Текст книги "The Plan"
Автор книги: Qwen Salsbury
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
I cry out. My voice borders on a choke. He follows. Stills.
Blood pounding.
His.
Mine.
Ours.
Day of Employment:
383
5:43 a.m.
*
Location
: Next to him.
I AWAKE TO THE SOUND of my own huge intake of air and sit up bolt upright.
He stirs but stays asleep.
I haven’t stayed up late just talking in bed since Clara and I were in middle school.
I had asked him about Diana.
“I don’t have anything with her, and I never have.” He rolled onto his side to face me. “She’s been more than clear with her wishes, but so have I. She is a necessary—well, I hate to put it this way—necessary evil for this process. She can mess up everything. I have told her I’m not interested. But she remains determined…maybe even more so since I expressly turned her down. Until we sign, I’m just trying to keep the peace, keep her at arm’s length.”
“Bet you wish you had longer arms,” I said.
“And more of them. She’s grabby.” He smiled and reached out, almost touching me, then pulled his hand back and stuffed it under his pillow. “I don’t think I like this ‘no touching’ rule.”
“Well, it was your idea,” I reminded him. My hand tingled; it really was hard to be so close and not touch him.
He huffed and pulled the bedding higher around us. “It seemed to be the only concession that would get you to stay in bed with me.”
“You got me into your bed by offering to not touch me. Pretty sure that’s the opposite of how it’s usually done.”
Then he’d told me about himself. The stuff I couldn’t learn by watching him in a fishbowl.
His father raised him on his own after his mother had died. His father had asked him to be his best man when he had finally remarried last year.
“I’d rather not talk about my mother,” he said, folding his arm across his face. “I barely remember her. Only little pieces.”
I left it alone.
I could remember my mother, but there still wasn’t a lot to talk about. “My parents are okay. Just shuffled me back and forth after the divorce. Now they both have new families.” It didn’t really bother me to feel like an outsider around either of them. “But then, I don’t have anything to compare it to. This is it. Just me.”
It had been quiet for a while; I’d almost fallen asleep, when he spoke again. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”
Disoriented, I wondered if I had missed something. “Ask what?”
“Why I’m such an asshole.”
I blinked up at the ceiling. “Um, no. No, I’m not.”
He sat up on one arm, his face surprised. “Really?” He paused for a moment. “I thought that might be the first thing you would ask. I’ve been waiting.”
“You have no patience with distractions,” I offered. “I get it. Besides, you’ve been slipping.”
“How so?”
“You’ve been nice to me lately.”
He burrowed down into the bedding. “Some distractions are better than others.”
Now, hours later, I slide out from under his arm.
In the doorway, I look back at him. Peaceful.
I think about how frustrated I have been with him, but I can’t manage to feel as angry now, even with effort.
My conversation with Mitchell plays back while I get into the shower.
But why would I feel that way about Canon?
“Stupid,” I say into the spray. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” I spit the words through the water. My head rests against the cool tiles.
It has to be the oxytocin or endorphins or whatever those evil, mind manipulation chemicals are that surge during sexual activities.
In this case, really, really surge.
Reason it out. No big deal.
He’s an ass. You do realize I have seen that movie…
He’s judgmental. What do you think of the owner, Samuel Dowry?
He’s condescending. I’m not insulting you. It is simple biology…
He’s conceited…she is the best I ever had…
He’s selfish. Give them your measurements…
He’s incompatible. Ugh. Bee vomit…
He’s secretive. If I wanted her, I would be with her…
He’s impossible to please. Wear whatever outfit goes with those black lace shoes and sit to my left…
He’s aloof and distant and cold, and who am I kidding with this line of bullshit, he is the singularly most passionate and responsive man I have ever known…
The water pounds down on me like the truth.
“I have been entirely wrong about him.”
Shit.
6:45 a.m.
I’M STANDING OVER HIM. He’s where I left him. On his side, tucked in.
Cutest little snore ever.
