Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 164828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“I missed you,” she whispers.
Relief floods me. “I missed you, too… more than you know.”
We arrive home, and I put my hands over her eyes as we walk through the front door.
“I have a surprise for you.”
“What is it?”
I walk her into the living room and stand her in front of the wall and I take my hands away from her eyes. Her mouth falls open as she stares at the huge painting hanging on the wall.
While she was away, I had a photo of us on our first night in Majorca commissioned to be painted in a semi-abstract way. It was copied from a photo of her and me facing each other. We are holding hands and staring at each other dreamily on a bridge in front of the ocean. We look so deliriously happy. It was the night we went home and made love for the first time. I’d asked a stranger to take a photo of us, and this one was taken when we weren’t looking. Eliza loved the photo so much that she made it the background of her cell. I loved it so much that I made it the focus of our apartment.
Eliza stands still and stares at the huge painting on the wall.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
She nods, her eyes welling with tears. “It’s perfect.”
“What’s wrong?” I frown.
“Nothing. These are happy tears.” She takes me into her arms. “I love it. Thank you.”
We kiss as she holds me tight. She screws up her face against my chest, as if pained.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” I whisper, something is off with her.
“Nothing.” She smiles sadly and takes my hand in hers. “Come on, shower time.”
We walk into the bathroom and she lifts my shirt over my head as we kiss. I unfasten her dress and throw it aside. We stand in our underwear for a long time, kissing, drinking each other in. For the first time all week, I feel like I can breathe again.
“God, I missed you,” I murmur against her lips.
Her face creases and tears form again. An uneasy feeling washes over me. Something’s wrong, she’s never teary.
“What is it?” I frown.
“I’m just glad to be home. I’m over-emotional—hormones, probably.” She pulls me into the shower.
I pin her to the wall of the shower as my arousal escalates. We kiss like it’s our last kiss, and I lift her and she wraps her legs around me. Her soft, lush body pressed up against mine is the ultimate aphrodisiac. This is when we are at our best, when there is nothing between us. I grab the base of my cock and slide her down onto it. She moans, deep and loud as we stare into each other’s eyes.
I’ve missed her.
My need for friction takes over and I slowly begin to move her up and down on my body, her beautiful cunt rippling around me.
Milking me, making me hers.
She tips her head back and moans as she comes hard. I feel the vise-like grip on my cock, and I put my hands on the back of her shoulders for leverage and let her have it. The sound of our skin slapping in the water echoes throughout the bathroom.
Fuck, I love that sound.
I give her all the emotion I’ve suffered this week without her. I give her all of myself. Every inch.
I hold myself deep, and then I come, hard, deep inside her body. Her face creases as if she’s overcome with emotion before she drops her head to my chest. She clings to me and I hold her up, my heart racing. She’s panting, and I frown as I hold her. What’s going on here?
She’s different.
* * *
It’s late, and we’re in bed, on our sides, staring at each other.
We’ve made love for hours. We crossed over to a new level of intimacy.
It was soft and tender, intense and passionate, as if tonight is all we have.
Eliza is teary every time she comes, and I don’t know if it’s because the love we’re making is so special or if it’s something else, but she won’t tell me why. She keeps telling me that she’s just hormonal. I hope to God that that’s the truth.
Is she feeling guilty about something?
I want to push her for an answer but she seems so delicate and close to the edge.
The edge of what, I just don’t know.
She sits up and runs her fingers over my tattoo of the three swallows.
She kisses the first two—her and me—and then she runs her finger over the back one as she stares at it.
“Who is this bird?” she asks. I frown as our eyes lock. “Who is this bird at the back?” She traces it with her finger.
“It’s…” I pause as I search for the right description. “It’s… symbolic.”
“Of who?”
“I told you. Of the life I left behind.”