His kisses are softer now, his words nothing more than a whisper. “If this isn’t what you want, tell me no right now. Or I’ll just keep going.”
There isn’t a single moment of hesitation before I say, “Keep going.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - PELL
I want to do things to this girl.
So many things.
But not like this. Not in ancient Rome. Not as a man, either. Because while I don’t mind being this guy, this isn’t me.
If I were stronger, I’d make her wait. I’d pull her into another room, take my chances, and make her wait for a better—more real—version of who I am.
But I’m not feeling particularly strong in this moment. In fact, my desire for her body far outweighs my desire for her to want the real me instead of this poor substitute.
I don’t want to be in this room either. I don’t want to be at this party. It’s affecting her. Of course it’s affecting her. How could it not? I knew what would happen the moment we stepped through the door. That’s the whole purpose of these parties. If you’re here, you participate. You do things. Things you normally wouldn’t. This is why the ancient Roman men allowed their wives to attend. It was a win-win all the way around.
But Pie isn’t my wife. And our relationship is already lopsided enough. She doesn’t need this kind of added pressure.
I should be strong. I should be the one saying no.
But she’s already said yes, so even this small bit of hesitation on my part is dangerous. She’s starting to think… Did he change his mind? Will he tell me no? Should I have been the one to tell him no?
And that’s not good for anyone. Because that line of thinking comes with shame.
She’s just about to ask me what’s wrong, but I don’t give her the chance. I wipe all her doubts away when I reach down with one hand and open up her legs.
She moans into my mouth as I kiss her, becoming soft and pliant, willing and eager.
I pull back from the kiss but immediately lean down into her ear and whisper, “We’re not here.”
She giggles a little. “We’re not?”
“No. We’re not here. We’re somewhere else.”
“Where are we then?”
“In a wood. In a summer wood. With water nearby. We know this, Pie, because we can hear the slow stream trickling over the rocks.” I pause here to let her use the sound of the fountains as her trigger to another world. “There is no bad singing in this wood. No off-key music. No smelly animals and no sticky honey.”
“Mmm. I kinda like the honey.”
“No honey. It’s just you, and me, and the forest. Because that’s where I belong. And this is where I want us to be right now.”
She lets out a breath. Not a sigh, though. Not something tired or exasperated. It’s a breath of… OK. It’s a breath of giving in. And in that same moment, I push inside her. She gasps and I know it hurts. But I don’t say anything. She could tell me to stop if she wanted, and she doesn’t. And anyway, I go slow for her. It’s not rushed and hurried, like the sex going on all around us in the palace room. It’s not primal and hedonistic, either.
It’s easy.
So easy, and gentle, and quiet. Just the sound of the birds. Not the screaming ones from the party. Not the frantic song of caged things. But the lazy, content chirping of freedom.
Her hips rise up to meet mine, letting me know she’s good now and I can continue. I keep it slow, gently pulling back and pushing inside her again. She bites my shoulder and I love that. I fucking love that. Because biting is something I like to do as well.
I continue the slow pace for a little bit longer, but it doesn’t take much long for her to catch on and begin to subtly ask me to go faster with her body language. She moves her hips with mine. Bucks her back. Digs her nails into my shoulders and back. And when we kiss, it’s not frantic—because that would ruin the illusion—but it’s definitely more passionate than erotic.
I push her knees up higher, gaining a little more access, and when I ease myself fully inside her, she gasps and goes still.
“You OK?” I want her to enjoy this. I don’t want to hurt her.
“Yeah.” Her single word is a soft moan. “Better than OK.”
We both relax and our rhythm smooths out and becomes more natural. And as this new intimacy builds, so does my desire. The slow, even pace becomes something more than sex and I realize that I’ve missed this feeling. I’ve been missing this connection for thousands of years.
I picture her with me forever. I could make it happen. It would not even be hard. She’s stuck with me. I could keep her forever.