Stop it. I’m making myself sick.
I shake his shoulder, and he moves a little then settles back.
“Si…Mist…Can…” No, none of that seems right. I don’t know what to call him in these evolving circumstances.
His hair is a mess. I run my hand along his face, into his hair to try to tame it. He turns into my palm. A small hum floats up.
“Please wake up,” I whisper.
He blinks up at me. “Hi.”
“Um, hi.” I straighten up.
He sits up and takes in my clothes and the general condition of the covers that has him wrapped up like the savory filling of a bedding burrito.
“I’ve overslept.”
“No, no. Not by much. I…I thought you were going to, so…I woke you.”
He nods and starts to unwrap. I already know what’s in that package—it’s a different kind of package, go figure—and that is my cue to exit. Stage left. Turn and leave. In haste.
I hear him sigh loudly as I leave the room. The sunrise peeks through the curtains, and either the rooster crows or I can actually hear my own chicken shit soul.
I’m envious of how quickly he’s ready.
I gather up our things and let the breakfast server in when he arrives.
“Over here.” I motion for the cart to go near the sofa.
“Anything more, ma’am?”
“I don’t believe so,” I say.
Canon, suited, walks into the room.
The server turns to him. “You want anything more, sir?”
“It appears not,” he says, slipping on his watch. “It seems that having more is a harder decision for some.”
We eat and leave and drive and arrive, and I don’t hear his voice again until Mr. Peters greets him at 9:18.
“Fine. And you?”
2:20 p.m.
*
Location
: Break room.
*
Emotional State
: DEFCON 2. And I’m mad at myself about it.
*
Fumes
: Running on them.
HOT COFFEE OVERFLOWS THE CUP and pours across my fingers. After a delayed reaction, I hold them under cool water.
“Hey, Emma,” Mitchell says, leaning on the counter next to the sink. “Just got my orders. Looks like I’m headed back to the old stomping ground to work with you guys.”
“That’s great. Really, really great.” It’s nearly impossible not to smile around him.
“So…any progress?”
Glancing up at him, I can’t decide if he’s inquiring about the foreign accounts or ribbing me about Canon. I play it safe.
“Nothing definite.”
He turns the water off and hands me an ice cube. “Maybe you need a different approach.”
“I need more time.”
“How much longer is your trip?”
“Just a couple more days.” I hear myself sigh.
“Is it definitely a now-or-never kind of thing? Or will there be a chance when you go back?”
“It would be too late by then.”
“How are you going to handle it? Do you have a plan?”
Ha.
I shrug.
He cocks his head. “That doesn’t seem like the Emma I remember.”
Yeah, you’re telling me. I shrug. Again.
“It’s important…right?”
Yes. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” He leans with his back on the counter. “That is it? Just a ‘yeah’? Maybe…oh, never mind.”
I roll my eyes. I wish he would just get to the point already. Hypocritical, I know.
“Well, Mitchell, this has been…real. But I need to get back to him.”
He smiles. “Get back to whom?”
“What? Work. I have to get back to work.”
“You said ‘him.’”
“Well,” I say, pointedly avoiding eye contact and gathering up drinks, “I work for a ‘him.’”
“Emma,” he says, looking blankly at the empty microwave, “regret is a kind of cold forever.”
4:18 p.m.
“MS. BAKER?” The unfamiliar voice draws my attention away from my screen. A woman in a delivery service uniform stands in the office doorway.
“Yes?”
“Delivery for you. Signature required.” She hands a clipboard to me and exits only to return moments later with a wide, flat box and a far smaller one on top. She’s gone without notice.
It occurs to me—and I don’t like the feeling at all—that I have not been asked to pick this up myself. It seems he would rather place orders and make arrangements himself than interact with me. I know I have brought this on myself.
