He looked dejected, his hair flopping into his eyes.
She put a finger up to brush it aside. Her fingertips touched his skin and her whole body shivered. The wine sloshed in its glass.
He took it from her and put it on the table, keeping a hold on her hand.
“You are speaking to me?”
“Of course. I’ve missed you so much?”
“Shh. Show me.”
His forehead connected with hers, then so did his lips, fever-hot and fervent. Kissing him was like sinking back into an exquisite dream of happiness, one that she had never expected to relive. Whatever had happened, whoever was at fault, there would never be anybody who could make her feel this way.
Holding on to him for dear life, she allowed the hope to grow inside her, the hope that everything could be as it had been on the Charles Bridge, when they’d faced their future together over the River Vltava. The greatest moment of her life, which had plunged so rapidly to the worst—could it be back within reach?
She lifted her top to allow him access, then let him lay her down on the threadbare sofa cushions, the pair of them still joined at the lips while he knelt above her, reacquainting himself with her body. She breathed in his familiar scent, although there was an extra element behind it, something a little bitter that she didn’t recognise. But it didn’t matter. His mouth was on hers, his tongue inside, his hands fluttering busily up and down her body, his knees wedging her in position, and she was hanging off his neck, wanting to crush him against her and keep him there. No more escapes, no more parting.
He lifted his lips from hers for a moment.
“You missed me? I missed you.”
“Of course I did, you idiot. I love you. You know that.”
He ran his thumb across her brow, his eyes no longer flat and lifeless but brimming with intensity.
“It can be good again, yes?”
“If you let it be.”
He nodded. “Then I think you must show me your bedroom.”
She showed him the bedroom, and she showed him much more. She bared her body to him, feeling like a virgin on her wedding night, that curious mix of coyness and excitement and a kind of pain at the pit of her stomac
h from feeling too much.
He had an extensive repertoire, but tonight he played the gentle lover, the man reconnecting with something lost. He explored her body as if it were new territory, marking each spot with reverent tenderness. He slid his fingers over her breasts and closed his lips around her nipples while she clasped him to her. But she wanted to be more than passive tonight. She wanted to let this damaged, beautiful man know how loved he was.
While he lay on his back, she feasted on him, sucking his nipples, nipping the hollow of his neck and shoulder, feeling where his flesh was most resistant and most pliant and using that knowledge to give him pleasure.
She cupped his sac, finding it heavy where it hung beneath his firm erection, and breathed on it gently, enjoying his little shivers of delight.
When the tip of her tongue alighted on the base of his shaft, he wove his fingers into her hair and gripped tight. Lydia felt his muscles tense, his lungs hold in his breath, while she licked little patterns along her lover’s upright cock.
Once she had enfolded him in her warm, wet mouth, he groaned with pleasure, massaging her scalp as she moved gently lower, trying to take as much of him as she possibly could.
If she could make him understand how much he was loved with her mouth, she would. Nobody, man or woman, would ever have given him a better blow job, she vowed. This was going to be a mind-blow job.
She tried to paint the words of love on him with her tongue—then she tried to communicate those same words with the force of her sucking, the tenderness of her touch. From the sighs and shivers that poured from him, she thought the message might be getting through.
“Ah, Lydia.” He sounded panic-stricken, then her mouth was filled with the reward she craved, the warm seed with its bitter aftertaste. More bitter than usual.
Did sadness affect a man’s semen? she wondered half deliriously, keeping his cock in her mouth until it was soft, reluctant to lose the physical connection with Milan.
He nudged her off in the end, pulling her up the bed to cradle her in his arms.
“You taste different,” she said.
“Do I? Is that bad?”