NINE
Brinley
The Grill was straight out of nineteen-fifties grandeur. We walked into a darkness much like outside, everything painted deep browns with hints of gold accents. The large square bar was illuminated from the floor, casting a giant magnolia blossom tree in beautiful low light. Hanging down over the array of liquor bottles from the ceiling was a massive piece of ceiling art the scale of which I had never seen before. At least not in person. There were thousands of hanging bronze rods that from far away, you couldn't tell what they were, they almost looked thin, flimsy, delicate, like it was almost raining down.
We were led that way to have a drink to wait for our table.
"Do you see this?" I asked, head turned up, not caring if I was gawking, if it didn't make me look as fancy as everyone else casually seated around.
"Yeah, I see it," he agreed.
"No one else is looking," I told him, shaking my head. "I hope I never lose the wonder of admiring beautiful things," I added.
"Me either," he agreed. But when I looked, his eyes weren't up; they were on me.
There was no denying the fluttering feeling inside as I thought maybe, just maybe, I wasn't misinterpreting it, that he was talking about me.
"What can I get for you tonight?" the tall male waiter in an almost over-the-top white coat, white shirt, and black bowtie asked, standing before us.
We ordered, waiting in silence for them to be made. My drink - bright red in a martini glass - was barely slid toward me before I felt Warren's hand snag the end of my chair, dragging me closer until my side brushed to his. His arm slid around my lower back, slipping into the hipbone at the other side. Way, way too close to somewhere I desperately needed to feel him. Yet also way too far. His arm tightened, pulling me closer, his face moving in, lips almost brushing my ear.
"Don't look, but across the bar on the corner. That's Rachel's man," he told me as my head ducked, my cheeks heating because the way his breath moved over my ear made a shiver course through me, something I knew he had to have felt.
"How do you know?" I asked, wishing my voice wasn't so breathless.
"He's got a damn camera lens on the back of his phone that has been zeroed in on us since we sat down."
I didn't chance a look. I couldn't even think past the realization that I could feel his body heat through my dress.
His fingers shifted suddenly, sliding slightly upward.
"Don't," I pleaded, head falling down on his shoulder as another shiver worked through me.
"Why not?" he asked, his fingers pausing, staying planted on my ribs.
"You know why," I told his shoulder, trying to take a deep breath.
"Drink your drink, Brin," he told me, voice soft, pulling away a few inches.
Pride a bit decimated, I stiffened, turning forward, reaching for my drink. My eyes slid across the bar to see the man Warren had been talking about, his eyes on his phone, so it didn't look like he was stalking us, but that camera lens was absolutely set in our direction.
I had barely taken two sips before we were called up to our table. As I stood, Warren's hand pressed into my lower back to guide me, making me actually have to focus on walking, so I didn't fall on my face.
We spent a few minutes looking over the menus before we were stuck staring at each other. "We should probably be talking," I said, nervously sipping my drink, hoping it would help steady my nerves. Thank God we had a table between us. My poor body was just not ready to handle all the touching.
"He's not getting a table," Warren supplied, having the better view of the bar. "But, yeah, talking would be good. What do you want to talk about?"
I felt my shoulder shrug, asking him to tell me more about the farm. He wasn't a man for whom conversation generally came easily. But something about the memories associated with his childhood home - and the lands surrounding it - made the words flow easily from his lips. He became alive as he shared them too. His eyes, so commonly guarded, opened up, brightened, danced as he told me about trying to catch chickens in the woods when they wandered too far, actually reaching across the table to show me a scar on his finger where one had gotten a hold of him while he tried to carry it back home.
He didn't pull his hand back, though.
No.
He rested it over mine.
This, this I could handle.
It wasn't too distracting.
And he would have to surrender it back to me as soon as the food arrived.
"Would you give it up?"
"Give what up?"
"Your career," I specified.
"Not right away," he said carefully. "I'd still have a mortgage to pay down. But once that was handled, I'd probably just stick with the farming."
"Producing crops and such?"
"There's a big market for local organic food and fruit. Luckily, my grandfather put down an orchard a good twenty years back. Kept the bugs under control with chickens and mantises. There'd be enough apples, pears, peaches, and plums to fill a grocery store."
"Could you really make a living just selling fruit?"
"And vegetables. Some milk, eggs, whatever I get going. Yeah. He did. He was never rolling in it, and he was too old to really work the land as much as he could have the past decade and a half. The market has changed so much. You could cash in if you know what you're doing."
