by Julia Kent
“Ah, Fiona. That mouth of yours,” he murmurs as I slip under the covers, the dark cave warm and heady. His body is my only roadmap as I blindly find what I need and give, give, give, focusing my mouth and tongue and fingers on this man who electrified me, nerve endings still shivering as if in awe.
He's full and hard, the tip of him so hot, it's like I'm plugging into an energy source, my tongue licking a line up the sensitive underside, his hands finding my breasts, pinching a little too hard, a little too rough, with just enough brutality to make me nearly come again.
Then his hands are in my hair and I find a rhythm, one that allows me to use my palms to cover his body, to travel the lines of it up and down, a cartographer in bed, my mouth milking him.
Or trying to.
“No,” he says abruptly, stopping me. “You wanted me in you, and I want to be in you. Save that for next time,” he says with a grin that’s almost spiritual, the look a message to come back to him, as if yet again there's a connection that goes further back than I ever dreamed.
Turning to his right, he pulls a condom from the bedside drawer, one he must have planted when we first arrived. The forethought makes me smile, the rip of the wrapper and his quick work of it understated and gentlemanly.
“I want you on top,” he says. “I want to look at you. I want your hair in my face, tickling my chest. That's how I've imagined this when I've dreamed about you.”
“You've–what?”
I comply, because how could I not? Moving up, I straddle him, careful not to get too close, my hips pulled back enough to hold the connection at bay, but it's becoming impossible to control the impulse to ride him.
And ride him hard.
“Do you have any idea how many nights I've been in my bed, alone, and thought about you? Imagined sleeping with you? Giving you pleasure? Having sex outdoors, leaned up against a tree, my only view your fine ass and that long, gorgeous hair?”
“You… have?”
“I have, Fiona. Especially since that day at the preschool. And now you're here, inches away, and you're luminescent. You glow. Let me make you glow even more.”
His words guide me to him, the feel of his hands on my ribs, riding down to my hipbones as I center myself and anchor. He's big, but I'm so wet and ready that the feeling of fullness is its own form of pleasure, the long, slow pull up from my knees making me ache with joy.
Chris sits up and pulls me to him in a kiss that feels desperate even though it isn't. Feels urgent although we have all the time in the world. Feels amazing and like everything has converged in the multiverse across time and space in the feel of his mouth against mine.
Because everything has.
As I lower myself onto him, our thighs meet, mine outside his, the stretch required to move around such a strong guy more intense than I'd ever imagined. His hands move to my breasts and I arch back, reveling in his touch, in the freedom to move like this, in the unbridled sense that my every act, every motion, is unjudged, uncontrolled, unrivaled.
We just are.
He's deep in me as I look down at him, my hair brushing against his chest, his eyes so intense, it's like they burn. I'm lost in the emotion, the energy wrapping itself around and around into a rope, a cord, a cable strong enough to power time itself.
Every bit of my skin is flushed and tingling, my core on fire as his eyes–oh, those eyes–take in my body, appreciative and smoldering, making me feel like everything around me exists in orbit.
And we are the center.
His face changes, the intensity deepening as his eyes close and his breath hitches, my own orgasm taking over, making me shut out the world, making him my only connection with it. A rhythm starts between us, unspoken but quickly joined, until we're coming together, the sensation startling and integrative, his ass pushing up as my hands find his hips and urge him to take me some place where we can just do this, be this, feel nothing but this.
And then I collapse on him, completely gone yet present at the same time, split and united, vulnerable yet strong.
“Jesus,” he whispers into my hair, hands on my ass, rubbing in circles. “You're amazing.”
“Mmmmm,” is all I can manage.
By the time I realize I should climb off him, I don't care, his hands pulling the down comforter up over my shoulders, my words thrown without caution into the space we've made.
“I love being with you, Chris.”
“I love being with you, too, Fiona.”
And then we fade off, because we're right.
This is easy.
Which is how it should always be, for everyone, in whatever lifetime they're living.
Waking a guy up with a blow job shouldn't involve getting a knee to the face, but I take full responsibility.
“Ow!” I burst out as my lips, formerly on his limp shaft, move sharply against him, working hard not to bite down as his knee hits my cheekbone.
“Wha? Oh, God! I'm so sorry,” he says, crawling under the covers to meet me, removing the object of my attention. “Did I just knee you?”
“Yeah.”
“What were you doing?”
“Spinning alpaca fur. What do you think I was doing? I asked if you wanted a little morning wake up.”
“I thought you meant coffee!”
“You'd rather have that? Okay,” I say, rubbing my cheek, starting to crawl out from under the covers.
“No! NO!” he shouts, laughing, body shaking with mirth. “I just misunderstood your naughty intent, Fiona.”
“Ah.” I poke my head out from under the covers, the cold air a bit of a balm on my red cheek.
He kisses the spot I'm rubbing. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay.”
“HEY FLETCH! GET OUT HERE,” Will shouts. “Mallory says we have breakfast duty and the women have all the other meals!”
We turn toward the door, Chris's face falling.
“Breakfast duty?”
I shrug. “Sorry. I guess I'll swallow bacon and eggs for protein instead.”
