Page 18 of The Vines Between Us

Hugo considered this, his eyes moving over the letters spread across the desk and floor. "I think they created happiness within the constraints they accepted. But I also think Henri's final message was clear—he regretted not choosing love more openly."

I nodded, suddenly aware of how close we were, of Hugo's hands still resting on my waist, of the warmth of his body against mine.

"I've spent years trying to be safe," I admitted. "Building walls, avoiding vulnerability, appeasing my father. And what do I have to show for it? An empty apartment. Colleagues instead of friends. Success that means nothing because there's no one to share it with."

Hugo's eyes never left mine. "It's never too late to choose differently."

His hand moved to my face, thumb gently wiping away the remnants of tears on my cheek. The tenderness of the gesture undid me completely.

When he leaned forward to kiss me, I didn't run. I didn't pull away. Instead, I met him halfway, my hands finding the back of his neck, drawing him closer.

The kiss deepened, years of separation dissolving in the heat between us. His mouth was both familiar and new—the same fullness to his lips that I remembered from our teenage summers, but with a man's confidence replacing youthful urgency.

Hugo's fingers trembled as they worked at my shirt buttons. The first brush of his fingertips against my bare chest sent electricity coursing through me. When my shirt fell open, he groaned low in his throat, a sound of raw hunger that hardened me instantly.

"Fuck, I've missed this," he breathed, pushing the fabric from my shoulders.

I yanked his sweater over his head, desperate to feel skin against skin.

Hugo's body had transformed in our years apart.

The slender boy I'd known had become a man with broad shoulders and a taut stomach, a trail of dark hair leading tantalizingly downward.

New scars marked his skin—a burn on his forearm, a thin white line across his shoulder.

I traced each one with my tongue, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling him shudder beneath my mouth.

His hands fumbled with my belt buckle, our breathing ragged and uneven. I helped him, then attacked his jeans with equal urgency. When we finally stood naked before each other, I couldn't help but stare. His cock stood proudly erect, thicker than I remembered, the head glistening with pre-cum.

"Christ, you're beautiful," I whispered, dropping to my knees before him.

I took him in my mouth without preamble, moaning around his length as his hands fisted in my hair.

The familiar taste of him flooded my senses—salt and musk and pure Hugo.

I started slow, working him with my tongue before taking him deeper, relaxing my throat as I'd learned to do.

His breath hitched as I took him fully, my nose pressing against the coarse hair at his base.

"Fuck, Alexandre," he groaned, his grip tightening in my hair as I held him there, throat working around him before pulling back to breathe.

I repeated the motion, taking him deep again and again, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes from the intensity. His hips jerked forward involuntarily as I alternated between the deep taking and hollowing my cheeks to suck harder, my hands gripping his firm ass to control the rhythm.

"Alexandre," he gasped, tugging me upward with shaking hands. "Stop or this ends too soon."

I allowed him to pull me up, my breath coming in ragged pants, my body trembling with need. Hugo guided me backward until my legs hit the edge of Hugo’s bed, his eyes never leaving mine. The hunger I saw there made my throat go dry.

"Lie back," he whispered, his voice rough with desire. "Let me look at you."

I complied, sinking onto the soft bedding, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. Hugo stood at the foot of the bed, drinking me in. The intensity of his stare was almost physical—I could feel it like a caress across my skin.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've dreamed of having you like this again?" he said.

Staring at him, I reveled in the lean muscles of his torso. My fingers itched to trace the contours, to relearn the body I'd once known so intimately.

"Tell me," I managed, my voice embarrassingly hoarse.

Hugo crawled onto the bed, hovering above me without touching. "Nearly every night for fourteen years." He lowered his head, his breath warm against my neck. "Every. Single. Night."

When his lips finally made contact with my throat, I shuddered violently. He took his time there, exploring the sensitive skin with lips, tongue, and the occasional scrape of teeth that sent electricity coursing through my veins. My hands clutched at the bedding, desperate for an anchor.

"Hugo," I pleaded, not even sure what I was asking for.

"Patience," he murmured against my collarbone. "We've waited fourteen years. I'm not rushing this."

His mouth continued its torturous journey downward, mapping my chest with deliberate care. When his tongue flicked across my nipple, I arched off the bed with a strangled cry. He chuckled against my skin, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through me.

"Still sensitive here," he observed, not a question but a statement of remembered knowledge. He lavished attention on first one nipple, then the other, until I was writhing beneath him, my cock painfully hard and leaking against my stomach.

"Please," I gasped, reaching for him.

Hugo caught my wrists, pinning them gently beside my head. "Not yet." His eyes held mine, searching. "I want to remember every centimetre of you."

He released my wrists and continued his downward exploration, his mouth tracing the lines of my abdomen, his hands stroking my thighs, carefully avoiding where I most wanted to be touched. The anticipation was excruciating, a sweet torture that had me trembling and incoherent.

When he finally settled between my legs, his breath ghosting over my aching cock, I was nearly delirious with need. He looked up the length of my body, his eyes dark with desire.

"Watch me," he commanded softly.

