by Monroe, Max
The rain runs down our faces to where our lips meet, each of us tasting the cold drops and each other’s skin. But instead of detracting from the intensity of the moment, it brings us to new heights. I press my lips to hers more firmly, and the wave that runs through me is intoxicating, making my head swim as I pull back to take in her beautiful face.
But it’s only seconds before we’re kissing again.
Pouring everything we have into this kiss.
Our love. Our hope. Our everything.
There is something so heavenly about a kiss in the rain, a tender moment that just won’t wait. And this kiss, our kiss, it is a burst of love being expressed and not caring about the fucking rain or anything around us. A connection that shows the strength of our feelings, the mutual need for each other. It is a rebellion against the elements. Nature can bring the rain, but we are telling her to fuck off.
I slide my hands under Indy’s ass and lift her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist.
We don’t break the kiss when I walk us inside my house.
Or when I shut the door.
Not even when I walk us up the steps and into my bedroom.
I lay her on the bed and remove her wet clothes. She smiles up at me and giggles when I toss her jeans and they hit the hardwood with a slop, and my fucking heart is bursting inside my chest.
My clothes are gone next, and I climb into the bed, moving my body over hers.
I kiss remnants of tears and rain from her cheeks and her mouth, and her lips smile against mine. I sweep the drenched locks of her hair away from her creamy skin and kiss along her collarbone and neck.
She wraps her hands around my back, and her fingers flex with need into my skin.
And when our vibrating desire for one other becomes too strong, too powerful to resist, I slide inside of her.
She moans into my mouth, but her eyes never leave mine.
I breathe in deep. In and out. And I just stare down at her, taking in the way her breasts move up and down with each pant. The way her eyes glow with desire. And the way her hands can’t stop touching me. My face. My shoulders. My back. Anywhere they can reach, they touch.
Fuck, I feel like I have waited so long for this. I have craved her skin and her warmth and her moans and her tongue tasting my breath and the way it feels to have her clenching around me tightly.
She wraps her legs around my waist, and time is forgotten.
The only thing I’m aware of is her.
Her eyes.
Her skin.
Her moans.
And how much I love her.
In the dim light of my bedroom, Indy is cuddled up to my body, her arms wrapped around my waist and her head on my chest. Music plays softly through the speakers in my bedroom and my heart is ablaze with nothing but love.
This, us entwined together, is a little slice of heaven, warm and cozy perfection.
I lazily stroke her still-damp hair with my fingertips, and the warmth of her petite hands against my skin makes me grin.
If I could spend the rest of my life doing this, lying in bed with Indy, I’d do it in a heartbeat. She brings me a peace I’ve never known. A calming of the storms inside my heart.
With Indy inside my embrace, I feel like there is nothing to fear or doubt. Hope for the future cocoons the room, filling the silence with solace and contentment and…love. It feels like all the love in the world is inside my bedroom.
“Comptine d’un autre été” begins to play, and Indy smiles up at me, her big blue eyes glowing.
“This is our song,”
Without hesitation, I shake my head. “No, it’s not.”
There is only one song that could possibly encompass what Indy means to me. And although this composition is beautiful, it’s not beautiful enough.
I found our song a long time ago. Years ago, in fact. Before I met her. And the instant I heard it, I thought that kind of love was impossible. I thought I’d never feel like that about anyone.
I was convinced of that very fact.
Until Indy.
“What are you talking about?” she questions and scrunches up her nose at me. “This is definitely our song, Ansel.”
It’s my turn to smile. “We have a song, but you just haven’t heard it yet.”
“You realize that makes no sense, right?”
Her adorable incredulity urges a soft chuckle from my lips. “Yeah, but once you hear the song, you’ll understand.”
“Okay…” she singsongs the lone word and pauses just long enough to search my eyes dramatically. “Are you going to tell me, or are you trying your hand at telepathy?”
“Oh… You want to hear it?”
She rolls her eyes and I laugh.
“Give me a second,” I say and sit up. “I need to grab my phone.”
A minute later and I’m climbing back into bed with a gloriously naked Indy. “Come here,” I say and rest my back against the headboard, and she snuggles back into my body.
“Are you going to tell me the name of the song?”
I shake my head. “Just listen.”
With the help of my phone and the Bluetooth speakers throughout my house, I turn the volume way up and hit play. The opening of Ghinzu’s “Sweet Love” begins to fill the space around us, enveloping us in the soft, subtle piano notes.
And then the lyrics come.
Slow. Steady.
But it only takes two lines, and Indy is climbing into my lap, her thighs straddling my legs and her hands on my face. Tears are in her eyes, and a smile is on her lips. She locks her gaze with mine but never stops listening to the song.
The music grows in power. Stronger. Deeper. Until it reaches out and touches Indy’s skin in the form of emotional eyes and goose bumps making a path up her arms.
In an instant, she leans forward and kisses me, a moan on the tip of her tongue. And I wrap my arms around her body and savor the taste of her mouth.
It doesn’t take long for our kiss to turn passionate.
Panting breaths.
