And she falls apart around me, her head falling back, lips parting on a silent cry as she explodes around me with astonishing force. I nearly grind my teeth to dust, holding back as I ride out her throbbing orgasm.
But I don’t stop, and I refuse to slow down until she’s utterly spent and limp beneath me.
Only when she collapses onto the mattress in a puddle do I pull out.
And I come so hard, I paint her full, perfect breasts with my cum.
“Christ, Aisling,” I rasp, chest heaving as it feels like my heart might burst.
The warm laughter that bubbles from her is enough to melt me completely, and I can’t help but join her, even as I rake in ragged breaths. Dropping forward onto one palm, I reach up to unbuckle my belt, releasing her.
Then I rise from the bed to get a washcloth and clean her up.
She lets me, watching with vibrant azure eyes as I run the damp cloth over her milky, angel-kissed skin.
But instead of letting me pull her back into my arms when I climb beneath the sheets with her, Aisling turns, wrapping her long, bare legs around my waist and pulling me back on top of her.
“Just kiss me,” she murmurs, her voice so soft and inviting, I can’t refuse her.
Our lips meet, soft and disarmingly sweet as she sets the pace this time.
And it doesn’t matter that I just came harder than I’ve ever come in my life.
I still want her.
Everything about Aisling hammers at my defenses, unraveling me stitch by stitch until I’m certain I’m going to lose myself completely.
I want her so badly it makes my bones ache. I want her body, mind, and soul.
And now that I’m not driven with desire, owned by temptation and lust, the familiar sense of conflict, the deep, unsettling confusion starts to ebb in once again.
I don’t know how to do this right.
That thought keeps circling as Aisling curves beneath me, warm and responsive, her breath hitching every time my mouth finds a place that makes her gasp.
I know how to take her apart.
That knowledge is etched into muscle memory, into instincts I never truly lost.
But knowing how to touch her isn’t the same thing as knowing how to move on.
Genevieve’s face flickers through my mind, not sharp or accusing, just soft.
The way she used to smile at me when I overthought everything.
The way she’d cup my face and tell me I was allowed to live my own life.
Sandro’s words echo too, low and blunt and delivered like truth. Genevieve wouldn’t want me to be miserable forever.
He’s right.
I know he is.
Genevieve was too kind for that, too full of warmth and laughter to ever wish this emptiness on me.
She loved me, and loving her taught me how precious joy is. How fleeting.
Still, guilt coils tightly in my chest, even as desire burns hot and undeniable.