I propped myself up on my elbows, unable to look away as he slowly, deliberately ran his tongue from base to tip. The sight combined with the sensation tore a desperate moan from my throat. My arms threatened to give out as he took me into his mouth, the wet heat overwhelming.

"Hugo," I warned, my voice breaking. "I can't—if you keep—"

He pulled away, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh. "Not yet," he said, his voice ragged. "I'm not done with you."

When Hugo finally moved up to pin me beneath him, I was a quivering mess of need. His mouth claimed mine in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperate hunger. I arched against him, our cocks sliding together in delicious friction that had me seeing stars.

"I need to be inside you," he growled against my throat, his teeth scraping sensitive skin. "Need to feel you around me."

"Yes," I hissed, spreading my legs wider in invitation, beyond pride or hesitation. "God, yes."

He reached into the bedside drawer, producing a small bottle of oil. The momentary separation as he prepared himself was almost unbearable. When he returned, coating his fingers liberally, he circled my entrance with teasing pressure.

"Look at me," he said, waiting until our eyes locked before slowly pushing one finger inside me.

The intrusion burned slightly—it had been years since I'd been with a man—but the discomfort quickly gave way to pleasure as he found that spot inside me that made my vision blur. All the while, he watched my face, reading my reactions with the same attentiveness he showed his precious vines .

"More," I demanded, pushing back against his hand, desperate for the fullness only he could provide.

He added a second finger, then a third, stretching me with exquisite care despite our mutual desperation. By the time he withdrew his fingers, I was writhing beneath him, my cock leaking steadily onto my stomach, my body aching with need.

Hugo positioned himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. Our eyes locked as he pushed forward, breaching me slowly, inexorably. The stretch and burn were exquisite—pain and pleasure so intertwined I couldn't separate them.

"Fuck," I gasped as he bottomed out, filling me completely. "Hugo, move. Please."

He began to thrust, each stroke precise and devastating, angling to hit that spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyelids.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, harder.

The sound of our bodies coming together—skin against skin, wet and rhythmic—filled the room, punctuated by our gasps and moans.

"Touch yourself," Hugo commanded, his voice strained with the effort of control. "I want to watch you come apart."

I obeyed, wrapping my hand around my aching cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations were overwhelming—his thick length pounding into me, my hand working my own shaft, his eyes devouring every reaction on my face.

"I'm close," I warned, my voice breaking as pressure built at the base of my spine.

"Come for me," he urged, increasing his pace, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Let me feel you."

My orgasm crashed through me with stunning force.

I cried out his name as hot ropes of cum painted my chest and stomach, my body clenching around him in pulsing waves.

The sight of my release pushed Hugo over the edge.

He drove into me one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he came with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing deep inside me .

He collapsed onto my chest, both of us gasping for breath, our bodies slick with sweat and cum. After a moment, he carefully withdrew, drawing a whimper from me at the sudden emptiness. He disappeared briefly, returning with a warm, damp cloth to clean us both with tender attention.

Afterward, we lay tangled in Hugo's sheets, my head on Hugo's chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.

The afternoon light painted the room gold, dust motes dancing in the air above us.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on my skin, occasionally dipping lower to where I was still sensitive and open from his possession.

"I've thought about this," Hugo murmured, his voice rough. "Finding you again. Being with you. For fourteen years, Alexandre."

I closed my eyes, savouring the moment, committing it to memory—the warmth of his skin, the scent of him mixed with our lovemaking, the perfect weight of his arm across my body.

"I never stopped loving you," he continued as he tenderly nibbled on my collarbone. "Even when I tried."

I should have said it back. The words were true—I had carried Hugo with me through every empty meaningless relationship, every solitary night, every moment I'd denied myself what I wanted most. He had been the standard against which all others failed to measure, the one that got away, that I couldn't have.

Yet as Hugo's lips traced my collarbone, a memory crashed over me with devastating clarity.

I was seventeen, home for Easter break. My father had found a letter Hugo had written me—innocent enough, but signed "with love." The beating that followed had been methodical, calculated to cause maximum pain without visible marks.

"You think you love him?" My father's voice, cold with disgust. "Love makes you weak. Vulnerable. It gives people power over you." Each word punctuated by another blow. "Is that what you want? To be someone's weakness?"

But worse than the beating was what came after. He'd locked me in my room and gone to find my mother. Her crying had echoed through the house for hours. When she finally came to tend my bruises, her own face bore fresh marks.

"I'm sorry, Maman," I'd whispered.

"Non, mon chéri," she'd replied, her voice broken. "I'm sorry. Sorry you can't be who you are without us all paying for it."

The memory threatened to shatter my arousal like ice water. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my father's voice to fade. Not here. Not now. I focused on Hugo's warmth, his scent of earth and rosemary, the gentle pressure of his lips against my skin.

I kissed him again, harder this time, deliberately drowning my father's words in the taste of Hugo's mouth.

We made love a second time, slower now, with me straddling his hips, riding him with deliberate care as his hands gripped my thighs hard enough to bruise.

When we came together this time, his name was a prayer on my lips, and the look in his eyes nearly broke me open.

Sleep claimed us eventually, wrapped in each other's arms.