But Too Well

XLIII : Finally

I INSIST ON helping him with the dishes.

He washes them in the sink and I stand next to him with a cloth. Our arms brush, and my body is so tightly wound from his proximity.

We work in complete silence.

I imagine he feels it too, this heavy cloud of tension that fills the room, the spaces between us, my mind and his.

There are a few things that have been left very obviously unresolved.

He passes me a dripping pan and our fingers make contact, just a tiny bit.

I tilt myself, barely, at an angle so more of him touches more of me.

He reaches over to grab the soap, leaning just a little closer.

It's maddening.

He turns the dishwasher on and then that's it. Nothing more to do. No distractions we can use to keep delaying.

I lean my hip against the counter, watching him.

It takes him absolutely forever.

And then, he turns, towards me.

We look at each other, and there isn't any pretending anymore. My heart just pounds, my breaths are shallow and my skin is alight and I have never, ever wanted to be touched as much as I do in this moment, by him.

His gaze catches mine, so incredibly dark, and the spell breaks. "Rosalyn." It's low and heavy and so rough. Asking.

"Nero." Pleading.

I don't know who moves first. Slowly, my hands rest against his chest and his fingers float upwards to clutch my face and our lips find each other. His mouth is soft and tender, needy, lingering. His touch sends heat through my veins and brings me back to life.

We take our time, because we can. My fingers thread themselves into his thick hair, his hands grip my hips, drawing me flush against him.

He takes every sigh, every whimper, tugging gently at my lips and twisting his tongue with mine. Burning, slow, so intense. Necessary.

We press together so tight there's no space, no room to breathe or think and that's fine because the only thing that matters is this, him.

My knees go weak as I melt into him, and if he didn't hold me so close I would fall to the ground.

I slide my hands under the hem of his shirt, brushing the skin at edge of his sweatpants, and he leans into my touch. My fingers trail a soft line over the planes of his lean chest, up and up, and he lets me push his shirt over his head, onto the floor.

There's a tug, low in my gut, heat between my legs, every part of me just wanting. Wanting him.

And from the way he touches me, kisses me, all fire and soft and rough and tender at the same time, I know he wants me too.

It doesn't take long for me to feel him, hard, against my stomach, and I can't help the moan that escapes me as I press closer. He lifts me up onto the counter and the stone is cold on my bare skin. I wrap my legs around him, he holds the sides of my thighs, my fingers curled into his hair holding him to me, getting rid of whatever space exists between us.

We grip each other so close that I can't stand it, I need more, and I know he does too. His lips trail a soft path down my neck, and he buries his face into my shoulder, feeling me against him right there, too many layers between. "Shit, Rosalyn," he mumbles against me, hands clutching my hips, keeping us touching and breathing and panting to a point where I can barely think. "Are you sure you want to do this?" He says it because he cares but the heat coming off of his skin and the incredible darkness in his eyes and the tight bulge in his pants all want me to say yes. Yes yes yes.