Greedy hands.
Erratic lips.
She lifts her hips up, and I slide inside of her.
Our eyes are locked and our lips are just barely touching, and I move inside of her. Slow at first, but as the music speeds up and the lyrics say everything I want to tell her, everything inside my heart, the urgency and need for her become too strong to deny. And I can’t hold back.
I can’t go slow.
I need to feel her wrapped around me, taste her lips, touch her skin, kiss her breasts.
I need it all. I need her.
My sweet love.
My once-in-a-lifetime, written-in-the-stars, forever-starts-right-now kind of love.
Two years later
Indy
My shoulders are back. My spine is straight. The fingers of my left hand engage the strings of my violin, and my right hand drags and pushes the bow back and forth, bringing the music to life.
The notes start out clean and clear, but they morph into an airy, almost magical harmony. And the divine vibrations travel from the violin to my fingers to my chin to my chest to my heart. It feels so heavenly and my body melts into the moment.
Occasionally, my eyes drift to the sheet music, but it’s more out of habit than needing to follow along. Mostly, though, I just lose myself inside the music and play.
God, it doesn’t get any better than this.
The sounds remind me of sunrises and sweet dreams. And there is this intangible quality to it. Like you can sense the beauty, but you can’t quite grasp what it is that makes it so beautiful. What makes it so special.
As I hit the final notes, I shut my eyes and savor how good it feels to play.
How satisfying it feels to move the bow across the strings.
How amazing it is to feel the music pulsating inside of me.
Yeah, this is my happy place.
Eventually, though, reality pulls me out of my trance in the form of a familiar voice coming thro
ugh the sound booth speakers.
“Great job, Indy,” Don, the producer, says. “I think we’re all set here.”
I open my eyes and offer him a nod through the glass before setting down my violin and taking off my headphones. And just as I walk out of the sound booth, Bram is there to greet me with a big, friendly smile.
“Looking as beautiful as ever.”
That’s definitely sweet, but it’s a flat-out lie. I’m thirty-eight weeks pregnant and ready to pop. Beautiful left the building about two months ago when tired, uncomfortable, and puffy showed up without an invitation.
“Yeah, right.” I huff out an annoyed sigh. “I’m as big as a house.”
“You’re gorgeous. My favorite and most gorgeous sister-in-law,” he says with a grin, and an amused laugh leaves my lips.
“I’m your only sister-in-law.”
“But my favorite and most gorgeous one, nonetheless.” He winks and reaches out to gently rub my belly. “How’s my little niece doing?”
“Good.” I glance down at my stomach and offer up a silent prayer that my ever-growing belly has reached its peak. “Hopefully, she’s ready to come out soon.”
He looks up to meet my eyes. “I thought you still had another two weeks to go…”
Two weeks. Sheesh. Why is pregnancy exactly ten years long?
“Are you trying to ruin my day?” I glare, and Bram has to fight his smile by biting down on his bottom lip.
“Ansel mentioned you were on a bit of a rampage today.”
My glare only gets stronger. “I’m sorry, Ansel said what?”
“Nothing,” he mutters, but the smile he fought so hard against is now present and shining on his face. “He said nothing.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But you know what you are?”
“What am I?”
Grumpy? Sweaty? Miserable? All three would be apt descriptions of my current state.
“Fucking brilliant.” I quirk a brow, and he continues. “I heard the last half of your recording session, and it was perfect, Indy.”
Holy hell, a real, genuine compliment that has nothing to do with trying to make me feel better about not being able to see my feet and days away from pushing a baby out of my body…
It’s the unicorn of compliments and, instantly, I soften around the edges. “You really liked it?”
“Loved it,” he says and sits down beside Don, the producer of New Rules’s next album. He pats him on the back and grins. “Tell her, Donnie. It was perfect, yeah?”
“That it was,” he agrees with a quick glance and smile in my direction. “You and Mac brought your A game.”
Even in my cranky, uncomfortable, far-too-sweaty for doing nothing but standing here pregnancy state, I can’t not smile at that.
Six months ago, Bram came to me with an idea.
One that involved adding a small violin composition to the beginning of one of the tracks on New Rules’s next album. At first, I outright said no. But then, once good ol’ Mac Davis jumped on the bandwagon, I had to agree. Seriously. The only answer my stubborn, music-loving dad would take was yes.
And two months later, my dad and I composed something we were really proud of, and thankfully, New Rules loved.
Despite my initial resistance, I’m so thankful I ended up doing it. The whole process, working with my dad, creating music with my dad, has been a dream. An incredibly special and unforgettable experience.
Just over two years ago, I was a music teacher at a small private school in the Bronx, and I couldn’t even look at the violin. And now, I’m playing the violin every day and composing music for one of the most popular bands in the country.
Life is crazy, I tell you. Just crazy.
But life is also really draining when you’re carrying around a full-term baby inside your body. My feet ache inside my sandals, and I glance down to see the familiar puffy and swollen appearance that has become a staple of my life for the past few months.