"You wouldn't miss it? Building? Planning?"
"I'd still be building and planning. Just a different sort - outbuildings, greenhouses, hydroponic planting. And the house itself needs an addition, some updates. I'd never want for a project."
"Do you have any pictures?"
"Not on my phone, no," he said, sounding disappointed. The waiter returned, and Warren reluctantly released my hand, so I could reach for my fork. "So what about you?"
"What about me?"
"When this show blows up, and you have more calls than you can take, what's your plan?"
I honestly hadn't even thought of that much since we had started working. My mind had been so preoccupied with the jobs, with the strangeness of our new life that I hadn't had time for daydreams.
"I guess I could finally get an office. Maybe have an assistant."
"Maybe?" he asked, looking up at me from under his brows. "You're definitely going to need an assistant, Brin. I think you're thinking too small still."
"I think I am traumatized after years of just barely getting by," I corrected. "You start out so young and idealistic, you know? They tell you that if you work hard enough, if you hustle more than your peers, if you learn how to market, how to brand, how to reach your audience, then everything is just going to magically fall into place. But the world doesn't always work like that. Sometimes the people who put in all the work just keep struggling, while the slackers get dumb luck. Ugh, I'm complaining," I grumbled at myself. "Don't listen to me."
"You work your ass off, Brin. It's understandable that you are frustrated that you haven't gotten further than you have. But I think it is safe to say that you can start dreaming again. Because you're about to be swamped. I wouldn't be surprised if you need to start looking into an intern by next summer."
That was the dream.
An office.
A name.
A team.
And all the superficial things that came with that - a car that worked properly, a house of my own, hair coloring that wasn't bought on clearance... with a coupon.
"Are you nervous about the interview?" I asked.
"They're going to bring up the rumors," he warned me, bringing attention to something I hadn't stopped to consider.
"I need to get on that Instagram as soon as possible. Post up the pictures for tonight. They likely won't have the new pics from the guy at the bar until after we finish filming. At least we will have them to show the interviewers when they ask."
"They're still gonna ask."
"So, we'll be honest. We fight on jobs a lot. We both have a vision for how we want it to be, and it doesn't always match up. Arguments are inevitable until we can finally agree on the end result."
"We can sell the truth. While we act like we're madly in love," he added, reminding me of a duty that while it wasn't abhorrent to me the way it would have been just months before, filled me with dread nonetheless. There would be no way to escape it, no way to hide my reaction to it. Right there on TV. For the whole world - including my loved ones - to see. While my parents and brother, and maybe even my sister, might just write it off as good acting, Brent would know. And Brent would call me on it. Then we'd have to talk about it. And I couldn't do my best to pretend it wasn't happening anymore.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, occasionally commenting on the decor, on the dessert choices even though we likely wouldn't have room, about how much we hated having to get our makeup done before workdays - and the upcoming interview.
"You never talk about your people," he said oddly after I rambled on about the crew who we had forged casual friendships with over the past several months.
"My people?" I asked, confused.
"Family. Friends. For someone who shares so much, you hold that close."
Did I?
I guess I did.
I didn't remember the last time I had made a reference to my family.
"I guess I figure that if you don't know them, you have no interest in hearing about them."
"Well, I'm interested," he told me, shrugging, giving me his full attention, something that made me want to squirm in my seat, an impulse I just barely controlled.
"Everyone is really successful," I led with. "My mother does project management at an energy company. My father took his inheritance when his parents died when he was twenty-five to invest in real estate. Which he continues to do. My siblings are older. My sister is a pharmacist. She is married with two kids and another on the way. You know that part," I said, remembering the excuse he gave Rachel about where I disappeared to. "Wait, how did you know that?"
"You had a bunch of baby room DIY on your Instagram," he told me casually.
And I had captioned those about my upcoming niece or nephew.
He had admitted to looking into me when he first heard about me, but that post was just from a few weeks ago. In fact, just two days after he started sleeping on the couch. That was... interesting.
"Right," I agreed, watching him for a long second, trying to read him the way he seemed to be able to do with me, but finding I had no such skill. "And then I have a brother who is an attorney. Married. Just had a baby."
"Think I'm starting to get you," he told me, nodding a little as he reached for his drink.
"What do you mean?"
