Chapter 139: Marry Me * (1/2)

[Warning: Explicit sexual content up ahead. Read at your own risk.]

I felt three fingers enter me, working me softly and bringing me to the precipice. His mouth latched onto me and I dug my hand in his hair, thrusting my hips up to meet his greedy, hungry lips.

I swore and paused abruptly, my hands flying to my mouth to stop the string of explicit words to hurl out. Working at the station had made me swear a little more, but I never really said anything in front of Sebastian.

”Hands off your mouth,” he ordered. I widened my eyes and did as he said. He answered with a brand of his own, curling his fingers and lapping at the flesh.

I fell hard and fast, leaving the world behind to bliss. He rode me out for several moments, patiently waiting for me to return. I unscrewed my eyes and looked into his eyes.

They twinkled with delight as if my pleasure added to his own. Another thing to love about this man, I thought.

He watched me, a grin that held secrets and dreams, and I gave him my own smirk.

Adamant to give back, instantly, I scramble to sit up and push him back. I climbed onto his lap, my shirt was forgotten behind me along with my denim. I started on his mouth, returning his passion and authority he had shown me.

The thing about our relationship was that it was changing. It morphed into anything we pleased. He could push me to the brink of insanity and fight me to get better, take control and make me submit. Or, I could make him wait patiently as he lavished me with attention, bringing me to slow realizations repeatedly. In subtle glances at work and passionate banter at home, our love was true, full of the promise of stolen moments to come, of chaste kisses that spoke of his devotion.

He gave me butterflies any time he touched me.

Whatever form of love we showed, it was ours—good or bad, gentle or extreme. It was ours. It's what kept us tethered together.

And suddenly, I knew I was going to lose it.

I didn't know I was crying until I felt Sebastian's hands on the side of my face, gently pushing me back so he could see my eyes. I tried to hide it from him.

What a moment to break down.

Yet I didn't have to tell him why there were tears falling down my flushed cheeks, or why my heady movements turned reverent. I didn't know what the future held for us. Despite his constant reassurances, I didn't know.

Everything that had happened, the things that plagued us would catch up to us, and we might not be the same forever.

My first love, the first person I had let protect my life… the prospect of losing it all… the prospect of utter devastation.

”Marry me,” he whispered, his lips at the shell of my ear. The words stabbed into my ear, raw and fierce.

”I can't,” I cried, wishing the rejection away with all my being. He knew this answer. I had told him before. We had spoken about this.

He pushed my head back, leveling me with that defiant, completely heart-wrenchingly beautiful gaze. ”Marry me.”

”Sebastian.” His name was spoken like a homage, a whispered prayer to the heavens. It hurt me to deny him. God, I wished I was ready to marry. Was I?

He kissed me on my lips, keeping my countless excuses and objections inside for the moment. He lay down onto the blanket, cradling me in his arms. The hurried abrasiveness from before melted away to passion and the need to just feel.

His lips brought my skin alight, his hands kept my heart fluttering. I felt him enter me with a slow stroke and I flinched.

I bit back the movement and waited for him to resume. It felt like the longest time had passed until he started to move.

Finally, he moved. The depth of his movements as he pushed into me triggered the heat within to build. He was the instrument by which my blood moved, my heart beat faster. Science said that I could survive without him, but science also knew that I would rot from inside if he wasn't by my side.

My back arched and I could feel him go deeper than before. It was new. But not enough. It felt like I just couldn't get close enough.

His lips were on my chest, his breathing becoming disjoint. ”Marry me, please.”

Marry me…

He would ask again and again until I said yes. He would say it when I was cooking in the kitchen, or going to bed, or getting on a flight to the opposite side of the world. Even when I was older and teaching students myself… he would ask.

Maybe, when we were apart or on the phone when my tears would flow because my heart hurt and he wasn't there… I would regret not saying yes.

No. Not maybe. It would hurt.

I was appropriately dressed for this outing. He had chosen the setting that would suit my clothes the best. Nothing that would require me to wear heels or uncomfortable clothes. Nothing that would require me to style my hair or put on makeup. He had asked me to marry him in the bare, only flesh and skin and my natural self.

I could be like others and scoff at his proposal off as him being taken over by passion. But I knew him better. He had planned this meticulously. This was not a stir of the moment confession.