It’s a white box. No markings. No address. I look around the room, but can no longer find the smaller one anywhere. Opening the big box, I wonder if there’s been some sort of mistake. Perhaps a different, heretofore unknown, Ms. Baker works here. Perhaps it’s a present for Canon, from his family or something, and I’m expected to keep a secret from him until the official holiday. That should be handy and all, you know, since it’s roughly the size of a Jetta.
Inside, beneath a sapling’s worth of sugar-scented tissue paper, is a dusky rose evening gown. Halter neck, empire waist, no trim. Understated in every way, save the color. The color may not even be season-appropriate.
Not that I’m complaining; it is lovely and reminds me very much of my favorite lipstick shade, My Wish List.
I pull the dress out and a smaller, inner box tumbles out onto the floor. Inside is a pair of delicate chandelier earrings. Without thought, I slip one on and begin with the other only to stop and burrow frantically through the tissues in search of a card.
Tissues crinkling and earring tinkling near my ear—so different than the nothing I’ve heard all day. Or at least nothing I have wanted to hear, the one thing I have wanted to hear is conspicuously absent, I realize. I miss him.
I ache.
A small card, held between two long fingers, appears inches from my nose. I look up and meet Canon’s guarded eyes. There was a time when I would’ve taken this look to mean detached and aloof; now, I know this is actually observation and caution. Wary.
Without breaking our gaze, I take the card. Quick glance and flip. It’s blank on both sides.
I look to him again. “What is this?” I ask, smoothing the bodice against me.
His eyebrow quirks. Wordlessly, he sets something on the desk and leaves the room.
I stare at the spot where I last saw him until my eyes become unfocused. Only then do I look down. A pair of tickets sits on my desk. The Nutcracker. 8:00 p.m. Black tie.
6:30 p.m.
*
Location
: Hotel bathroom.
*
Hair
: Unruly. It is fuller and not at all flat. How is a landlocked state so humid?
INTERNAL DEBATE as to whether I wear lipstick that perfectly matches the dress or not rages on.
Which is better than the other things that beg for a turn in my obsessing. The delivery. The dress. The blank card. The earrings…they seem a bit more than I can attribute to needing me suitably attired.
The tickets. To the ballet. To The Nutcracker, of all things.
Of all the things that could simultaneously make me feel like it really was Christmas but also make me ache with longing, The Nutcracker would be the pinnacle.
My family was not big on tradition, or at least not any that were recognized as such at the time. Dressing up to see the ballet performed while my cousin played in the symphony was a memory I treasured. We didn’t do it every year. Just enough. Enough to make it our sole tradition.
I have never gone since my family quit going. Well, since I quit going with my family. Different directions.
They have their families. I have me. Just me.
I haven’t been in years.
Actually I’m not sure I’ve been since I got boobs.
Admittedly an odd segue.
But, right now, I’ve got boobs on the brain. I’m staring at the straps of my bra, and they are staring right back at me. Inches and inches of black straps. The dress is a halter. I don’t have a Y-back or a convertible bra with me.
One reason why men buying dresses for women is not always the slickest of ideas: they have no frame of reference for necessary undergarments.
With no other real options presenting themselves, I take off the bra à la Flashdance.
Matching lipstick wins out. No one is going to be looking at my lips. I can’t say as much for body parts that rhyme…
Final touches, and then I exit the bathroom. Canon is nowhere to be seen. Or heard. Still.
I slide on black pumps and catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. Panty lines.
Splendid.
Tonight, I will be wearing the matching panties to the no bra look.
His bedroom door opens, and I shove my underwear into the back of the sofa.
He’s in a tux.
A tux is not that much different than a suit. That will be my mantra. I chant it internally as I now force my body to do things like blink, breathe, and remain vertical.
It seems tuxedos affect the cerebrum.
“Is there anything I need to be doing?” I squeak. Anything besides proving the theory of spontaneous ovulation?
He hasn’t looked toward me yet. He shakes his head, opens the closet, pulls out my coat, and holds it up for me. Never once looks at me.
I slide into it, and he holds the door, silently ushering me out. When’s he going to talk to me again?