"This drive you have. It isn't really about superficial shit. Wanting to have designer shoes and a top-of-the-line car. You feel inferior. Everyone around you is doing well. And you're still struggling."
"Yeah," I agreed, swallowing back the bitter taste of my own failure.
"You're successful now, Brin. You have a TV show."
I snorted at that, shaking my head. "That I got by lying."
"No. You got it because when Rachel looked into you, she found something she liked. It wouldn't have mattered if she thought we were fantastic together," he said, emphasizing the word the way Rachel did, making me smile, "if your work sucked. You got this on merit. And a small white lie."
For a small white lie, it sure felt big, world-changing if it were found out, career-shattering. Maybe I should have taken him up on the offer to actually tie the knot. Sure, if someone started digging, it would show that we did so after we signed the contracts, but it would still make it legit.
But even just the idea of that made my belly slosh around uncomfortably. It was hard enough seeing a wedding ring on my finger, one I had put there myself. It would be a whole other monster to have him slide it on in front of a Justice of the Peace. It would steal something away from me, the chance to experience that for real the first time it happened, to feel excitement and nervousness, and love all at once instead of a sort of resigned obligation.
I meant what I said - marriage meant something to me.
I didn't want to cheapen it.
Not even for the success I had worked so hard for.
"They've got to be proud of you, Brin," he added after a long moment where I was lost in my own thoughts.
I guess they were. When I told my parents - even with the lie - they had said they would bring all their friends together to watch it, carefully avoiding answering questions that they had no answers for. Like what the wedding was like. What Warren was like when he came and asked for my hand. Why it was such a secret.
"Yeah," I agreed, nodding.
They were proud.
Even before this.
My mom trolled my social media, gushing about jobs I did or projects I worked on. My dad hired me to redo the interior of a doctor's office he had acquired a year back.
Maybe it had always simply been my own insecurity about where I was in life that prevented me from seeing that they didn't look down on me because I didn't make a ton of money like my siblings, like they themselves did.
Sometimes it was hard to see past your own bias. Even toward yourself.
"So, do you actually have room for dessert?" he asked, sounding dubious.
"I wish," I said, longingly rubbing my hand over the dessert menu that had been discreetly dropped off again at our table after the food had been taken away.
"If you want something later, there are about three dozen places open for dessert at all hours."
"This is true," I agreed, thinking I would much rather have three big cupcakes for half the price of a small slice of cheesecake here.
"No, we can split," I started to object when he reached for the bill, discreetly placed inside a thin leather fold. "What?" I asked when all he did was raise a brow at me. And maybe look at me like I had lost my ever-loving mind.
"You're not serious," he informed me, slipping a card into the fold, and pushing it out toward the edge of the table.
"This place is crazy expensive. No way you should be paying for it all." I hadn't exactly chosen something cheap either, something I was now kicking myself for.
"You're not paying," he informed me as the waiter came to take the check away.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not. Not when you're out with me. Do the guys you usually go out to dinner with let you pay half?"
"I haven't been out to dinner with anyone in a long time, but yeah, sometimes."
"How long is a long time?"
"How is that your business?" I asked, stiffening, knowing the answer - for a healthy, confident, sexually active woman in her twenties - was a bit embarrassing.
"Don't argue," he reminded me, smiling a little, trying to throw off the guy who was likely still at the bar. "Just answer."
"I don't know exactly. A year, give or take."
"You're shitting me."
"No," I said, shrugging. "I've been busy with work."
He looked away for a second, and I found myself wanting to know what was going through his mind, but was too chickenshit to ask. "You need to date better men."
"What? Just because we split the check, they're not good men?"
"They're boys in men's clothing," he told me, taking the book after the waiter dropped it back off, doing some quick math, then signing his name.
"Not all men can afford to pay for dinner," I said.
"Then he shouldn't be dating."
"That is very backward."
"If a man can't pay for dinner, his finances aren't in order. If his finances aren't in order, he has no business bringing a woman into his mess."
"But..."
"You take dating seriously, right?" he cut me off, catching me off guard.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Do you date just because it's a nice way to spend a night, or because you're looking for something serious?"
"Something serious," I admitted, shrugging.
"Right. So, if you're looking for something serious, you need someone who is serious about building a life. How can he build a life, help pay a mortgage when you get a place together, cover the bills if you want to take a few months off after you have a baby, if he can't pay for dinner?"
