Yet, he returns…again and again, to the warmth of your arms and the smoothness of your thighs and the comfort in your bed.
The brush of his fingers on your skin causes the hair on your nape to stand on end, and you ask him, teasingly, if he’s a sorcerer—sent to claim your magic. He smiles, right before he kisses you, his tongue weaving a spell as it tastes your mouth, your jaw, your neck. It laps at your skin, soaking up your essence, and you shiver as the night air follows the path he makes.
“Howard.” The name falls from your lips in a groan so low it sounds like you’re growling.
“Mina.” He whispers it against your ear, like angels singing.
And when he slides against you, slipping into the wet heat of your body, you hold onto him and try not to cry.
**~~**
In the pale light of dawn, before he slips away from you to return to the glittery world of POP STAR—which you always think of in capital letters and little pinpoints of light placed strategically to highlight his fame—you brush your hand down his back, over the smooth curve of his ass, and think of how he reminds you of the ocean.
It called to you when you were a child—the rolling waves, the deep silence, the incredible life that existed within it. Now, he calls you—the smooth roll of his hips against yours; the deep light of unknown pleasure that shines in those warm, chocolate eyes; the incredible heart that thrums beneath your palm as you hold him close after he comes.
In those moments—-when worlds are not separated by flashing lights and ocean currents and screams and the magnetic pull of the moon—you stop wondering why he is there and just let love flow.
Table of Contents
Moon Dance