Eyes wide, he gives me a look that is hard to decipher, given how new we are to each other sexually.
“Don't tell me I blew my only chance?”
“You blew my chance to blow you.”
“FLETCH!” Will bellows.
“Damn it,” he mutters, climbing out of the bed naked, fine body on display.
“Raincheck works for me,” I assure him.
He stops, one leg in his boxers, the expression on his face in between two emotions.
“I really do love being with you, you know,” he says.
I blink. I breathe. I smile. “You said that last night.”
“So did you.”
“I meant it.”
“So did I.”
“Good. Because it would suck if you didn't.”
“And you’re saying you'll suck at a future date?”
I throw a pillow at him. He nearly loses his balance, flaccid penis bouncing like a slinky, making me laugh more.
Somehow, he manages to put on his pants, then a shirt and sweater, crawling back under the covers fully clothed. A long, slow, hot kiss makes me wish he were still naked.
Another kiss on my injured cheek and he says, “This is it, isn't it?”
“It?”
“Us.”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “It is.”
“You kicked my ass when we were younger. Now you appreciate my ass.”
“Maybe,” I say with a smile.
“There was no maybe last night.”
“I get to decide whether there's a maybe or not!” I declare as he climbs out of bed, Will yelling again from the other room.
“Tell you what,” he says as he turns the doorknob. “Let's work through the maybe.”
“How?”
“Come to my studio again. Let's do a real workout.”
“Oh–you literally mean let's work it out.”
“Right. Remember I challenged you to a bout on Wednesday? I meant it.”
“You're on. Prepared to have your ass kicked.” I blow him a kiss.
He grins. “I wouldn't have it any other way, Fiona.”
And then he leaves, calling out to Will, asking where the bacon is.
Jolene was right.
Go have your date with Fletch.
Speaking of Jolene, I follow the scent of sage back to the windowsill, where I find the strange crystal she gave me.
When I touch it, it's warm.
And the vibration it sends through me feels like a happy chant.
All I had to do was make space. Be proud of my old self. Invite all the pieces of who I am to come together into a whole. An empowered, loving, strong, gentle, smart, tender, kickass whole.
A whole lot of feisty.
Chapter 18
“My brother's coming into town for Christmas,” I tell Chris as he comes back inside his apartment, an arm full of wood making it hard to shut the door. Jumping up, I help him. It's not entirely selfless, after all.
I get a cozy fire in exchange.
His apartment is the left half of a converted older home, a duplex with its own yard. Chris put a small fence in place out there so his basset hound, Gloria, can run around in peace.
Yes, he has a dog. I didn't know until we got back from the cabin two weeks ago, and he had me over. Gloria took to me instantly, tail wagging, eyes mournfully accepting.
Plus, I don't kick her out of the bed when she wanders into the room as dawn breaks and she wants to snuggle at Chris's feet. He was hers first, so I have to defer.
It's early December now, the awkwardness of Thanksgiving over with. Mom and Dad are back from their cruise with pictures and stories galore. We split the holiday in half, which meant Chris and I had two Thanksgiving meals.
I'm pretty sure we're still half-stuffed.
“Tim? Or Dale?”
“Oh. Tim. Dale has to stay in Wisconsin because of Claire's family. I guess this year it's their turn. Dale said they'll come out next summer.”
In the past, these sorts of scheduling arrangements struck me as something other people deal with. My brothers try to both be here for Christmas every three years or so. But from now on, Chris and I have to juggle it all, too. Yes, we live in the same town and so do our families, but this year, it feels different.
Because it is different.
Suddenly, I want Tim and Dale here. I want the whole nine yards. Big family celebrations and nieces and nephews and... all of it.
Because Chris represents it all.
“Sounds good. My mom wants us here for part of it. Maybe Christmas morning? We've all spent the night at Mom's since Mattie was born. Everyone gets to watch his excitement.”
“You mean everyone's woken up at 4:57 a.m. by a screaming child shouting that Santa came and wanting to open presents.”
“That's.... uncanny how accurately you describe it.”
“Sounds like so much fun!”
“Only a preschool teacher would say that. Mattie doesn't even let us get coffee,” he grouses as he sets the frame for a solid fire, kindling just so, crumpled newspaper and a wax firestarter thrown in for good measure.
“I'll be in charge of coffee,” I say as I bend down to kiss him, my hand unable to stop touching his tight ass.
“I'm about to pitch forward into the fire if you do that again, Fiona.”
“That's what it would take for you to be hotter than you already are, Chris.”
His laughter is gratifying.
Gloria looks up from her dog bed behind us, a snuffly sound coming out of her as she stands. The old girl gets around just fine, but she's a little slow. The heat of the growing fire draws her in, the light from the new flames illuminating the pattern on her fur, large tan and auburn splotches in a sea of snow.
“Listen to her, Gloria!” he says as he pets her, giving extra good scratches along the dog's neck. “She's objectifying me!”
“Snurf,” Gloria says, nose up, neck straining to get as much of Chris's attention as she can.
“You're the only woman in my life who doesn't make fun of me,” he says to her, kissing the top of her head.
“That's not true – ” I start, then think about his sister, his mom, me, and...
