Maine Pt. 02

My head connects with the doorframe on my way down. But before I can hit the floor, arms - strong arms - catch me.

"Whoa..." he says. I can hear the surprise in his voice. With his arms wrapped around me, he slowly walks me back into the cabin, over to the couch. I'm too stunned to argue, so I let him lead me.

"Hang on a sec," he says once I'm sitting down. He hustles back to close the door, shutting out the frigid wind that's already whipping through the trees.

He latches the door and turns back to me. Not a word, not a sound. He just stands there. Looking at me. Looking. Something is battling behind his eyes, but it's been too long, I can't read what it is. I can't read him anymore. Not like I could. Before.

Carefully, slowly, I stand from the couch and head to the kitchen to offer him something to drink. I need a distraction. I need something to do. I need him to stop looking at me. I can't think when he looks at me.

"Can I get you a glass of water?" I ask, over my shoulder, without facing him. "I'd offer you coffee, but I think I already know the answer to that one." My hands tremble as I fill the glass, spilling water over the edge.

I'm so focused on filling this damn glass with water that I don't hear his footsteps. I don't hear him cross the distance from the door to where I stand at the sink. It's not until he's directly behind me that I even register he's moved.

"Jennifer," he whispers. Right behind me. So close I can feel the heat of his breath on my ear. So close I can feel the heat of him. A chill runs straight to my core.

My hands shake even harder now, and I drop the glass in the sink. He grabs my elbow and turns me around to face him. Mere inches separate us, after more than a year and more than 1,500 miles, just a few inches separate us.

"Jennifer," he whispers again. I can't speak. I have no words, no breath. All I can do is look in his eyes, drown in them. The eyes I've looked into countless times. Eyes that have shown me deep love, pure happiness, intense anger, raw desire, and painful sadness. I've found everything in those eyes, including what I once thought was home. But now? I'm not sure what I see. And I'm not sure what I'm looking for.

I open my mouth to speak, to say something to him but his lips silence me. He kisses me softly, tentatively, his hand still holding my elbow.

It's too much. My mind is racing, my heart is racing, and I can't get my bearings. I pull away and turn back to the sink, white-knuckle grip on the edge. With eyes closed I try to slow my breathing, to get ahold of myself.

Sixteen months. Nearly 500 days. Not a word. Nothing. And now he's right here. He's right here. Right. Here.

With trembling hands, I pick up the glass and ask again. "So, glass of water then?" I try to sound light, unaffected, but even I can hear the tremor in my voice.

He hasn't moved. I can still feel him behind me. So close. And that scent. Goddamn it, that scent. How can anyone smell so unbelievably good? How can a smell be such an unbelievable turn-on? It's an unfair advantage and I feel my resolve crumbling.

The glass now full, I hold it, waiting for him to respond, to take it. I take a deep breath, waiting.

"Put the glass down." It's so quiet and so low, his breath right on my ear.

Water sloshes over the edges. Who am I kidding here?

He moves closer, his lips right against my ear. I gasp at the sensation. "Put. The. Glass. Down."

He doesn't move back after he speaks and his warm breath is brushing against my ear, my neck. If it's even possible, he moves closer to me, his front pressed along my back. My curves fitting perfectly against him like they always did.

With eyes still closed, unbelieving, I press back against him. I hear his breath catch as we come into deeper contact in all the right places. His hands come up to grab my hips, holding me tight against him.

My trembling breath is replaced by haggard breathing. Desire ripping through my body, surging deep within me. He moves his hips slowly against me, showing me what he wants. I sigh and drop my head back against his shoulder, soaking in the touch I've been dreaming of.

His hands move up my arms, a whisper touch, tracing up to my shoulders. A light touch, but a powerful effect.

Back the direction they came, his fingers glide back down my arms. Fingers lacing as the glass falls again. Goosebumps line the path.

I close my eyes tight, soaking in every sensation. Trying to silence the racing questions.

He unlaces his fingers, but stays pressed against me, his lips dropping to my neck, his hands to my hips. I sigh at the touch and he responds by pressing and kissing harder.

Fuck.

I'm lost.

There are no questions now. None that can't wait until later. There is only a burning need that cannot wait, that will not wait. That has aready waited long enough.

I reach my arms up and grab his neck, pulling him into me. Fingers threading through his hair. Just long enough for a good grip - exactly how I like it.

His hips are moving now, grinding against me, and I feel him hard between us. Thinking about his hard cock, picturing it between my lips turns me on even more, and I try to turn around. He senses what I'm doing, but stops me. He keeps me pinned against the sink, but drops his hands from my hips. I whimper, missing the touch already, yearning to turn and take him.

Then I hear it.

The belt. Metal clinking against metal, leather sliding across denim, a zipper pulled down. The muffled drop of jeans on a kitchen floor. Jesus.

Oh, God. He's so much closer now. I feel him against me. Hard. Hot. I squirm desparately, trying to turn. I have to turn around. He has to let me. I need to get him in my mouth.

He chuckles lightly in my ear. "Mmmm, I know what you want."

I whimper. Yes, yes you do.

"Not yet," he answers.

Before I can argue, he snakes his hands up my front, cupping my breasts. It takes my breath away. His thumbs flick across my already hard nipples, but there's too much fabric between us. There's too much fabric everywhere.

Reading my mind, he reaches back and unclasps my bra, letting it hang loose off my shoulders, under my shirt. When he reaches around front again, the intensity of the touch slays me. I can feel the wetness between my legs already, and he hasn't even touched me. Yet.

As if thinking the same thing, he snakes his hands down my stomach, to my waistband, down. Down.

Jesus.

Yes.

A thousand times yes.