His rock-hard erection begs to be freed from his jeans, but I crave every brush of his restrained cock against me. I crave to feel his naked hardness, but settle for now on caressing the smooth skin of his taut ass.

His hand skates down my bare side and travels to the button of my jeans. He’s quick and rough as he tugs the denim down the length of my legs and tosses them to the floor.

He slithers free from his own jeans and crawls back to kiss me. His lips are smooth as they brush mine. His tongue is needy, set on devouring me with one swipe. He chews softly on my lip and curls his fingers into the sheets on either side of my head.

Through his boxers, I can feel his cock throbbing. A thin layer of underwear on either of us is all that separates us. We are so close to the act of true intimacy, but I want to draw this out as long as possible. I want to remember this, so when the truth comes out, I have something to hold onto—even if it’s just a memory.

He kisses his way down my bare stomach until he reaches my panties. Slowly, he pulls them down my thighs while mouthing against my skin. Soon, I’m fully exposed and completely vulnerable. What I was once terrified of brings about a new sense of pleasure and excitement.

He’s in control, and I’ve never felt so free.

“Can I say one thing?” I ask.

“Make it quick.”

“You’re my impetus for change.”

“I like you for everything you are.” He looks up to me, and the sight before me is visceral and fucking sexy—he’s between my legs with eager, wanting eyes. “Don’t change a thing.”

“I—“

His tongue flicks against my clit, silencing me as I throw my head back and brace my hands around the bedposts. The moan that is thrown from my throat is enough to flush my cheeks red with embarrassment.

He kisses me in the most intimate way possible, taking his time as he circles his tongue around my opening. “Talk to me babe. How does it feel?”

“Like torture.”

“The good kind?” He rubs his thumb along my flesh. “Or the bad kind?”

“The kind where…” I catch my breath. “It’s hard to breathe.”

“I love everything about you.” He slides a finger into me while he crawls up my body. “Your heart. Your soul.” Another finger. “Your tits.” His tongue traces along the side of my neck. “Your pussy.” His knuckles meet my flesh. “Every little thing.”

I place a hand firm against his cheek, holding him in place. “How are you so perfect?”

He cracks a glowing, playful smile. “You’d have to ask God that question.”

“Noted.” I caress his cheek once more, loving every square inch of his sun-kissed face. “Now are you going to stay there, or are you going to fuck me?”

“I’m not fucking you,” he says and reaches for something below. Something out of sight. “I’m going to make love to you.” I feel his cock press against me and I’m more than ready for penetration. “Remember?”

“I—“

He begins a gentle, torturous glide into me, pushing my hips wider the further he sinks in. His mouth drops slightly open and his eyes roll into the back of his head. I never believed the hype, the battle cries of those who have conquered love, screaming from the hill tops that sex is better when there’s love involved.

I loved Mason, and I loved Brick. Both were great in bed, but there was always something missing. Maybe it’s only in hindsight that they were lacking, my view tainted by what I had felt at the time. This feels different, solidifying the love I feel for this man. In the future, when I look back at this moment, it won’t be him that’s tainted by hindsight. It’ll be myself, realizing I was to blame when he’s no longer around.

His thrusts are measured and long. Pulling me to the edge and then driving all the way back in to the hilt. This position—missionary—is almost foreign to me. I can count on one hand the times I’ve been pinned to a bed like this. I’m more into the more erotic positions where he’s behind me, or stuffed in my mouth.

I wish I could taste his dick, but I’m content to feel his width pumping through me. It’s the worst kind of ecstasy—knowing it has to end at some point, and then knowing it may never happen again.

I shake the worry away and focus on the moment. Focus on the way the skin of his back feels like silk under my nails. Focus on the way he fails to miss a beat. Focus on the way I’m turned inside out and he seems to know every little thing about me and my body.

“Are you okay?” he whispers while he continues making love to me.

“Yeah.” I nod. “Definitely worth the ‘A’.” It’s a harmless joke, and he takes it in stride with a quick, breathless chuckle.

He rocks into me with steady strokes. The crease in his arm, where the elbow divides the appendage between biceps and forearm, threatens to buckle with each thrust. His fingers dig deeper into the fabric of the sheets with every bounce of his body against mine. His eyes are locked on me, never straying and only going elsewhere when they hide behind flickers of his lashes.

He hits the spot over, and over, and over again. It’s a little fucked up that I learned this in high school, but my science teacher informed our class that the closest we were ever likely to come to death would be through an orgasm. Apparently, your heart stops for a miniscule fraction of a second when you come.

If I didn’t know that then, I know it now. My heart flutters and my breath quickens. The quake building from within threatens to tear me inside out, and it could be for the best if my heart stops. It would save everyone a lot of heartache.

I’m on the cliff for too long, being pushed and pulled along the edge, but never taking the plunge. I slide my body downward on the bed, pushing my body against his. I need him deeper and faster. Harder. Rougher.

With a winding smile, he acknowledges my need. His pace quickens, but he’s never out of sync with some magical beat playing in his head.

The muscles in his arms go rigid, angled at a sharp ninety-degree angle from his shoulder. His lips quiver, and his chest contracts. That’s when I break.

I’m thrown into another world as I shatter with burning pleasure. My toes curl into cool sheets, and my fingers dig into his back, tearing tiny scratches into the surface of his skin.

Quicker, he goes until he’s no longer following some imaginary beat in his head. It has always been my miscalculation of what making love meant. I believed it to be dull, and boring. Tedious without reward. It’s everything I never imagined it to be, but there’s no denying he’s fucking me now.

I’d imagine it’s engrained in his psyche. His cock fucks me through my lasting orgasm, tearing away whatever façade I’ve built up piece by piece, and thrust by thrust. He groans, and he moans. He fights against his own mounting pleasure, trying to find whatever opportunity there is to breathe.

He drives into me one last time, holding himself deep inside of me as he comes. “Fuck,” he whispers as he empties himself inside.

When he’s fully drained, his body sinks down onto mine. His head falls onto my breasts as he comes back down to earth from a temporary visit to heaven. I run my finger through his short hair, and pray to myself that this night never ends.

Silence takes hold, and all that’s left is labored breathing and beating hearts—a perfect symphony of love gone haywire. Like the irregular rhythm of our hearts, love isn’t something that ever makes sense.

Tonight, I’ll hold him tight while we sleep, because tomorrow I have to tell him the truth. How can a word spelled with only five letters carry so much weight and heartache? The funny thing about truth is that you can’t live without it, but I can’t love with it. Not when it’s this explosive. Not when the truth is the pin of a grenade.

When my eyes flicker open, I’m at peace. The early morning sun streams in through the bedroom window, washing a thin coat of heat over my body. I’m not tired, but rather fully refreshed and ready for the day ahead—no matter the obstacles.