Chris just clears his throat and lavishes Gloria with more attention.
Bzzz
“Whose phone?” I ask, searching the living room with my eyes. Chris's place has the high ceilings of an older home, with original fireplaces in three rooms, but only this one really works. Big windows with painted radiators under them bracket the large space, thick leather couches and chairs everywhere. His great-grandmother's hand-knit afghans cover two chairs, and though I'll never meet her, when I crawl under one with Chris and we watch the fire, sipping mulled cider, I feel like the love that came from her hands and heart in each stitch crosses time.
Love becomes energy that infuses whatever we choose.
“That's you,” he grunts. “My phone's charging in the bathroom.”
That's the other thing about his apartment – he has no wireless internet, and charges his phone on a large stand in his bathroom, behind a tall screen.
I look at my phone and see someone's called, from a number I don't know. No voice mail.
I ignore it.
“Here we go,” he says, still crouched down, the fine pull of denim around his ass its own form of entertainment. The mugs of coffee with a splash of Irish cream call my name. So does a nice, warm quilt. We're experiencing a big, unexpected cold snap in early December, the single digit temperatures at night making it easy to snuggle up.
As he stands and turns around, our eyes meet.
“You were looking at my ass again, weren't you?”
Gloria lets out a long sigh and rests on the floor by the fire, paws under her chin.
“Again?” I bat my eyelashes. “How would you know if I were?”
“It feels hot.”
“Your ass is hot.”
“You know the expression 'my ears were burning' when you know someone's been talking about you? Same principle.”
“Then get that hot butt of yours over here and warm me up.”
Taking me at my word, he climbs in my lap. Gloria watches us, head up suddenly, tail starting to wag as I giggle, Chris burrowing his pelvis down into my crotch.
“Chris!”
“What? I'm warming you up!”
“Not like this!”
“How about like this,” he says before kissing me, towering over me in my lap, the dig of his bones and density pushing me deep into the couch, his hands in my hair, cradling my face. Normally, I'm in his lap, so the role reversal sets me on a collision course, hands unsure where to go, mouth completely consumed by his.
Lost in the kiss, I slide my hands under his shirt and sigh with deep contentment as I cup my hands at his ribs, loving the feel of his broad back. Exploring a person's soul and heart is a lifelong journey, but the body is the same. It changes with time, energy shifting the feel of it, how we move and hold ourselves, how we feel and breathe making what looks like the same assemblage of skin and bone an ever-changing landscape.
“Hmph,” Gloria says from behind us, Chris's mouth spreading into a smile as we kiss. He pulls away and twists to look at her. Craning my neck to see around him, I understand why he smiles.
She's asleep, lost in rabbit dreams.
Chris's hands seek the hem of my shirt, pulling up with a quick movement that makes it clear we're not just playing. The easy slide into making love on his sofa is part of the newness of this, the simplicity of this relationship, the subtle goodness of time together as a luxury we define by how we choose to use it.
I open one eye as my shirt disappears and I'm in Chris's arms as he pivots, pulling me on top of him now. Gloria stands, the clink clink of her dog tags echoing softer as she leaves the scene.
Good roommates know when to get lost.
“This isn't balanced,” I whisper as I make Chris take his sweater and shirt off, pulli
ng them over his head as his arms lift up, the turtleneck comically caught as he laughs, my fingers unable to stop touching his bare chest. Each rib has a muscle line along it, for goodness sake.
Who wouldn't touch him?
In a hot second, his face is clear again and his tongue is in my mouth, my hair caught in his fist, the press of his body hovering over mine too much, not enough.
As I reach for his belt, Gloria runs to the front door, tags jangling.
I freeze.
“What's wrong?” Chris whispers.
And then –
Tap tap tap
“Shit,” he mutters, holding steady. “Probably just a UPS delivery or something. We can hide and – ”
A different kind of jangling happens. This time, it sounds like a key.
The front door opens, a hallway the only thing separating us from whoever's here.
“Chris?” It's his sister, Candi.
And the distinct sound of a sobbing, hysterical child.
“UNCLE CHRIS!” Mattie moans as I roll onto the floor by the fire. Fletch tosses a quilt at me for modesty, thank God. I wrap myself in it like a burrito, covering my face, legs exposed, and I stay still.
My heart rams against my breastbone, empathy centers on fire, because Mattie is in distress.
Seeing me half-naked won't help.
“What's wrong?” He asks Candi, who sounds very, very close.
“Why aren't you wearing a shirt – oh, never mind,” Candi says. “I'm so, so sorry. Mattie is having one of his moods, and nothing I do will calm him down. He keeps talking about how scared he is, and only Uncle Chris can help. He wants Gloria, too.”
I reposition the quilt so I can see them. Chris is holding Mattie in his arms now, Candi next to him, both of them behind the couch. I'm on the other side, looking up. All I see is a sliver of the room with them in it.
“Shhhh, Mattie. It's okay. You're okay.”
“I – I – I don't wanna be like dis!” he wails. “I – Mama says I need to just – just- breeeeve.”
In sympathy, I take a long, deep belly breath, pushing my spine against the hardwood floor, hoping my energy will connect with his and bring him up.