The drive to the theater is accompanied only by the sound of the tires moving through the snowy slush. We may be meeting others there. I’m not sure what’s expected of me anymore. I’m not sure of him or myself.
The valet line is long but moves quickly. He hands the keys over and takes my arm from the attendant who opened my door. I’m ridiculously comforted by the contact.
Inside, I check my coat. When I turn around, for the first time today, he is looking directly at me. Staring.
I want to say something, to get him to talk to me again, but nothing comes to me. What can I say here? Thanks for the dress that you had to get me so I could come to this with you? Did I ruin this? Can I start over?
“You look beautiful,” I hear myself say.
Well, he does.
I think I see the whisper of a smile, but then it’s gone. There is an alcove nearby, and I consider pulling him there to ask/demand/beg that he speak with me. We become part of the crowd streaming toward seats, and I can’t make myself pull him there. I’ve stepped out of my role so many times already and I can’t imagine he would be pleased to have attention drawn in public.
Mournfully, I look to the alcove as we move along. Then, suddenly, I’m in it. He’s steered us there.
“I can’t do this,” he says. There is a faint echo.
I’ve lost my bearings. I don’t know what to say or do, and everything is on autopilot. I reach out and touch his back. “Do what?” I whisper.
He looks toward the ceiling, sighs heavily. I rub my hand along his arm, hoping it’s comforting.
We’re inches apart. He turns and looks at me in a way I don’t understand.
“This.” He gestures between us.
I’ve taken to breathing through my mouth. “This?” I repeat softly.
“Ask me.”
I’m sure the look on my face is confused. I’m good, but I’m not that good; I need more information than this.
Without looking any tenser, which may not be possible but I choose to take it as a good sign, he expounds: “About the card.”
I didn’t say he expounds greatly.
Oh. I have so many questions about the card, but I go for the obvious. “Why was it blank? Why have a card at all, if it’s completely blank?”
He opens his mouth then closes it. It seems he was going to tell me, but changed his mind. “Why do you think?”
Oh, heavens. The show is going to start before we muddle through this. Not that I care anymore. I thought I missed him earlier, but now that he is here and I can see him and hear and, oh, God, smell him, I really don’t want anything else ever. The Sugar Plum Fairies can do the dance of the damned for all I care.
“I don’t know.” I trace his lapel.
“That makes two of us.” He touches an earring.
“They’re beautiful.” I brush against his hand near my ear.
His knuckles skim my cheek. Drag down toward my mouth. I turn and press my lips to his hand. His eyes shut for a moment.
“The signature was troublesome.” He presses his forehead to mine. “What am I to you?”
I know he has to be thinking that I’m hung up on the fact that he’s my boss, or he’s powerful in my little universe, or that this trip makes him handy, or that he’s a really smoking notch in my bedpost. It’s none of those things. I won’t work there much longer. But I am all I have got. I make my own way.
I can’t risk anything.
This risks everything.
Here in this tiny space, with strains of prelude music in the air, our echoed breaths on the walls, I realize not another soul exists for me in this universe. If I never left this space, his side, I would be utterly content.
He is everything.
Wow. I’m pretty slow on the uptake.
His hands come to my bare shoulders, and I brace myself against his frame, run my hands up to his neck, his face.
“Ev—” I begin, but stop. “I lo—” That seems a bit much in the way of confessions. “Alaric.”
It’s like I said it anyway. He beams down at me, and I feel his grip tighten on my shoulders, like he’s testing something or feeling it for the first time. I’m feeling more self-conscious than I expected, and I really just want to curl into him, to feel him hold me and be strong for me for just a minute because I’m allowed to be scared. I’m allowed to be scared when emotional epiphanies present themselves unbidden and unexpected.
I inch forward, and he does exactly what I hoped he would do. His arms wrap around me, and I want to press in even more, but I will probably smear makeup all over his shirt. I look up to explain. Our eyes meet, and I watch his flicker to my lips. Yes, please. Please do it.
