I leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. “As you wish.” His skin was slick with sweat and I rubbed my chin against the side of his face. He was every bit the mess a person in his delicate situation should be, but he was my mess. And I wanted to make him feel good.
Our bodies mingled, mine small and lithe and his large and trim. We fit together perfectly. My thighs moved carefully, rocking to the dark, slow beat. The song changed and we were now wrapped into the divine voice of Leonard Cohen’s “Thousand Kisses Deep.” I froze at the tip of him, soaking in the final moment of the prelude as our flesh brushed one last time. Then he slid into me gently, his hand gripping my leg. I lowered my body onto his, every single inch of his cock buried in me so deep, there was barely enough room to breathe.
A tremor rushed through my limbs from the friction of our skin. My head fell back. I was losing my mind, and euphoria had begun to take over. Nothing existed right now—just the insanity of us. My body welcomed his modest thrusts. Rolling my hips, I pumped him carefully, ripping low, pleasured growls from his chest. He remained still, hand on my thigh, lips invitingly open.
We were caught up in a wild trance of sex, pain, and rock ’n’ roll. It was an agonizingly slow ride. I rocked to the music against his lap, my bare breasts bouncing tauntingly in front of his face. Craning his neck, he reached for my left nipple, and I arched to give him better access. He sucked me into his mouth ravenously. The devilish flicks of his tongue were going to be my undoing.
“Does it feel good?” I asked, quickening my pace to match the tempo of the next song.
“Is that a rhetorical question?” He laughed softly.
“I want you to be comfortable, because I’m just getting started,” I explained, licking his cheek.
“Oh, I am comfortable, doll.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his delicious mouth. “You have no idea.”
“Then we’re good.” I lifted myself up and then sank down.
He responded with a strangled moan against my shoulder. Skin to skin, we were burning up. His bunched up shirt dampened against his chest from the blend of our sweat. It was a filthy dance—the cadence of our movement, the hurricane of our labored groans. Our climax built at a steady, measured pace until our bodies reached the perfect height to fall from. Then we tumbled down together, irrevocably connected. Physically and spiritually. It was the most beautiful descent of my entire life.
Exhausted, I dropped my head into the crook of Frank’s neck, my hands remaining on the couch to ensure his shoulder was out of harm’s way.
His large palm cupped my head as he tried to catch his breath.
“I know Christmas isn’t until the day after tomorrow, but Merry Christmas,” I purred. “Now we’re even.”
“That was the best present I’ve ever gotten.” Still inside me, he continued to stroke my hair in his strange, almost fatherly manner.
“I’m flattered.” I giggled.
“You should be, doll. Making a man full of meds orgasm is very difficult.”
“Mission accomplished.”
He laughed, then I did too. There was something incredibly tender about this absolutely dirty moment. I didn’t want it to ever end.
Later, when we finally summoned enough strength to get up from the couch, I ran a bath. We sat in a tub full of bubbles, the remnants of our sexual adventure washed away. The water level was low to ensure Frank’s stitches didn’t get wet. His skin around the scarring was bruised and discolored and he seemed tense at first—my gaze on his damaged nakedness terrified him. I wasn’t sure if it was his cuts and marks that he didn’t want me to look at or something else. Something he’d hidden from everyone for so long, he’d forgotten he had it, and I was going to find it first.
“I don’t see any scars when I look at you,” I said, running a washcloth over his other shoulder. The elegant curve of his muscles made me want to lick him clean.
“What do you see?” He stared at me somberly as I continued to tend to his body.
“Passion. Heart. Music.”
The intensity of his gunmetal gaze sent chills down my spine. I felt his fears. They were dark and deep.
“Scars don’t take anything away from you, Frank. They give you what you may have not had before them. Strength.”
A small smile touched his lips.
“You have this ability to turn shit to gold with words.”
“That’s what everyone tells me.”
He snapped his index finger and sent a splash of soapy water my way.
My washcloth dropped into the tub. “That’s totally not fair.” I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. “I can’t even get you back for another month.”
His expression turned serious. “Remember when I told you the night we met that I don’t believe in coincidences?”
“Yes. Why do you think we aren’t a coincidence?”
He dropped his gaze to the blanket of bubbles and gathered some in his palm. “Meeting people is part of my job. Some days, I meet hundreds, some days, I meet thousands. It’s overwhelming. You begin to spread your spirit thin. At first, I tried to remember the names of those who I came across often so that I wouldn’t be that dude who doesn’t even know the people who support his music and his cause. But after a while, every face started looking the same. They all blurred. One meeting isn’t enough for me anymore. So I talk to a person, then I move on. I turn it off. I have to. Because if I don’t, I’ll go crazy. I’ll keep the other person’s emotions in me until there’s no room left for my own. It’s a terrifying feeling when you’re so susceptive to everything that’s going on around you. It weighs on
