All that matters is him and me. Because that’s all there is.
He lifts me up and puts me back down on the bed. He stands over me, just watching.
“What?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Just you,” he says. “Ty?”
“Mmm?”
“This.”
“This?”
“Us.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s good, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s good.”
“Solid.”
“As a rock.”
“Better.”
“Than what?”
“I thought it could be.”
“Took us a while.”
He chuckles. “You could say that.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“Nothing worth having ever is.”
I smile. “That’s pretty damn cheesy.” I reach for him. He lets me pull him down. “Lucky for you it worked.”
He laughs as he lies atop me, and I can feel it rolling through him as he stretches out and covers me completely. The weight of him is crazy and wonderful, and I can’t catch my breath, but, God, do I breathe as hard as I can.
It’s the breath I take when his nose bumps mine.
It’s the breath I take when his tongue touches mine.
It’s the breath I take when he grunts in my ear and I hear him whisper, “Oh, Ty. Oh. Oh.”
It’s the breath I take when he swallows me down and my hands are in his hair.
It’s the breath I take that allows me to cry out when he pushes into me, and it’s the breath that leaves me when the stars explode all around me.
It’s the breath I take when I release. He follows me soon after.
It’s our breaths that mingle when he kisses me long and deep.
It’s in all these breaths. Him and me. It’s inevitable, of course.