But he doesn’t move. I know he’s tried to make the moves before, but I’ve shut him down.
I stretch up and brush my lips over his. Then, again. His hand moves, and I think for a moment that perhaps he is going to put a lock of hair behind my ear, and I’m fairly shocked to learn how much the idea of such an innocent gesture appeals to me. But he stops short. His fingers twist a curl around in my hair and brush a trail against my neck.
The pad of his thumb presses gently up under my chin. My face tilts up, and at once his lips are back on mine.
Soft, glorious pressure.
His eyes close and mine follow, and all that is left in the world is Canon and the gentle force of his lips on mine.
My breath ceases, and I can do nothing but take in the experience of him. The smooth skin of his lips. The brush of air along my cheek as his breath leaves him and plays across my cheek. The slight change in tension as his fingers curl and tangle deeper within the hair that’s wrapped around them. Pulses pounding. I burn off an extra-value-meal worth of calories trying to prevent a persistent moan from seeping out of me.
And then he begins to move.
His lips alter, become my new altar. Stationary grows to soft, fluttering over mine. First one pass over my upper lip, then he shifts to kiss my lower lip alone, drawing it between his own.
The breath I hold will be contained no longer; it escapes me in a rush that parts my lips. Canon sighs in response. Tilts his head further. Warmth, wetness skim across my lips. Brush against the edges of my tongue.
Urge to taste. Fully. Overwhelmed. Slide further. Tilt. Completely experience whatever part of him he’s willing to share with me.
I push my tongue back against his as softly as I can make myself. Our lips continue to press together, but I barely notice over the satin and slip of tongues slowly moving together. Then a second time. Then a third.
It seems a fourth circuit is about to begin when Canon pulls back.
Bereft.
His hand skims from my neck to my shoulder. My eyes open. Canon blinks very slowly down at me. A lazy smile builds across those lips that have somehow taken on the role of sun in my solar system.
An encore.
His hands move up me again until he holds my face in his hands, and then he is kissing me back, and I’m kissing him back, trying to show him this is real and I am real, and please see me for who I am and let me taste your tongue already.
I suck in his lower lip, and he hums and brushes his tongue against the tip of mine. It’s soft and sweet. My hands weave into his hair, anything to try to get him closer. To have him.
We miss being seated.
8:00 p.m.
*
Seat
: C12.
*
Hand
: C11.
*
Loon
: Grinning like one.
DARKENED THEATER. We found our seats at the last possible moment. I may have skewered some toes.
He’s holding my hand. My hand is in his, and our hands are on his thigh, and that means he is holding my hand.
Alaric Canon is holding my hand.
Sure, sure, he’s been, um, down there…but this somehow feels different…more intimate.
Good thing I’ve seen this ballet several times, because I’m paying attention in the range of nil.
My lipstick is gone. Eaten off, as it were. All that pondering about whether to wear it or not a waste.
Smeared makeup would normally torque me off. But as long as I’m not channeling Tammy Faye Bakker after a cloudburst, I’m feeling pretty peachy about it. Hell, I have never been so happy about…anything.
Canon is fixated on the stage. Or he appears to be. His thumb traces my life line. Every once in a while, I feel him hold me tighter, press my hand between his own and his thigh.
Looking around, I can’t see anyone we know. I’ve wondered if this was a work-related function or motivated by guilt about the extended trip making me miss the holiday with family.
Realistically, I know it might well be a date.
There was no asking, no explanation. I want to ask. I want answers.
But I don’t; I’m now sure my reticence stems from fear of confirming that the demure-by-day-freak-by-firelight way I have been acting has been what he finds appealing enough to date.
In over my head here. I care about this quiet, complicated fucker.
I need to show him me.
In small doses.
After the curtain closes, we walk along the Plaza. White lights. Soft snow. Horses pulling decorated carriages clip-clop in the midst of the idling cars. That can’t be healthy.