Okay.
Put that way, I could maybe see his point.
"You're forgetting one thing, though."
"What's that?" he asked, leaning forward. I knew he was probably just putting a show on for the paparazzo who was still at the bar by moving closer, like he was enthralled by the words that came from me. But it still gave me a small thrill as his hand brushed mine again.
"I'm not financially stable."
"How'd you get to my house?"
"An Uber," I admitted.
"You paid it?"
"Yeah," I said, brows drawing together, figuring that was obvious.
"Couple hundred, right?"
"Yeah," I admitted, nodding.
"You still got money in the bank?"
"Yes," I told him.
"Enough to pay your bills?"
"Yeah."
"It's not that you aren't stable then, is it? It's that you live within your means. If a man can't afford to pay for dinner, if his finances are that tight, then he doesn't have it together enough for something serious. Because shit pops up. Cars break down. Water heaters crap out. Partners get laid off. If you don't have a little something stashed away for that, then - in my opinion - you shouldn't be starting something serious. I'm not saying all the men need to pay all the time. But on a first date at least, Brin, you shouldn't be splitting a check."
He told me this as he moved to stand, coming around the table in one stride, reaching to help slide my chair back. His hand moved out, palm up, inviting me to put mine there to help me up.
With little choice, I placed it there, pretending to ignore the tingling feeling at the contact as I pushed to my feet. He didn't release me, though, when I was on my feet, put his hand to my back like I was expecting. No. His palm slid down mine, fingers slipping between my fingers, and closing in tight, completely swallowing up my hand with his.
"Try not to look so freaked. We're supposed to love doing this, remember?" he reminded me, head dipping down a little.
The problem wasn't that I didn't love it; the problem was I liked it too much.
My hand instinctively curled into his, held on tighter, as he led me down the path of tables, then out of the building.
"Want to walk around a bit? See if the guy follows for a few more shots?"
All I managed was a nod as we started walking.
"Cold?" he asked a few moments later after I had shivered hard against the cool night air.
"A little," I admitted, feeling his hand unclench from mine, slide away. I barely had a moment to feel the loss before his arm was around my shoulders, half curling me into his body. Too close to do anything else, my arm went around his lower back, the other resting on his stomach. This close, I could make out a slight trace of cologne, something woodsy - trees and dirt and fresh air, a scent that seemed to fit him perfectly. His warmth moved over and through me instantly, making another shiver rack my body as the heat chased away my chill.
"Better?" he asked, voice almost a little rougher than usual.
"Yes." My voice was markedly breathless. I swallowed hard to combat it. "Did he follow us?"
"Across the street," he informed me. "Probably will follow us back to the hotel."
"How far is it?" I asked, not having gotten any better at figuring out how the streets were laid out.
"Five minutes straight ahead," he told me, his arm seeming to squeeze a bit.
So we walked, wrapped like lovers to any who saw us.
We were a handful of steps away from the front of the hotel when Warren suddenly stopped, pressing me back against the wall, head ducking down into my neck, warm breath making a tremble move through my belly.
"Warren," I hissed, my voice a warning. "Don't," I pleaded much like I had in the car.
"Sh," he told me, breath moving over my sensitive skin beneath my ear. "Relax," he demanded softly, his nose tracing up my ear, making another tremble move through me, but this time, not just on the inside.
It's for the camera, I tried to remind myself, to focus, to keep control of the chaos in my body.
"Warren, let's go inside," I suggested.
I knew what I meant.
Let's go inside.
Slip out of our clothes.
Give in to the pull between us.
But he didn't hear that.
He heard the words, not the meaning behind them.
"Yeah, I think we're all set," he agreed, pulling away, grabbing my hand, and all but dragging me inside.
Maybe it looked romantic.
Like he was desperate to get me inside, to get his hands on me.
But there was nothing sweet or loving about his hold on me. If anything, it felt frustrated. As soon as we were in the elevator, his hand ripped from mine, his body going to the furthest corner.
Nothing was said.
It didn't need to be.
The charade was over.
He didn't need to pretend to be in love with me anymore.
It shouldn't have - since I knew what this was - but it did send a sinking feeling through my chest and belly as we walked back into our hotel room.
I closed myself into the bathroom, removing my makeup with an almost savage diligence, wanting every trace of this night out of my reflection. I stripped out of the dress that suddenly felt too tight, cutting off my air, and got into a simple short and tank set before going back into the bedroom.
