like a fist, holding him there on this high wire, pleasure so intense it’s almost painful. “Don’t,” he begs. “You’re so tight and I’m too close. I don’t want it to endyet.”
I don’t either, but when he starts to move again, more forcefully now, I feel that sharp pluck in my belly and arch up. Swelling and tightening around him. He pulls my legs up, over his shoulders, hitting an angle that has me gasping and helpless. “Faster,” I demand and he complies, his mouth on mine, the muscles of his back tightening beneath my calves. I dig my heels in and he thrusts harder, triggering an orgasm so violent I can’t even hear my own noises. I’m deaf and blind as I give over to it, soaring through a constellation of stars, only vaguely aware that any world exists beyond the two of us. He slams into me and then his pace jerks, stutters. He comes with a sound that is pained and relieved at the sametime.
His forehead lands against my chest. He’s dead weight, pressing me into the couch. I welcome it. The last wave of pleasure recedes and when it does I finally find it—the deep contentment I’ve been chasing since the day I laid eyes on him. The satisfaction that’s eluded me no matter what else we did, no matter how many times I’vecome.
“Holy shit,” he gasps, stillwinded.
I barely feel capable of speech. “Yes.” I exhale. “We’re probably going to need a new couchnow.”
He falls to the side, his body loose with exhaustion, and pulls a throw blanket over us both. “Totally worth it. Christ, I needed that. I had no idea how badly untilnow.”
God, me too. Everything we’ve done before, no matter how perfect, pales by contrast. I smile against his chest. “It was amazing. So amazing we probably ought to try itagain.”
“I don’t see us doing much of anything else until I leave,” he replies. “I’ve spent fifty percent of my waking hours thinking about this for monthsnow.”
I smile up at him. “Only fiftypercent?”
He grins sheepishly. “I do have to think about doctor shit occasionally. And I thought it would sound creepy if I saidninety.”
Is sex supposed to be like this? I’m not sure. It’s not like I had complaints when I was with Jeff. It was fine. But it was neverthis. And I have no other basis for comparison. “Is it always…” I trail off, embarrassed by the question. “Was thisnormal?”
He laughs, leaning up on his forearm to press a kiss to the top of my head. “I can’t speak for you, but no…for me, this was really different.Why?”
I sigh. I don’t want to be the person who sees something supernatural about every single thing in my life that’s different from the norm, because everyone has moments that are different—when you make a wish and thirty seconds later there’s a shooting star, or when you’re thinking about a song you really want to hear and it’s the one that plays next. And yet… “I know that I want to be with you, that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. I just sometimes wonder if the universe is trying to, I don’t know,incentivizeus. Everything is so heightened. We talked about there being some purpose to all this. I think this is a part ofit.”
His hands rake through my hair. “Yeah, it occurred to me. Or maybe it’s just that this was meant tobe.”
I like his explanation better. And even if there’s more going on here, it doesn’t mean he’swrong.
* * *
Many hours later,after we made it to the bed and exhausted ourselves into sleep, we wind up in the kitchen, naked still—the benefit of having a privatebackyard.
“I had no idea I was so hungry,” I groan, pushing the remains of a second sandwich away fromme.
Something flickers in his eyes and his smile fades. “You just got out of the hospital,” he says. “And you barely ate yesterday. I shouldn’thave—”
“Stop,” I reply, climbing into his lap. “I know where you’re going with that and just stop, right now. It was…”our last chance. “It was just something that had tohappen.”
“When you’re in my lap naked, you make it very hard to have a real conversation,” he says with a sharp inhale, hardening beneath me. He holds my face in his hands and kisses me before he pulls away. He is no longer smiling. I see grief in his eyes though he’d never admit the cause. “I love you, Quinn Stewart. And even if you can’t say it back, I know you love metoo.”
My eyes well. “I—”
He holds a finger to my lips. “You don’t need to explain anything. Just promise you’ll wait for me. Promise you’ll be here when I gethome.”
I press my mouth to his forehead. It’s as close to a promise as I canget.
23
NICK
Iarrive at Charles de Gaulle on Tuesday morning, exhausted and determined, and in no fucking mood for the line at Customs, which stretches as far as the eye can see. I should be home in bed with Quinn right now. For the briefest moment I allow myself to imagine the feel of her wrapped around me, all lush curves and smooth skin. Her face at rest, the graceful perfection of it—soft mouth, long lashes. My heart twists in my chest. I’ve been missing her since the moment I boarded the plane last night, staring at the cellophane-wrapped blanket in the seat next to mine and wishing it were hers. I’d have been content just to have her head resting on my shoulder, although an overnight flight under the cover of two blankets would have made for an interesting trip aswell.
When I finally get through Customs and out the doors, I discover Paris is every bit as hot as D.C. and even more congested, if that’s possible. The air smells more like gas fumes than anything reminiscent of art and hautecuisine.