He hasn’t said anything since we left the theater. Just held my hand and walked among the carolers and shoppers.
“What are you thinking?” I ask as we pass a store that smells of gingerbread and spices.
“As little as possible.” He pauses in front of a bookstore. The glow from within clears any trace of shadow from his face. “For the first time in as long as I can remember.”
On the surface, his words are dismissive; his face is not.
Still staring in at the books, he brings my hand to his lips and kisses two knuckles.
10:25 p.m.
*
Limousine
: Plaza Tour Circuit.
*
Back Partition
: Up.
*
Resistance
: Low.
OUR LIMO CIRCLES AROUND for a prime view of the fountains and Christmas lights for which the Plaza is famous. And the cow statues which defy justification.
The leather squeaks under us. A rustle, and he’s flush against me.
Every cell is alight. My mind races. We need ground rules and limits and—
“You are…breathtaking,” he says brightly, and miraculously evades cliché. I feel my ears tinge, and in the space of time it takes me to mentally form even the glimmer of an idea that I need to say words that would probably have been about “let’s take this slowly” and “a single kiss and a pas de deux does not a relationship make,” his arms are under and around me, my hair draping around us to brush against my exposed shoulders, and I swear I’m not going to let myself worry if he feels emasculated in the future when I recall that he gasps like a maiden when I grab the hottest part of him and stick my tongue past his tonsils.
My hands run under his jacket. Slide it off and toss it aside. Over his shirt, tracing his sides, skim his skin. Run his lines.
He hums and smiles and works so hard at kissing it seems as though he’s making up for lost time. Like he’s trying to get as much experience logged as possible before the ride is over and we have to stop.
Or should stop.
He presses my torso so closely against his chest that I can feel all the tension in his body. Every breath. Every tremor. I try to memorize every time he shudders when I touch a certain spot—behind the ear, under the eye, along the jaw—or move my lips against him a certain way—wet along his neck, pressure over his pulse—and file it away so I can make it happen again.
He tastes so good. If you left Santa a plate of Canon cookies, he would stuff the whole North Pole into his red velvet bag and lug it down your chimney.
I run my palm flat along his heated length. A shiver wracks his frame. I wrap one arm tightly between his back and the seat, fingers splayed just above the hem of his pants. I’m vaguely aware of my other hand as it skates lower. Thumbs rub circles. Fingers dig. I fist his shirt, stretching the collar to expose his neck. He quakes and holds me tighter as my tongue traces his collarbone.
Every gasp and touch is precious. We can’t always be doing this, giving in. I have been afraid to start. He’s like human Nutella: I’m afraid once I’ve started tasting I won’t be able to stop until I’ve had all of him.
His fingers trace upward, along my face and into my hair, finding new places, each with its own color. The realness of it all assaults me. This is really him…in my arms, this is Canon…Alaric Canon…how he tastes of coffee, smells like sunshine and fresh linen, feels like…nothing feels as good as he does.
My fingers twist into his hair, and I kiss him with everything in me, the way I have envisioned for months, except now it is him. Him. Not the nice butt or the great profile or any other part that warrants its own centerfold, but the sum of them. The whole is greater because it is this particular man.
He stills, as if sensing that I’m in need now. My lips skim over his, soft fingertips pressing against his skull, and he opens and I explore his mouth. His body rocks against mine softly, hands sliding under my dress, bunching it up under my arms. Suddenly, the leather is deafening, and he’s maneuvering out from under me. Greedily, I grab for him in protest. My mind whirls, tries to suss out what I could have done wrong, but before anything makes sense he’s back and draped over my torso. All I sense is relief…for about a second until I realize there’s nothing covering his chest.
I’m necking with Houdini here.
Dress shirt and tie: Evaporated.
His shirt must be a discarded wad somewhere in the back of this limo. The lights still flow rhythmically through the windows, but I can claim zero interest in seeing anything but this guy’s very personal O-zone.
