Page 66 of Threads That Bind Us

“Your home is beautiful,” she says softly, not taking her eyes off the sea.

She is my home. She is beautiful.

“I’m glad you like it,” I say instead, combing my fingers through her hair slowly.

She turns her face up at me and her smile is so pure and undiluted it's like drinking straight from the bottle.

“Thank you for bringing me here, trusting me with this,” she says, leaning into my body so her head is resting on my chest. “I hope I don’t screw this up.”

“You’re going to be perfect,” I say, dragging my nails against her scalp like she does for me. She seems to enjoy it, almost burrowing into my body. “You were meant for this.”

She peers up at me, and I beg her with my eyes to hear the words I can’t say yet.You were meant for me.

I cup her face with my hands and press my lips to hers. Softly, like I’m asking her permission, which I am. With deft fingers she untucks my shirt from my pants, trailing her fingers over my stomach, leaving goosebumps across my skin. I lift her against me, my hands under her thighs, her legs wrapped around me. I grip her ass, unable to contain my groan as she slips her tongue in my mouth and her fingers into my hair. Her ankles hook behind my back, digging into my spine as she grinds herself closer to me.

I walk her backward to the bed, unable to separate myself from her, trailing my lips down her throat, over her collarbones, to the neckline of her dress. Her chest heaves, pressing her perfect tits into the hem.

“Can I touch you, Gwen?” I ask against her skin, my fingers brushing over the bodice of her dress, pulling a loosethread from one of the embroidered flowers. I tuck it into my pocket. “Please?”

She grips the comforter above her head, shaking her head no. I pull my hands back, but leave my lips against the swell of her breast, nipping at the edge of her dress.

“Okay, mio filo,” I breathe, grasping my hands behind my back.

She shakes her head again, her eyes pinched shut in determination. I try not to smile, but she must feel the tilt of my lips against her, because she’s suddenly sliding away from me.

“I want to touchyou,” she pants, propping herself up on her elbows. Her pretty dress is barely covering her, rucked up around her waist.

My hands strain against my own grip.

“Anything for you,” I swear.

She gets that look in her eyes like it’s a challenge, like I’m daring her to test my resolve. Maybe I am.

She shifts so she’s on her knees, ass against her heels, before reaching for my shirt again. Movements slow and sensual, she rocks her hips back and forth, almost like she’s dancing to the rhythm of the waves on the shore outside. Once my shirt’s completely open, she pushes it over my shoulders, her hands lingering on my collarbones.

“Don’t let go of your hands,” she whispers in my ear as she tugs the shirt all the way down my arms. It bunches on my wrists, and even though I could easily release my grip and free myself, it still feels like a restraint.

My blood is thundering in my veins, my heart pounding so hard I can barely think past it.

“If you want me to stop, just say so, and I will, okay?” she asks, eyes clear and skin flushed.

My whole body is filled with a low,pleasant buzzing feeling as she leans forward and traces the olive branches tattooed on my neck with her tongue.

Her mouth drives me to the edge of sanity. Every lick and kiss and bite across my chest, my throat, my arms, my stomach has my muscles tightening. She’s slow and careful compared to the frantic rise and fall of my chest, leaving teeth marks in her wake. Her fingertips softly run down my back when her teeth skim my bicep. Featherlight kisses torture me as she places them along my hipbones. My cock is painfully hard, demanding to be inside her. I can’t suppress a whimper as she drifts her knuckles over its impression against my zipper.

“Please,” I pant, head thrown toward the ceiling, grip on my own hands white-knuckled. “Don’t stop, please.”

But immediately the heat of her body disappears. When I snap my head down, her lips are puffy and full, but the lust that had filled her eyes has been replaced by something close to fear. She shakes her head a bit.

“Sorry, you saiddon’tstop,” she says, almost to herself. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, seeming to resettle herself. “I reacted tostop. I didn’t know if it was too much.”

My heart is in my throat, making it nearly impossible to speak.

I was never under the impression that the support Gwen and I exchanged had comparative value. What I gave her was never worth more than what she gave me. But it wasn’t until this moment that I realized she might care about me as much as I care about her.

“I’m okay,” I breathe, trying to calm her anxiety. “I didn’t think, mio filo, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she says, her shoulders finally relaxing. “Maybe we should pick another word, though.”