Chapter 19: As the Morn So at Night
The soft drone of the television was a lulling hum. Hannah’s eyes were heavy-lidded, watching the colors shift on the screen without registering the images. Matt’s warmth had left the couch, and the cool space beside her felt too vast. She heard him in the kitchen, the clatter of a pan, the tap running.
The domestic sounds should have been soothing. Instead, they felt like a distraction. The memory of his mouth on hers, the deliberate pressure of her kiss, still buzzed on her lips, in her veins. It hadn’t been a period at the end of the day’s sentence. It felt like an ellipsis, hanging, demanding more.
She pushed the afghan aside. The apartment air was cool on her bare legs. She padded quietly across the rug, her socks making no sound.
He was at the stove, his back to her, shoulders broad under the thin cotton of his henley. He was shaking a pan, something sizzling softly. The light from the range hood carved his silhouette in gold.
She didn’t speak. She moved behind him, pressed the length of her body against his back, and slid her arms around his waist. She felt him go still. Then he relaxed, leaning back into her, his head tilting to rest against hers.
“Changed your mind about being hungry?” he asked, his voice a low vibration.
“I’m hungry for something else,” she murmured into the fabric between his shoulder blades.
He turned the burner off. The sizzle died into a silent, anticipatory heat. He turned in the circle of her arms. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs tracing the arches of her brows. His eyes were dark, searching. “Yeah?”
In answer, she took his hand and led him back to the living room. Not to the bedroom. Not yet. She stopped in front of the couch and turned to face him. The flickering TV light played over his features. She reached for the hem of his shirt, tugged it up. He raised his arms, let her pull it off. The sight of his chest, familiar and beloved, never failed to catch her breath.
“My turn,” he said, his voice rough. His fingers found the hem of her sweater, drawing it up and over her head in one smooth motion. The air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps. He traced the line of her collarbone with a single, reverent fingertip.
She pushed him, gently, until his legs hit the couch and he sat down, looking up at her with a mixture of awe and raw want. She climbed into his lap, straddling him, her knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. Their faces were level. She could feel the hard heat of him through their remaining clothes, a thrilling promise.
She brushed her nose against his. “I need you,” she whispered, the words stark and simple. “Not later. Now.”
A groan escaped him, part surrender, part agreement. His hands landed on her hips, fingers pressing into the soft give of her flesh through the leggings. He guided her into a slow, grinding roll against him. The friction was exquisite, maddening through the layers. She gasped, her forehead falling to his shoulder.
“These were a good choice,” he muttered, his lips against her ear, his voice thick with intent. His hands slid down to grip the backs of her thighs, squeezing. “A really, really good choice.”
She laughed, a breathless, shaky sound, and captured his mouth again. This kiss was not slow. It was hungry, open-mouthed, a direct conduit for the building pressure between them. She could taste the echo of their earlier kiss, now overlaid with a new, driving urgency. Her hands were in his hair, pulling just enough to tilt his head back so she could deepen the angle.
His hands moved up under her shirt, his palms scalding against the skin of her back. He found the clasp of her bra, fumbled for a second, then released it. She shrugged the straps off, breaking the kiss only long enough to pull the garment away and toss it aside. His gaze dropped, his breath catching. He didn’t speak. He just looked, his expression so openly desirous it made her muscles clench.
She leaned back into his touch as his hands cupped her, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, first lightly, then with a firm, circling pressure that made her back arch. A sharp, needy sound tore from her throat.
“Bedroom,” he managed to say, his voice cracking.
“Yes.”
He stood with her still wrapped around him, her legs locking at his waist. He carried her the short distance, shouldering the door open, not breaking their feverish kiss. He laid her down in the center of the rumpled sheets, coming down over her, bracing his weight on his forearms.
For a moment, they just looked at each other in the dim light from the hallway. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slick from hers.
“I love you,” he said. It wasn’t a sweet punctuation. It was a fact, ground out from a place of deep, overwhelming feeling.
“I love you,” she breathed back, her hands coming up to cup his face. “Show me.”
He did.
He kissed a trail down her throat, over her sternum, taking his time until she was writhing beneath him, her fingers tangled in the sheets. He peeled her leggings and underwear down her legs with a slowness that was its own form of torture. He shed his own jeans, and then skin met skin, a shocking, perfect slide of heat.
He entered her in one slow, inexorable push that made them both cry out. She wrapped her legs high around his back, pulling him deeper, anchoring them together. There was no tentative exploration, no gentle warm-up. The day of laughter and walking and quiet understanding had built this. It was a convergence, a necessary collision.
His rhythm was relentless, a deep, driving pace that she met thrust for thrust. The headboard knocked a steady, urgent beat against the wall. She clutched at his shoulders, his back, mapping the flex and play of muscle with her palms. Sweat glued her skin to his.
She was close, teetering on a shimmering edge. He felt it, shifting his angle slightly, the change hitting a spot that made her vision whiten at the edges. “Matt,” she choked out, a warning, a plea.
“Look at me,” he grunted, his own control fraying.
She forced her eyes open, locked onto his. In his gaze, she saw the carriage ride, the awful dog figurine on the shelf, the quiet fear of the weeks apart, and the fierce, consolidating joy of their day. It was all there, reflected back at her. That was what undid her.
Her climax crashed through her in long, pulsing waves, pulling a ragged sob from her lungs. He followed her over, his body shuddering, his face buried in the curve of her neck as he uttered her name, a broken, sacred sound against her skin.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their struggling breaths syncing, slowing. The room came back in pieces: the feel of the damp sheets, the smell of their sweat, the distant, mute glow of the TV in the other room.
He shifted his weight, rolling to his side and pulling her with him, keeping them connected. He brushed the sweat-damp hair from her forehead.
“Okay?” he whispered.
A laugh, weak but genuine, hiccupped out of her. “Better than okay.” She traced the line of his jaw. “That was… proof of a different kind.”
He smiled, a slow, tired, utterly sated smile. “The best kind.”
Eventually, they untangled. The air cooled their heated skin, prompting a shared shiver. “Shower,” she said, though the thought of moving seemed Herculean.
He stood, a magnificent silhouette in the dark, and held out a hand. “C’mon.”
The bathroom was small, steam quickly fogging the mirror and the glass door. They stood under the spray, letting the hot water sluice away the evidence of their passion. It was tender now, slow. He washed her back, his soap-slick hands gentle on her spine. She rinsed his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp until he hummed with contentment.
They dried each other with soft, worn towels, a quiet ritual of care. Naked and clean, they fell back into bed, the sheets cool now against their skin. He pulled the comforter over them and she immediately turned, fitting her back against his front, his arm curling around her, his hand splayed possessively over her stomach.
Sleep pulled at her, heavy and immediate. In its soft grasp, she felt his lips press once, softly, to the junction of her neck and shoulder.
“The pictures were good,” he mumbled, his voice thick with impending sleep. “But this is better.”
She couldn’t form words. She just pressed her hand over his, lacing their fingers together against her skin, and let the steady beat of his heart against her back carry her under. The apartment was silent, holding them in the warm, shared dark. The proof of the day was everywhere: in their full stomachs, their tired limbs, their tender skin, and in this deep, synchronized breath as they slept. It was more than enough. It was everything.