The Wrong Kind of Love

The words shoot pleasure through me as sure as his touch, and with it a heady sense of power. Because he’s wanted me as much as I’ve wanted him. Because this is good for him too.

He sweeps his lips down the side of my neck, and that hand at my hip slides under my knee. He draws up my leg and opens me wider. His long, slow strokes go deeper, and our moans echo off the walls, the sound of our pleasure tangling like our bodies.

“Just so beautiful,” he says against my neck, again and again. Every time, he sinks deeper, pressing into me and coiling the pleasure tighter and tighter.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Just like that, sweetness. Let me feel you come.”

Those words and the feel of his breath on my neck are my undoing. His urging hand grabs my ass as he finally thrusts hard and deep and fast. I arch under him, my whole body tensing against pleasure that is nearly too much, emotion filling my chest that I can’t deny. Then I come apart, squeezing around him as my body unravels.

He thrusts again, and pleasure rolls through me a second time, right on the heels of the last wave. I gasp and curl my nails into his shoulder blades as he repeats the motion over and over, drawing out my orgasm. His tenderness washes me away—my fear, my anxiety, and my insecurities gone in this moment in his arms. He kisses me hard, his whole body tense as he holds back.

“So beautiful. Like a fucking miracle in my arms.”

I love you, Ethan. I don’t say it. I keep the words locked in my chest where they can’t hurt us, and I give him my body instead. I grip his shoulders, arch my back, squeeze around him, and urge him to take his own release.

His strokes turn hard and fast and demanding, and when he shudders over me, I wait for the moment of loneliness that always comes at this part—when the man rolls away and disposes of the condom—but it doesn’t come, because Ethan doesn’t move off me. Not at first.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m good.”

He nuzzles the crook of my neck and trails kisses across my collarbone, and when he does climb off the bed, his eyes meet mine, and I don’t feel lonely at all.

Ethan

“Would you call this a great birthday or the best birthday ever?”

She laughs. “You don’t think much of yourself, do you?”

I lift my head and nip at her shoulder, then kiss the spot. We’re naked in her bed, a tangle of limbs as we stare at each other. The alarm clock says it’s after one, and I’d break the damn thing against the wall if it would slow down time. We’ve gone through three condoms, and just looking at her gets me hard all over again. Sometime between the second and third round, I turned on the bedside lamp, unsatisfied with my limited view of her body in the moonlight. It’s on still, casting a soft glow across the bed. She doesn’t seem any more interested in turning it off to sleep than I am, and I’m glad. I’m not ready for our stolen night to end.

“I kind of feel like it’s my birthday,” I whisper before planting another kiss on her soft lips. “You’re so fucking sweet.” I slide a hand down her body and cup her between her legs. “Are you sore?”

She shrugs. “A little. But I don’t mind.”

I pull my hand from between her legs before my dick decides we should start all over again. I find her hand, threading our fingers together. “Tell me about your mom.”

She blinks at me. “What? Why would you ask about her?”

I sweep her hair from her face. “She called you earlier. When we were in the kitchen? You were upset.”

“The woman who called is my mother but not much of a mom.” She searches my eyes, and I feel like she’s trying to decide if I understand what that means, so I nod, and she continues. “Mom was an addict. Is an addict. My sister and I grew up in and out of foster care. For the first few years, Mom would fight to get us back. She’d clean up and get her act together so she could bring her girls home. The courts would let her have custody again, but she’d never stay clean, and before long we were shipped off to another family. They always kept . . .” She meets my eyes again and slowly shakes her head. “They always kept me and my sister together. I was grateful for that, but where my natural inclination was to do whatever was necessary to make our new family want to keep us, my sister’s was to do whatever was necessary to push them away. She didn’t want a new family. She wanted Mom. I think, on some level, she thought if she was bad enough they wouldn’t bother taking us away anymore. Or maybe she was just angry that the world had dealt us a shit hand from the beginning.” She shrugs. “My mother never forgave me for trying to make the best out of our new families. Why couldn’t I be loyal like my sister? Why did I want them to take me away again?”