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“Three times a day?!”
“Yes.” For the first time since this conversation started, he takes a step towards me. “And I will continue to see him three times a day until I only need to see him for two. And then until I only need to see him once. And then once a week, which is when he can move out. And then I’ll see him once a month – still in person. And then once every six weeks – still in person. And then whatever it is we come to the conclusion that I need regarding what I’m now accepting is a lifelong journey.”
Awe drops my voice to a hushed volume. “Seriously?”
“Seriously, baby.” His frame arrives in the space directly in front of mine. “The only thing I’m more committed to than my sobriety is my relationship with you.” Wes’s white sneaker covered toes innocently brush against my bare ones, stealing a breath out of my lungs. “So…if that means we need to start at the very beginning again with crossword dates and driving you to work, then we will. If that means sleeping in separate homes until our baby arrives, I accept that. If it means sleeping on the couch in the other room once he or she is born, then I’ll upgrade to a more comfortable one. If it means you not wearing your engagement ring again until they’re three, then I’ll make sure to keep it locked in my comic book vault. And it means you not being willing to marry me until they’re seven and asking can they go away for their slumber party, then so be it. I’ll keep Valora on retainer, so we have first priority when the day finally comes.”
Words rush to come out yet are out paced by a swoon courtesy of his hand gently cupping the nape of my neck.
“Say you’re mine again, Bryn, and I swear you’ll never regret it.”
“Yours,” barely manages to leave my lips before he’s smashing his on top.
The initial impact is familiar yet foreign.
Intense but inviting.
Rough and soft and strong and light all in the same breath.
Our tongues tumultuously tangle, each taking unpredictable turns to tease the other, equally wanting and needing and desperate for control as much as surrender.
Wes’s fingers suddenly tighten, anchoring themselves onto the territory they’re currently occupying. The possessive pull inward prompts a loud, body shaking moan outward that stumbles his mouth off mine.
Like a little lost fin bearing creature his mouth frenziedly searches for something to devour.
Something to sink its teeth into.
Light grazes across my cheek progress into nips that scatter along my jaw before evolving into bites that litter the length of my neck.
Glide across my throat.
Glissade up to my ear.
The lobe.
The shell.
Needy whimpers propel past my parted lips at the same time my hands greedily grab onto his jacket.
“I know you hate me, little prey,” Wes airily proclaims, “but can you hate me while I’m deep inside of you?”
Yanking him into me and me into him is mindlessly attached to my equally breathless answer, “I’m willing to try.”
Ferocious groans are instantly followed by a much more vicious bite.
Getting me out of the gown isn’t a gentle feat, and I’m grateful.
The ripping and tearing of the material creates a salacious symphony around our penthouse bedroom that I haven’t heard in a hot Star Trek binge session or two. Thuds and thumps are closely trailed by clashes and clangs as clothes are exiled to the very edges of the space where they cling onto things like our chaise lounge and floor lamp for dear life.
We don’t bother pushing the rejected dresses to the ground or rearranging the pillows to be beneficial. We simply get lost in pouncing and pawing and preying on each other like insatiable creatures unexpectedly released back into the wild.
And wild is unquestionably what we become.
Chomping.
Clawing.
Colliding.