“All right,” I announce and snag my purse from the closet. “I’m going to head home and relax a bit.”
Bram stands up to give me a big hug. “Love ya, sis.”
“Love you too.”
“And tell your sister I say hello.” He winks and flashes a little grin in my direction, and a laugh escapes my throat.
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to forget that.”
“C’mon, Indy,” he teases. “Just tell your beautiful sister I said hello.”
The last thing my sister Lily needs is Bram Bray.
He’s good-looking, of course, and charming, most definitely, but he is trouble with a capital T. And my sister gets into enough trouble as it is.
I’m just thankful Ansel and I didn’t end up having the big wedding we’d originally planned. Who knows what would have happened if Bram had a whole week of wedding activities to work his magic on Lil.
“Yeah, okay,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”
“Promise?”
“Goodbye, Don!” I call over my shoulder as I turn for the door and promptly ignore my brother-in-law.
“Indy!” Bram shouts toward me on a laugh. “You better promise!”
“Bye, Bram!”
I open the door, and his responding chuckles follow me until I’m in the hallway and heading for the elevator.
When I spot Hank waiting for me outside, I sigh with relief.
Thank God.
The last thing this big preggo body wants to do is stand around and wait, or worse, walk several blocks because he can’t find a spot near the doors.
I swear I’m not usually such a diva, but I’m nine-and-half months pregnant. Surely, that provides me with some kind of free pass to be intolerable.
“Afternoon, Indy.” Hank greets me with his familiar friendly smile and helps me into the car with a gentle hand. Once he ensures I’m safely inside, he starts the engine and pulls out into the road, heading for home in Greenwich Village.
New York passes me by in a blur of skyscrapers and taxi cabs and people hurrying in various directions, and eventually, my mind slowly drifts off to one very special day that ended in “I do.”
It was less than a year ago, and Ansel had pretty much had it with our moms’ meddling and trying to plan our wedding. Between the flowers and invitations and all the people they wanted to invite, he was done with all of it. Not to mention the whole part about the press latching on to the idea that Ansel Bray was marrying the girl in the painting.
Once we had to start talking about having security on our wedding day, my soon-to-be husband needed an escape.
A weekend getaway, he said.
I agreed, even though I didn’t really have a choice. Once Ansel sets his mind to something, he’s determined and nearly impossible to budge.
So, I gave him free rein, thinking he’d pick somewhere like the Bahamas or Hawaii, somewhere tropical where we could just lounge around on the beach all day and drink piña coladas. Someplace where we could wrap ourselves inside a warm, cozy, picturesque bubble and forget about the rest of the world for a little while.
But I should’ve known. Bahamas, Hawaii, those aren’t destinations for handsome, broody artists. Not even close.
A seven-hour flight later, we were in Paris.
And not even twenty-fours after we landed, Ansel was getting down on one knee in the Louvre, right in front of Venus de Milo, one of the most famous sculptures in the world.
He proposed to me…again.
I cried…again.
And of course, I said yes…again.
By the next day, we were married in this secret little garden in the center of the City of Love by an officiant named Luc.
Sure, our moms were pissed when we got back home and they found out we’d rained on their wedding-planning parade, but it didn’t matter. Nothing could change the fact that the day I said “I do” to my handsome, broody husband was the very best day of my life.
It was jus
t the two of us.
Unexpected and quiet and intimate.
Simply put, it was us. It was perfect. So perfect, in fact, it’s the exact day the little bundle of joy inside my belly was created.
Yeah, life is definitely crazy. Insane and messy, even. But when you find the person you’re meant to spend the rest of your life with, it’s beautiful.
A beautiful mess of hope and kisses and smiles and just…love.
So much love.
Ansel
“Ansel?” Indy’s voice filters up from the first floor of our house. “Where are you?”
“Upstairs! In the bathroom!” I call back and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel from the rack and starting the process of drying myself off.
Slow but sure, her footsteps make their way up the stairs and into our bedroom.
“I thought you were going to be in the Upper East Side studio all day?” she asks, and I hear the sounds of sandals being flipped off her feet.
Hell, I’m pretty sure they even hit the wall.
This grouchy demeanor of hers has become a staple over the past few weeks. It’s pretty adorable and the idea of it makes me grin, but wisely, I keep my mouth shut about her mood and the wall. “I did, but I didn’t end up staying as late as I thought I would.”
If I’m being honest, I left earlier than I probably should’ve so I could be home with Indy. My beautiful wife has reached a point in her pregnancy where she is over being pregnant. Needless to say, she’s ready for our daughter to make her big debut, and I just want to be here to support her, even if that means being her grouchy-remarks punching bag.
Our daughter.
God, sometimes, I still can’t believe that this is my life.
That Indy is my wife.
That my days are filled with her smiles and her laughs and I can kiss her, touch her, hold her whenever I want to.
She is my own personal Cindy Lou Who. She brightens this Grinch’s life and fills his heart with nothing but love. Hell, she has the power to turn this normally jaded, broody artist into a fucking heart-eyes emoji.
And fuck, I wouldn’t change it for the world.