Page 107 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“It’s not your storm, Peter.”

“We’re supposed to be a team. Your storms are supposed to be my storms.”

“Please,” I whispered. “This is what I need. I need you to not hate me for that. Please don’t hate me.”

“It’s impossible to hate you, Enzo,” he said, shaking his head, his hand gripping mine. “I know I said before I was starting to hate you, but I never could. I couldn’t even force myself. I guess…I don’t understand…but I’ll support you. If that’s what you need.”

“Thank you.”

Peter sighed, grumbled something under his breath, then smiled. I didn’t ask him what he had been grumbling about. If he was going to have more patience with me, I would let him grumble. He gave my hand a squeeze and slid his from mine. My fingers immediately missed the warmth of his hand, so I brought my hand up to join the other holding my mug.

“Can I still have some of your coffee?” he asked. “I’ll need it before I go home.”

Chuckling, I started to stand. Peter attempted to stand at the same moment and we were brought face to face, our chests nearly touching. Being so close to Peter, so close I could feel his breath, after so long, I shouldn’t have been as affected as I was. But my breath was caught in my throat and all I could do was stare into his eyes to keep from stuttering or saying something utterly stupid. Peter, like me, seemed to be forcing himself not to speak.

For the longest of moments, we stood there, face to face, so close barely a hand could fit between us, neither of us speaking. Neither of us moved. I realized that if we were to break the spell we were suddenly under, one of us would have to speak.

“Peter—”

Then his hands were in my hair, his fingers twisting through it, and he was pulling my mouth down to his. I did nothing to stop him. My arms went around him, pulling him into me violently as our mouths met; we immediately started to devour each other. Pulling Peter into me as though trying to crush our bodies together, I realized how much I’d missed his body. There was no one in the universe who could make such feelings well up inside me, demanding to be released.

The night before, when Peter was drunk and vulnerable—and I was annoyed—it had been easier to ignore my feelings while having him in close proximity. Now that he was sober and I wasn’t annoyed, it was impossible.

Was that another reason I’d left?

I knew I couldn’t ignore those feelings for much longer and I needed to in order to figure out what was going on inside my head?

I pushed that thought aside; other thoughts demanded my attention.

Peter’s hands were firm, maybe even rough—our mouths against each other felt violent but in an utterly arousing, desperate way. My hands dug into his sides as I fed at his mouth, frantically kissing him, overwhelmed at having his body against mine after so long. Racing with thoughts, my mind tried to explain to me why I had deprived myself—and my husband—of this for so long. Why I had been so stupid. So petty. And for what?

When Peter’s hands went to the waist of my pajama pants, he paused, nearly breaking our kiss, as though concerned he had gone too far. When my hands shot to the button on his pants, he urgently continued his actions. Peter’s hands worked to unfasten my pants as mine did the same to his. Moments, later, our pants and underwear shoved to our ankles, we fell onto the bed together.

Sex with Peter—though never less than incredible—always seemed to fly by. It wasn’t that it was quick—unless we wanted it to be—it could simply never last long enough, no matter how long it lasted. So, when our orgasms had subsided, and I was still on top of him, his legs locked around me, and my hand was still gripping him between us, I felt empty. Not emotionally empty, but as though once with Peter was never enough.

It was never enough.

Shuddering as I let go of him and extracted my arm from between us, Peter twined his fingers in my hair again, pulling me down to kiss him once more. Panting and shivering, the two of us kissed for what seemed like forever. Finally, I knew that I had to slide off of and out of Peter, though it was difficult to convince myself. I pulled back enough so that we were no longer connected, but our eyes stayed locked.

Peter, breathing heavy, his fingers still twisted in my hair as I gazed down at him, said one word. My name.

So, I had to kiss him again.

And again.

Finally, once we had settled down and were sitting on the edge of the bed together, our pants in a heap on the floor, I looked over at him.

“I miss that.”

“But you won’t come home?”

“You said I could have time,” I whispered.

Peter frowned, then nodded, and forced a small smile to his lips.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

He was convincing himself to be patient.