I bend forever and suck in skin. Break out the teeth. Gentle, but not.
The sound that escapes him would be frightening in any other situation. Guttural. A near roar. Excellent timing as I doubt I have much more patience for gentle left in me.
His one hand on my hip anchors me against him and the other drags up my ribs, skin lightly tugging to stay in contact with his, until he cups the swell of one breast in his palm.
So much skin. So much of us in contact, electric and raw.
Desire threatens to swallow me, consume me—and not just for him, for this—but the wish, the need to show him with every choice in how I touch him or move my lips against him or the whispered words that sneak past my breaking filter that he is valued and adored and wanted. This man wrapped up with me, that I’m wrapped up in, he doesn’t understand that I often wake to thoughts of him, that it has become a small kind of mourning whenever we part.
Every part of him calls to me.
My hand grazes his inner thigh. He wants more. I want more.
I passed simple wanting somewhere around the Mouse King.
Softly, as softly as I can manage with what little blood is left in my head pounding in my ears, I cup his ass (again! finally!) and squeeze my fingers into the flesh I have watched walk away from me so many times. Savor it more than the first time when I grabbed it and everything was so different, so angry and intense. It’s firm and soft at the same time. They’re like cream puffs or stress balls or my God why am I even trying to describe them when I could just be feeling them?
I dare say: I relish his buns.
Pun intended.
I digress…
His heart races against my chest, pounding so hard I can feel it through my dress. Kisses and touches and discoveries.
Want. Want is all I am and all that propels me.
I wonder why I have been procrastinating on more intimacy. We can handle more.
Well, not handle it right here under the Mayor’s Annual Christmas Tree.
Handling is maxed out at the moment.
He pulls my lip into his mouth, sucking it. Between his shoulder blades, his skin is smoother than silk. My leg bends across his thigh, and my hand slips along his pants just enough that my fingers unexpectedly land where his ass meets his thighs and excited heat.
Fuuuck. So warm.
I hear my moan in both our throats.
Ragged breaths. Fingers burrow into my shoulders, and he places tiny kisses on my collarbone this time. I sigh, try to make it deep and throaty to belie how nervous and exposed I feel. The only thought I can piece together is that I need to not fall to pieces.
His hands slide under, scoop me unceremoniously on top of him. Short, hard sweeps push, almost row like sailors in a galley, where our bodies meet together. So good. So, so good. My head falls against his brow and I pant, “God, yes…there, baby.”
A gasp escapes me as he lifts his head away from me, and I panic because I may have just crossed a line here.
“I—” he starts.
“I-I didn’t mean…” I say and make to slide from over him, but he holds fast.
“No, don’t.” His voice carries some form of desperation. “Don’t…stop,” he practically yells and begins to rock against me. He clings to me as if he were slipping from a high branch, his breath harsh in my ear.
Everything is warm and want and pressure. Grinding against one another clothed is not glamorous, and I know it, and we deserve better, and whatever this is we may or may not have deserved better, but there is no way I’m going to risk rejection at this point. I hold his face in my hands. Amid elbows and bumps and gasps and wholly graceless acts, I kiss him as gently as possible.
All of my thoughts flow together, overlapping. He rocks and we slide and I grip and pulse and it is all too fucking much. He is not even in me and I think it is the happiest my nether bits have ever been—the happiest I have ever been.
Through fog, his voice reaches me. “I want…I…”
It’s a sentence he can’t finish; he doesn’t know what he wants.
I pull him against me and roll until he’s over me and I’m under him. Feet tangled in the armrest, seatbelt digging into my back. I find I cannot care because there are only scant layers of fiber between him and where I want him so very, very badly. We move against each other, mimicking so closely what I want with him that it’s all I can do not to tear at my seams and hope it can happen, too. A part of my mind tells me this is an excellent idea and that we are consenting and adults and have done plenty of intimate acts already and why not because I am so much in…so deeply in l—