Warren had been staring out the doors as I walked in, but turned as he heard me, stalking past me to lock himself in the bathroom.
He hadn't even looked at me.
But there on the bed were three pillows he must have had someone bring up.
With a sigh, I turned out most of the lights, set up the pillows in our usual order, and climbed into bed, pretending not to listen to the water running in the shower, trying not to imagine him under the stream, the water sliding down his...
Okay.
Enough of that.
It was clear that Warren was simply an amazing actor, someone who could put on a real show, could fool even his co-actor into believing that there was sincerity in his words and actions.
I was every kind of fool for believing it.
But that was over now.
I was going to get control over myself.
The bathroom door opened as I pretended to sleep, body curled up into itself.
He moved slowly around the room, flicking off the last remaining light. It would have darkened the room, but not to pitch because I hadn't closed the curtains to the balcony, and the city that never sleeps was bright as ever, no doubt shining into the space, making it easy for Warren to find his way to the other side of the bed. I could feel it depress as he moved up on it, settling into place.
I knew without looking how he looked right then.
On his back, arm cocked up, hand behind his neck, the other on his bare stomach.
I felt movement behind my back, but wasn't sure what it was, just him trying to get comfortable, I imagined.
But not a moment later, I felt a body slide in behind mine.
The pillow barrier came down.
A strong chest pressed into my back, hips cradling my butt, legs cocked up under mine, an arm across my belly.
"Tell me you were faking it, and I'll get my ass back on my own side," his voice said close to my ear, soft, like we were still sharing secrets we didn't want others to overhear. "I won't believe it, but I'll go."
"Why won't you believe it?" I heard myself ask, not knowing why I would even let those words come out of my mouth.
"Because you're a decent actress, Brin, but not that good. There was no way you were faking it when you..." he started, fingers tracing across my belly, his thumb just barely brushing the undersides of my breasts in the process, whether on purpose or not, "yeah, that," he told me as my body shivered. My head fell back, pressing into his chest as I took a shaky breath. "You want the barrier back?" he asked, voice rough as my butt wiggled against his hips.
"No," I whispered, pushing backward so I could move onto my back. His body shifted just enough to allow me the space to do so, but remained still half curled over me. Face mostly in shadow, I could still make out his deep eyes, finding them watching me as I looked up at him. "I thought you were faking it," I admitted, my mouth not seeming able to shut up and let things happen.
Warren's breath snorted out of him. "I've had to sleep on a couch for weeks to keep my hands off of you, baby. How the fuck could you think I was faking that?"
I looked away, not wanting his penetrating eye-contact for what was about to come out of my mouth. "I thought the kiss had made you decide you didn't want me after all. And were just being immature about it."
"Christ," he said, almost sounding amused, and when I looked up, he was smirking down at me. Yes, that smirk. The one I so often wanted to slap off his face. Somehow, though, I maybe liked it up this close. "No, Brin. I just didn't want to fuck this up."
"How could this fuck things up?" I asked, shaking my head at him. "We're supposed to not be able to keep our hands off each other."
"And if shit went south?" he asked, watching me. "After we got our hands all over each other." At my silence, he nodded. "Exactly. A lot is riding on this for us. We've already had issues with bad press."
"Because we weren't talking about it."
His smile was sweet, but with a hint of something beneath that I couldn't quite make out. "Don't feel like talking right now," he told me. "I feel like doing this," he added, hand sliding up from where it was planted at my side, gliding up my ribs, then sliding up over my breast, the nipple - already hardened - tweaking further through the thin cotton material. "Couldn't fucking think straight thinking of you up in that bed every night without me," he told me as his hand moved upward, sliding under the top of my shirt to move downward to touch me without a barrier.
"I wanted you to come up," I told him as my breath stuttered out of me, his thumb gliding over my ultra sensitive nipple. "I wanted..." I started, not sure how to explain the need that had been clawing at me.
"This," he told me as his huge, work-hardened hand closed around my breast, squeezing, making my back arch up into the sensation, my heart to start slamming in my chest.
"Yes," I whimpered, pressing my thighs closer together to try to ease the need growing there, a coiled, almost painful thing.
"And this?" he asked, hand moving away as his body lowered, his lips closing over the hardened peak, tongue gliding across it, making goosebumps prickle up over my skin as my fingers curled into his arm, guaranteeing crescent shapes etched there in the morning.
