She gasps then moans, and I do the same.
She’s here. She’s home.
“Please tell me you’re here to stay,” I say to her, my lips finding hers again as I slowly thrust in and out.
“I’m here to learn,” she says softly, her hands gripping my shoulders, my hair. “Not just at school . . .” She breaks off and gasps as my fingers slide around her. “I’m here to learn from you. About art, about love, about everything. I’m not going anywhere.” She looks me in the eye. “You’ve got me.”
She then punctuates those beautiful words by moaning softly, her head thrown back as we sink into the feel of our love for each other. It is so, so impossibly good.
As we move as one, slow then fast and frantic, she gets paint on me, staining my skin, my clothes. We make love in the art room like lovers reunited after war. It gets messy.
But life is messy.
And life is good.