35
BRYN
Did I hear Mitchell right? Because I think he said he loves me.
“You love me,” I say, rather than ask. From the whirlwind speed of getting to this apartment, to the storm surge of need that had me naked in his arms minutes after we walked through the door, and now, hearing these words I’ve never heard from a man, I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me.
“I do.” His Adam’s apple bobs once. “I think I’ve always known it.”
“In spite of everything?”
“Because of everything.”
I shut my eyes, and a shudder rocks my chest. The strength of his conviction is radiating through his voice. He sounds so sure. So much so it threatens to shatter any shred of doubt in my own heart.
But those three reciprocating words escape me now. He spilled coffee on my shirt a short two months ago, and love . . . love is a big deal. Saying those three words means a whole other kind of commitment, doesn’t it? It means he’s mine and I’m his, and while that doesn’t scare me, the thought of losing him someday after I’ve admitted to loving him?
It’s my biggest fear.
It almost seems easier not to admit it at all.
I take Mitchell’s face in my hands. Kiss him gently on the mouth, while the rest of my body takes over, showing him what I’m unable to convey with words. We’re enveloped by bedsheets and pillows as he moves from him being on top, to us on our side, where we pleasure each other with our hands, never taking our eyes off each other. Our moans and grunts fill the bedroom, and I hold on until I can’t any longer.
“Please.” My plea is serious and sincere. “I want you.”
He leaves me for a moment, then returns. I hear the sound of a crinkling wrapper; my view darkens as his shadow falls over me. Mitchell is contemplative, searching my face, all of his weight on his elbows. He brushes the hair off my cheeks. He takes my hand, kisses the palm, then brings it down to his erection, so ready for me.
My choice, always.
I open myself to him, and despite my urge to beg him to take me quickly, to feel the rush of adrenaline, I guide him in. “Slowly,” I say.
This time we won’t be rushed.
Mitchell understands. His heart thumps against my chest like a bass drum, counting time with my own. My insides coil as he inches forward, and my thighs shake at my own restraint when he enters me, body, soul, and heart.
The pleasure is so overwhelming, heart-stopping, that I have to hold on to his shoulders to keep myself from combusting.
“You feel so good.” His eyes are on mine, a deep ocean of blue and green and gold, of comfort and security, of excitement and mysteriousness. “I’m going to make love to you now.”
I nod, feeling his length enter me with a force that fills me to the hilt with pleasure and joy. I mewl and wiggle my body against his, accommodating him.
“Okay?”
I’m breathless, drunk. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
His lips pull up at the corners. Lifting his hips, he thrusts against me, slow. Painfully slow, bringing me to the edge of a cliff, inching me forward. I can feel the wind in my face, hear the rushing waters below. I want it now, the climax, the finish, but no—I don’t want this to stop, not ever.
The pull in my belly teases me, wants me to make the decision. I’m biting my lip to keep myself from screaming, but my breathing has escalated and I’m moaning, begging for relief.
“Fuck, you’re amazing.” Mitchell’s breathing turns into groans, propelling my pace. He lifts my hands behind my head, and it’s the final act that shatters the rest of the gilded cage around my heart.
He loves me.
He’s mine.
Forever.
“Oh yes . . . I’m coming.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own—it’s gravelly and pleading. His pace quickens, our voices muffling when he kisses me, full and hard. He’s come to the edge with me, hand in mine. I won’t jump off this cliff alone.
I raise my body against his, crying out with each and every thrust. Knowing he’s close, I clutch him around his neck, which sends him into his own climax. His body shudders against mine as he rocks into me, eventually slowing.
He relaxes into my arms, and the full weight of him over me grounds me for the first time in my life. There’s no regret, no anger or remorse inside me. Just the expanse of possibility, of being with this man, every day and night.
Is this what this is? Love? Have I just denied myself it all these days?
“Bryn?”
“Yeah?”
“Look at me. Open your eyes.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
A pause. The bed moves as his body shifts, and still I don’t open my eyes. Because I didn’t plan for this. Something this important should have had me practicing in front of a mirror. Everything he said to me was so beautiful and eloquent, and how can I top that?
The bed shifts again, and I can tell he’s moved too far. Panic floods all of my instincts, taking over my hesitancy.
“No, wait.” I sit up, voice shattering my thoughts.
Mitchell heads to the bathroom, disposes of the condom, and washes his hands, but takes his time.
“Come back to bed,” I say.
Finally, he returns and sits on the edge of the mattress. He keeps his back to me. “Bryn, if you can’t be sure now . . .”
I wrap my arms around him, rest my cheek on his warm back. “Are you going to let me speak?”
He nods solemnly.
Getting out of the bed and coming around to his front, I straddle him, resting my hands on his shoulders. Though he doesn’t look at me, his hands fall on my thighs and he readjusts himself on the bed. I raise his chin to me.
“You’re right. I hate losing,” I tell him. To his questioning face I continue, “You said once I hated losing, and I totally denied it. But I’m admitting it now. And it’s not because I’m always in the mood to fight, or I consider it a triumph to have the last word. It’s because conceding to someone feels a lot like giving a part of myself. And it’s scary.”
My words escape like a rush of water, and when they’re out of me, I feel my body slouch into itself. When he opens his mouth to speak, I touch a finger against his lips. I have to keep going or I’ll lose my nerve. Resting my forehead on his, I take a deep breath to give him my next truth, but fail. His arms pull tighter against the bottom half of my body. “Bryn—”
“Shh.” I shake my head and peer up at him.
Tears well in my eyes, and images of my mother’s smile encourage me to keep going. “For a long time after my mother died, it felt like I had a lot less of myself, of love, to give. I tried to hold on to the rest of me because I couldn’t imagine losing any more. But then I met you, and you brought everything out of me, the good and bad, and I realize now that I did have enough. I was giving myself to you all this time. So yes, I love you, Mitchell. I think I always knew, too.”
Tears fall from my eyes, and this time they’re good ones. Happy ones I’ve kept to myself. He holds my naked body against his, kissing me deeply, hungrily, returning the sentiment. It takes but those three words to open the floodgates, and all of our memories together are that much sweeter and more precious.
And now there’s nothing to stop us from acting on it. I feel an insatiable need to show him more of my love, of what we can be. “Where are they?” I ask.
He knows full well what I mean. “On the dresser.”
It’s painful to leave him, even for a minute. I retrieve a condom and roll it over his erection, then crawl onto the bed. I lie on my side, eyeball the space behind me. He spoons me from behind, lifting my thigh with his hand. His fingers skim the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs up to where I want him, where he strokes and prepares me, until he and I are both ready. Reaching for him, I guide him inside. He fills me with ease, and I gasp with pleasure. Mitchell’s arms wrap around my waist, lips on my neck.
“I love you,” he says as he takes me, the intimacy unlike any I’ve ever experienced, with a trust as true as our two bodies interlocked.
“I love you, too.” And I know then, no matter what happens, Mitchell will always be forever.