"Yes," I moaned as his head moved across my chest, torturing my other nipple until my body was writhing beneath him, my greedy fingers moving down his back, sinking into his ass, trying to pull him closer as my legs fell open on the mattress, needing the contact as I needed my next breath.
"This?" he asked as he lifted up slightly, giving him enough room to tug my shirt up as his head moved back down, lips and tongue tracing a line down the center of my stomach, making my hips start to rise shamelessly up, knowing where he was heading, and begging for it. His fingers snagged the waistbands to my shorts and panties, but paused, looking up at me.
It took me a long moment, unable to think beyond the overpowering need overtaking me, to realize he was waiting for an answer.
"Yes," I told him, my hand moving down, sliding into his soft hair as I once found myself fantasizing about as I watched it - a week late for a trim - fall a bit onto his forehead while he discussed plans with a few of the guys.
His eyes darkened before his head ducked.
Hands tugged, forcing my hips up off the mattress so that he could pull my shorts and panties off my legs.
His fingers found the sensitive inside of my ankle, tracing up it, my calf, the underside of my knee, the ultra soft skin of my upper thigh.
Eyes suddenly on me, his hand moved up and inward, pressing into my clit, making my air rush out of me, my fingers curling into his hair, the other grabbing him at the wrist of the hand touching me, silently begging for him not to stop, to give me an end to the torment overtaking me.
"When you were in the tub," he said suddenly, voice barely a rumble, something deep, masculine, primal, "were you thinking of this?" he asked. Mouth suddenly dry, I couldn't find words, nodding my head. "I heard you," he told me, something that - under any other circumstance - would make me stiffen, go red in embarrassment. But with his finger still gently working my clit, driving my body slowly upward, I couldn't seem to muster the self-consciousness that would require. "Think the only thing preventing me from coming in and finishing the job for you was the locked door," he admitted as his hand suddenly left me.
A low, pained sound came from somewhere deep in my chest at the loss.
But even as the sound was leaving my lips, his body was lowering, arms going under my thighs as his chest met the mattress.
"War..." I started, but his lips closed around my clit, sucking hard, hard enough for my vision to white out for a long second. My hips bucked upward, my hand curling into the back of his neck, holding him to me, silently begging for him not to stop, to give my body what it had been dying for for weeks.
His tongue moved out to start working me in slow, relentless circles, an unhurried demand for an orgasm that would make me see through time and space, would make me cry out loud enough for whoever we shared a wall with to bang on it in frustration, would move through my whole body.
His arm left one of my legs, sliding between us, pulsing at the opening to my body for a long while before finally stealing inside, thrusting lazily for a long moment before curling, and tapping up against my top wall.
"I..." I started to moan, catching as his tongue slid, finger tapped... making the orgasm come crashing through my system, stealing my voice and my breath for a long moment as it seemed to start at the base of my spine and shoot outward, overtaking my whole body.
My back was arched painfully as my breath finally returned to my lungs, letting me cry out on the tail end of the orgasm, calling out his name with reckless abandon as the waves crashed again.
My body collapsed back down on the mattress, weighted and damp, the sweat making goosebumps move over my skin as I looked down to find Warren watching me with heavy-lidded dark eyes, his chin resting on the triangle above my sex.
My hand released his neck, both of them moving to claw at his shoulders, trying to drag him up and over me.
His hands planted, and I thought he would come over me, but he got onto his knees to sit back on his heels, reaching down to drag me up to my knees as well. Reaching out, he snagged my top, dragging it up until my hands slid through, then discarding it to the floor.
Completely bare, he hauled me up onto his lap, his hard cock pressing into my cleft, the head pressing into my swollen, orgasm-sensitive clit, making a shiver move through me as my forehead fell to his shoulder on a moan.
My hands moved down, grabbing at the thin material of his pajama pants until I somehow managed to get them awkwardly down to his knees, baring him to me.
My hips dropped down to his lap, letting his cock slide between my lips without the barrier, something that racked my body with a shudder as my breath sighed out of me, not having realized just how much I needed him inside me until I felt him against me.
His hand slid up my spine, slipping into the hair at the base of my neck, curling, and pulling hard enough to make my scalp sting, forcing my head back.
Eyes fluttering open, I found his on mine, deep, heavy, full of promise just a second before his lips crashed down on mine, searing into them, branding them in a way that said I would feel them there hours, days, weeks later.
