Page 69 of Exiled

And then I touch myself. Fit the fingertips of my middle and ring finger to my core, to my clit, and I rub. I find that rhythm, that quick rough circling motion unique to the way I touch myself. You watch this too, my fingers at my core, fingers pinching my nipple, the other hand raised to brace back against the headboard, so I have leverage with which to push against You.

Because no matter how hard, no matter how deep, I always want You more, want You harder, want You deeper.

Frantic and furious, You fuck me with such wild love that I could cry with the beauty of it, the perfection of it. To love, to fuck, they are the same with us, in this moment. There is no definition in connotation or context or meaning.

“Isabel...” A breath, as You falter, gasp, and fuck harder, slower, deeper, as Your climax rises within You.

“Love me, Logan,” I moan. “Oh God, Logan, I need you.”

“You have me, Isabel. Forever. All of me.”

My eyes fly open, and I feel myself losing all control, losing everything, losing my grip on sanity as we move together, as we find that space in the moment of oneness wherein my soul and Yours tangle and collide and mesh, when the fabric of me and the substance of You plash and twist and mate, as conjoined one to the other as my body is to Yours in this moment. I feel that unison, and I drown myself in it.

I orgasm, and feel myself tighten around You. Core gripping your slick length, clamping down with all the power I possess, I writhe against You and scream Your name. You come explosively, and I feel it unleash inside me, feel Your seed fill me and drip out down my thighs. And You are still coming, falling forward to press Your face into the hollow of my throat, kissing my jaw as You flutter Your hips with quaking aftershock thrusts, each of which sends a flutter of ecstasy through me.

“I love you. God, I love you.”

“How can it be that every time we make love it’s better than the last time?” I ask.

“I don’t know. But it’s true. It should be impossible, but it’s not.” You lift up and off me, pull me back into the sheltering cradle of Your arms. “If it’s that incredible now, how will it be after twenty years?”

I nip at Your chest. “I don’t think it’s possible to even fathom.” I twist, crushing my breasts to Your chest, lift up tolook at You. “And Logan, I don’t believe you can fathom how much I love you.”

“Oh, I can guess.”

“Can you?”

“You chose me. That tells me everything.”

I lie back down, my cheek to Your pec. “He told me everything.”

“Caleb?”

“Yes.”

“Everything?”

“It felt that way. And it felt like the truth.” A beat of silence. “At least, as much of the unvarnished truth as he is capable of telling.”

“Care to share?”

“I need time to process it, Logan. There was a lot.”

“As long as you need, babe.”

I am sleepy. I don’t fight it. I give in, willingly.

As I fade, I glance at the digital clock on the bedside table: 12:41 pm.

So much can change in such a short time.

Chapter

Fifteen

Iwake up, and Logan is gone. The bed beside me is still warm, though, so he hasn’t been gone long. I get out of bed, dress quickly in yoga pants and a T-shirt, and go looking. The terrace is empty, so I descend to the main level. Kitchen, empty. Living room, same.

My heart rises in my throat. The clock on the microwave says it’s 2:19, so I didn’t even sleep two hours. Where could he have gone? There is a hammered copper bowl that Logan owns. It is the size of his two hands cupped together, tarnished, battered. It sits on a ledge near the front door, and it is where he puts his keys and wallet whenever he comes home. Without fail, he will walk in the door, close it behind himself with his heel, dig out his wallet and toss that and his keys into the bowl.