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My eyes slam shut again and I groan. Push myself into her grip, pumping my hips against her hand. “Claire…” I growl her name, the muscles at the base of my spine tightening so hard and fast, it almost hurts. “I’m struggling here.”
She lets go of me to throw her leg over my hip and turns, pushing me flat on the mattress to straddle my stomach. “Then relax,” she says, bending over me to press her mouth to my throat. “And let me do what I want.”
“What’s that?” I groan softly because I want to hear her say it. I like the blush that spills across her cheeks when she talks dirty.
“I want your cock in my mouth,” she whispers in my ear before licking her way down the taut cords of my neck. My collarbone. My pecs. Abs. Teeth scraping against my hipbone. My dick jerking every time her a part of her brushes against the base of my shaft. Pre-cum leaking from the tip at a steady pace, faster and faster the closer her mouth gets to where she’s going.
If she keeps it up, we’re not going to get that far.
She goes still. Stops touching me. Stops teasing me and somehow that’s worse. “Claire?” I crunch upward, drawing my elbows up and underneath me so I can look down at her. She’s looking at my scar. Raised and pink over the place where one of my kidneys used to be. The one I gave to my son.
The reason I left her all those years ago.
I open my mouth to say something.
Claire.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
If you’ll let me, I’ll spend the next seventy years making it up to you. Every day, for the rest of our lives.
Whatever it is, she doesn’t give me the chance.
She leans in, pressing her lips to the scar, kissing it so reverently, it feels like worship.
It feels like forever.
It feels like fate.