Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8

something that he'll regret. It was a mistake, now we face each other across the intimate expanse of sheets, half-dressed like this is actually leading somewhere.
    "Why are you here?" I gasp, my breath heavy in the silence that bridges the gap between us.
    "For you."
    My knees buckle and I sit heavily, the soft duvet pillowing my fall. I angle my body, turning my back to him, my chin resting on my chest, one leg bouncing uncontrollably. I never knew Paulie could be so cruel.
    "Jack, please, look at me." He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body even though our skin doesn't touch.
    My fingers knot in the bedding, knuckles white. I clench my fists so tight that my hands shake. I don't look at him. I can't.
    "Jackie…" His fingers hover tentatively above my arm.
    I tip my head to look at him over my shoulder. "What do you mean?" I ask. All I can hear are those two words whispering around my head, opening a floodgate of longing. For you. For you. "Why aren't you with your fiancé ?" I force the word out, my eyes squeezing shut.
    I open them in time to see him wince. My gaze drops to his hands: naked fingers splayed across trim thighs. "He's not my fiancé."
    Okay, that gets my attention. I turn around to face him. He must be able to read everything I'm thinking straight off my face, every needy, desperate, wishful thought. My eyes ask the questions for me.
    "I never stopped loving you," he confesses quietly, vulnerability shining in his own wet eyes as he looks at me.
    "But, Curt…"
    "I don't love Curt. I could never marry him. It was you, Jack, it was always you."
    A cry lodges in my throat.
    He leans forward, his body curled towards me, lips bare inches from my chest. My hand reaches out of its own volition and hovers, wanting to cup his face. To soothe away the fear and the vulnerability etched across his features. I closed my eyes as my fingertips brush his skin, rubbing over satiny flesh and sharp stubble. For so long I've dreamed of his touch, how his hands would feel on my skin, how his lips would feel on mine. I never dared believe that it was actually possible.
    And yet here I am. With him . I can't bring myself to open my eyes, fearful I'll find it's all just another fantasy.
    "Please," he whispers.
    This is definitely not a dream.
    I brush my thumb across his parted lips, his hot breath scorching a ragged mark, his open mouth an invitation that I can't ignore. I bow my head, studying his face though my lashes. A small moan escapes him as I touch my lips to the delicate skin stretched taut across his high cheekbones. He tilts his head and I slant my mouth over his, claiming him in a hot, desperate kiss.
    He opens for me instantly, crushing his body against mine, nestled under my arm, so pliant, so docile, so perfect that I want to die as pure emotion sweeps through me like a force of nature, obliterating everything but the touch and taste of him. A wanting, longing moan rolls in our mouths as we kiss, a sound that could have come from either of us, and we drink it down in equal measure, a part of us both, something denied for far too long.
    Kissing Paul is like being kissed for the very first time. The memory of our other kisses– brief, tentative explorations– burns away in the searing heat of his mouth. Our tongues touch and sparks run through me, electric, lighting every nerve like sizzling tapers. The soft, moist heat of his mouth; the gentle curve of the back of his skull as I cradle it; the short scrubbing brush spikes of his hair sliding through my fingers: he overwhelms me, his scent and touch and taste and dear God, this is only our first kiss.
    I draw him back to gaze at his flushed cheeks and bruised lips, heavy lids hanging low over sultry bronze eyes, pupils blown. His chest rises and falls in shallow staccato movements and I drop my hand from his face to let my fingers drift over the hard swell of his pecs and the concave hollow in between.
    He inhales sharply as I find one tight pink nipple and brush my thumb across it, the small nub instantly hardening, a tiny peak of desire. I kiss his neck, languorously nuzzling and licking the delicate tendons, the strong muscles, the paper-thin skin behind his ear, while my hand continues to explore every inch of his firm chest and flat stomach.
    A shiver runs through him as my nails scrape against the tight denim encasing his slim thighs and I pause, realising that he must be freezing in the sodden material. I