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Joyful tears streamed down my cheeks as I tried to kiss him back, but my lips simply wouldn’t cooperate. I’d never realized how hard it was to make out with someone when you’re both smiling like idiots.
I guess I’d never been in love enough to find out.
I want to tell you that Ken cleared the kitchen table with one swipe of his muscular forearm and took me right there in front of the open blinds. But he didn’t. Instead, he led me through the living room where my easel and Eiffel Tower sketch had been placed in the corner, next to the fireplace; up the stairs where the series of Warhol-esque fruit paintings I’d done for art class in eleventh grade had been hung at perfect intervals; past Robin’s old room, which now had my computer desk and bookshelf in it; and through the doorway of our new master bedroom.
The once-beige walls of Chelsea’s old room were now a rich slate gray—my favorite color—and Ken had filled it with a blended collection of our furniture. His bed, my dresser, his nightstands, my curtains, his big-ass TV, my lamp. And, on every wall, my art.
Actions. Actions everywhere.
“I live here?” I whispered into my fingertips as Ken led me over to the bed.
“We live here,” he corrected, smirking at me over his shoulder.
As my wide, misty eyes drank in every detail, every surprise cameo from my old life, Ken peeled off his T-shirt and sat on the edge of the mattress.
When my gaze swept over to him—chest bared, secrets bared, intentions bared—it was as if I was seeing him for the first time. I’d thought I loved Ken before, but what I’d fallen in love with were mere glimmers of the qualities he truly possessed. Now, they were on full display in high-definition. His strength. His selflessness. His grace. His love.
I’d kissed a prince, and somehow, he’d turned into an even better prince.
When I ran my hands through his damp hair, I didn’t feel the urge to yank on it. When I kissed his upturned lips, I didn’t nip or bite at all. And when I ran my hands up his biceps and down his shoulder blades, I kept my claws retracted. For the first time in our relationship, I had no frustrations to take out on Ken’s body at all. I simply wanted to love him.
And, for once, he let me have my way.
I stood and undressed slowly, leaning in to steal a kiss or two between every article of clothing I removed. Ken’s cerulean eyes watched me without a hint of challenge. His smirk was gone, replaced by heavy eyelids and a slightly parted mouth, which I kissed again as I stepped between his legs and stroked him over the fabric of his gray sweatpants.
I wanted to kiss him everywhere. For every time someone had wanted to tell him they loved him but didn’t. I wanted to cover him with so much love that he never refused to accept it again.
I peppered kisses along his hard, stubbled jaw and over to his earlobe and smiled when I felt his cock jerk beneath my hand. As I reached into the waistband of his pants and gripped his shaft, Ken reached up and palmed my small breasts. When I ran my thumb over his slick tip, Ken ran his thumbs over my peaked, pierced nipples. As I kissed my way down his neck, Ken slid a flat hand down the center of my torso. And, as I traced my tongue along the valley of his sternum and over the ridges of his ab muscles, he slid two fingers over the barbell in my clit.
There was no power struggle. No taking or denying. No sadist or masochist. There was just us—two people who’d finally learned how to speak the same language.
I kissed my way up the length of his cock, bent at the waist and eager to please. But, before I could take him in my mouth, Ken grabbed my narrow hips and lifted me up onto the bed. I squealed, landing on my hands and knees beside him, as he reclined backward onto the mattress with a smug smile. My eyes followed the same trail my tongue had taken—from his perfect, pursed lips to his perfect, glistening cock. As I crawled over to him, intent on finishing what I’d started, Ken’s hands grabbed my ass and guided me so that I was straddling that mouth I’d just been admiring.
I took him into my throat and moaned against his smooth flesh as he flicked and swirled his tongue across mine. My legs began to tremble as I worked him faster, trying not to collapse under the enormity of my feelings and the pleasure building between my thighs. It was too much, and I had nothing to hold on to. As my moans turned to whimpers and my trembles devolved into shakes, Ken listened to my screaming body and obliged.
Flipping me onto my stomach, he blanketed me with his heat and heaviness and humming, buzzing electricity. He grounded me like the live wire that I was, and when he filled me from behind, when I clenched around him and gripped his hands and cried out in ecstatic relief, I lit him up, too.
As soon as Ken cursed and collapsed on top of me, I smiled even bigger than Julia Roberts trying not to cry in Hugh Grant’s bookstore. Because I wasn’t a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her anymore. I was a girl, lying under a man, who loved her more than she’d ever thought possible.
