I keep cursing under my breath, trying hard not to explode inside of her at any moment, but feeling right on the edge of oblivion.
I spin her around onto her stomach and thrust back into her. The view is glorious. Her thick black hair spread out on one side, her face pressed to the pillow, eyes shut, lips parting between moans. Her hands on either side of her, fingers clutching the sheet for dear life. And the smooth, gorgeous skin of her back yielding to her incredible ass, perked up against me.
"Fuck. You should see how amazing this looks. You're a fucking wet dream."
My fingers bury into the skin of her hips as I anchor down and go even harder. I can see exactly how our bodies come together from this angle. I can see how wet my cock is right before I slam back into her.
She makes desperate whimpering noises coupled with whispers of encouragements. At first, I can't hear what she's saying, but her whispers roar to a full-blown plea when I reach around and start rubbing her clit. She's saying, oh God, oh God, oh God.
Yeah, I feel like a god.
Chapter Forty-Five
Julia
THE LAST FEW DAYS HAVE consisted of long nights with Giles and longer days at work where I reminisce the entire time. We've had sex all over that house, risking Ava walking in and catching us. I would be lying if I said that didn't add to the excitement of it all. If it didn't feel extra good to have to drown my moans with his pillow because Ava might be just down the hall.
I'm generally in a great mood during the day. But every once in a while, Lex asks me, quite casually, how things are going and the spell breaks. I'm reminded that Giles and I have yet to really have the conversation to define what we're doing together.
It's strange and embarrassing, but I don't seem to care much about it at night. It's hard to care about anything when he makes me feel so damn good. But, as the days pass, I start to worry that he and I barely talk anymore. All we do is have sex. And though it's amazing and I enjoy every second of it, I worry it's eclipsing our real connection. He's always told me that our conversations were something he didn't have with anyone else. Our late night talks gave us something even our bodies can't offer up.
Tonight the thought weighs on me heavier than usual. It doesn't help that I agreed to pull a double and the day is the longest I've had in a very long time. When I leave work, I'm exhausted. And when I get home, Giles is already asleep. I slide into bed beside him, noticing that there's nothing serene about his sleeping face. His brows are knitted and his breathing is faster than usual. I wonder if he's having a nightmare, if I should wake him. But just as I start to consider this, his breathing slows, his expression softens, and he turns over in bed, oblivious to my presence.
The next morning, I wake up to the sight of him on his pillow, looking at me.
I rub my eyes. "Hey," I say, grinning.
"Hey." He smiles back and to anyone who didn't know him, he'd appear as carefree as ever. But I've been familiar with the nuances of his expression for a while now, and I instantly know there's something on his mind.
"Are you okay?"
He smiles again and says, "You read me like a book, don't you?"
I wouldn't say that. There's more than one chapter I can't seem to decipher.
His arm comes out of nowhere, pulling me closer.
"I'm going to see my mom on Friday," he says. "For the first time in a long time."
It's Wednesday.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I don't want to think. I just want to feel you."
He starts kissing my neck, a hand making its way down my lower stomach. I take his hand in mine to stop him and gently push him away.
"You don't have to talk about it, but I don't like to feel like you're using my body as a diversion."
My stomach sinks at the way he shuts his eyes, but I hold my ground. I bring my hand up to cup the side of his face, my thumb caressing his cheekbone. "Whatever it is you're going through with your mom, you're cheapening what you feel by trying to distract yourself from it."
He shakes his head, his palm stroking his chest like there's something there he's trying to smooth out. "You're right."
I lower my hand to my side and we fall silent, simply breathing. He's looking down at the sheets like his thoughts are projected there.
"I didn't just lose my dad," he says suddenly. "I lost my mom, too. Something in her broke, like the way something in him broke at war. Last year, on the one year anniversary, she tried to kill herself, too."
Something pulls at my heart from either side, threatening to rip it in half. I shut my eyes for a few seconds.
"You never told me that part."
"It's been the hardest to think about. With my dad, I guess you could say he had no way of knowing how bad it would affect us. But my mom? She was there, she knew. She saw what it did to me. I saw what it did to her. The fact that she'd go on to do that...it was like she didn't care she would be leaving me without any family." His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, hard. "I haven't been able to forgive her for that. So, seeing her again? It's not something I really want to do."
I lie still, watching him speak. Depression, PTSD...mental health, in general--I understand these things very well. I study them. I understand the effects they have on a person. But listening to Giles tell me his experience? It makes me think I don't know anything at all. Because words fail me for several long moments.
Finally, I say, "You have to realize it wasn't a choice."
He's still not looking at me. I don't think he can.
"What do you mean?"
"This is how I understand it...your dad was sick, Giles. He didn't choose to leave you. Just like someone with a tumor doesn't choose to let it kill them. The same with your mom. Maybe hers was more of a situational depression, not being able to cope with your father's death, but it's the same thing--she was sick. Just remember that, maybe it will help."
"What does that say about me, though? Both my parents tried to kill themselves. One of them succeeded."
There's an almost embarrassing tinge to his words, like he secretly suspects he's the cause of it all. Like he's just voiced one of his deepest fears.
My response catches in my chest before I can speak. And it swells there, leaving me struggling to take in a breath. I get it now, why it's so hard for him to talk about this. In his mind, the people he loved abandoned him and he's somehow to blame for everything.
"It doesn't say anything about you," I finally say. "You're not them. You didn't go to war and suffer from PTSD. You didn't lose your husband and spiral into depression."
"But maybe I'm fucked up in some other way."
"Maybe you are. Maybe I am, too. Maybe we're all fucked up in our own, special snowflake sort of way. But it's a dark road to focus on what makes us broken. We should focus more on being kind and patient with ourselves and forgiving others for the things they never thought to apologize for."
His gaze swings to mine and I get whiplash from its intensity. For a second there, his eyes narrow and I swear I see something settle into place inside of them.