Desire was a live wire in my body as his tongue teased over mine, making my hips grind down on him, letting his cock keep sliding between my slick lips, stroking over my clit, driving me ever upward so effortlessly.
"Warren, please," I pleaded against his lips, unable to take the pressure on my lower stomach for another minute, needing to feel him slide inside me, claim me, fill me completely.
His arm went to my lower back, bracing me as he bent me backward, lowered me down onto the mattress toward his side of the bed. His hand braced beside my body, holding his weight as the other sought the wallet he left on the nightstand, producing a condom, and making short work of protecting us.
He grabbed my ankle, pulling it up and across his body, pressing it into the other one, then cocking both my legs up at an angle on the mattress as he slid in behind, stroking his cock through my wetness for a long moment, eyes on mine, before thrusting suddenly forward, claiming me fully without warning, making a moan get choked in my throat, my hand slamming down on the wrist of his hand that was holding my thighs where he wanted them.
My mouth opened, looking for words, things that always came so easily to me, but I found none, just sensations, just the feel of him inside me, claiming every inch, making my walls tighten hard around him as he refused to move, just savored the moment, just got lost in the feelings as well.
The need overtook me before it did him, my hips rocking, begging for the motion my body was screaming for.
He gave it to me, slowly at first, watching my face for reactions, then faster as my whimpers became moans, as my muscles tensed, as my walls grabbed at him more tightly, getting closer.
The second orgasm slammed through me unexpectedly, making my legs shoot out as a strange stunted moan escaped my lips, my fingers digging into his wrist as the waves crashed again and again.
They hadn't even stopped before he was reaching for me, spreading my legs to either side of his again as he put an arm around my lower back, dragging me back up on his lap as he sat back on his heels.
My arms closed around the back of his neck for support as I moved my hips against him, almost a little tentatively at first, adjusting to the position, then faster, harder, wilder as my body somehow managed to build with need again.
Warren's eyes were pinned to mine, heavy-lidded, almost pained with his own need for release as our bodies glistened with sweat, as our breathing hitched and hissed, as our muscles tensed with the knowledge of the upcoming release.
Never before had I been so fully in a moment, so consumed with the feelings and sounds that it blanked out everything else, quieted my mind. It heightened everything, the feel of his hand at my hip, fingers curling into the flesh, likely to leave little marks to be found in the morning, the way his chest was shaking a little as he fought for control, his ragged, just barely there groans.
I was drunk on all of it, every touch, every sigh, every wave of pleasure.
I never wanted to lose it, this moment, this one flawless, perfect moment when the whole world stood still just for us.
But my body was losing control, getting pushed closer to the edge, begging to be thrown over.
And then it did, falling over the edge with a distinctive bottomless feeling to my belly, making me fall forward into Warren for support as the orgasm started at the base of my spine and sparked outward over every inch of skin as my walls spasmed around Warren, as he hissed and cursed as I stole away the last threads of his control, and he came with me, holding onto me as I was to him, like if we didn't, we might not make it through.
Spent, muscles weak and weighted, I collapsed forward into Warren, letting him hold me up as I fought to steady my breath, to calm my frantic heart, to wrap my head around the moment.
See, sex was sex.
An action leading toward a goal.
A bodily need being fulfilled.
Practical, almost impersonal if you didn't romanticize it.
But this?
This was not that.
This was something I was sure I had never felt before, a connection that had been more personal than any I had ever experienced.
My body felt a mix of wholly satisfied, contended, and achingly, beautifully exposed. I felt raw as I rested against him, more exposed than I ever could have anticipated, open and receptive, guards decimated.
I wanted to find the words, to express them, to see if he was experiencing something similar, but my mouth stayed stubbornly silent as my thoughts came trickling back to me, warning me about the risks associated with exposure, about opening yourself up too fully with someone, about how many men got scared away if your eyes so much as glistened after sex, let alone you tell them you somehow felt... changed from it.
That was dangerous territory.
And Warren and I had proved many times before that we never had the best footing.
So I steadied my breath.
I slid away when the moment felt right.
And I slipped under the sheets as he made a short trip to the bathroom.
I let him pull me to him, settling into his chest, letting my tired eyes rest, my sated body relax into his hold.
But I kept the moment selfishly to myself.
And I drifted off to sleep.