Remember Me

by Bryce Taylor

  Next time for sure.

  Her kiss, hard and probing and confident. Knowing what she wants. That I love this about her. That there has never been anyone else but her. No one who can make me feel this way.

  But right now.

  I smirk at her. She feels it through our kiss. Advance warning. Next time she will know. This time however.

  My hands behind her knees. Biceps flexing. Pulling her up the bed, sliding down under her. My arms hard around her thighs, pulling her upright, holding her there, right there. Looking up at her, yes?, yes, hell yes, my head moving between her legs.

  Something tells me she is going to like this.

  No surprise here. She does.

  Attacking her fiercely with my tongue, hungrily seeking out each spot that gives her pleasure, groaning at the taste of her. The vibrations of my groan against her making her cry out.

  She is gripping the bed head, the tip of my tongue just inside her, my arms reaching around her, tips of my fingers against her clit, feeling directly her tightening, spasming around my tongue.

  Her cries, calling my name, drawing her into my mouth, riding her out, unable to stop giving her pleasure for as long as her body is willing.

  Till she slumps down over my body. Lying pressed against me, her reassuring weight, her eyes on mine, her brow furrowed.

  "This is insane," she says hoarsely. Leaning in, her tongue, a tiny taste of my bottom lip, her indrawn breath, eyes widening.

  Kissing every last inch of my face, back to my lips, biting gently, her tongue tugging at my teeth, teasing me, her smile as I invite her, push back, provoking her. Her leg sliding between my legs, her hands holding me down, the blood pounding through my body. Her body moving against mine, the strength of her driving me crazy, wanting her more, so much more.

  Later, her eyes shut, lying back in the pillows, my hands caressing, stroking, coaxing nipples back to hardness, her wordless surprise, more?

  My smirk. "So much more," I promise her wholeheartedly.

  She smiles, her eyes opening, a predatory look on her face, wrapping her arms around me, pulling me closer.

  I know we are going to spend a lot of time in bed together.

  Finding more things she likes.

  Talking about sex, no doubt in a way that makes my face, ears and neck burn.

  I don't care.

  That's a lie.

  I care. I care that we talk. I very much want to talk about it all.

  For every blush, I will get a hundred kisses in return.

  Epilogue

  Jo and I have been together for a year. I adore her with an intensity that she should find terrifying even if I don't. That she loves me in return is a wonder to me.

  She bases herself at my house. When she is in the country that is. This is less than I would like but more than I deserve. The only thing that stops me from asking her to stay is the knowledge that she would, that I would cage her and make her miserable.

  I get a tattoo of a hummingbird, taking flight on my chest between my breasts, to remind me that she needs freedom. That just because she would stay in the country, leave the work she loves doesn't mean she should for me. No matter how many sleepless nights it costs me.

  That it is alright to hide my fears for her safety from her because she really doesn't need to know.

  I quit the gym and take up running. Cycling. Rock climbing. Enjoy the solitude, the meditative peace of running for miles. Feel stronger than I have in years. Inside and out. That Jo doesn't complete me, I'm a whole person, not a part, but she does make me a better person. Someone who I am not ashamed to be.

  Thankfully she has embraced technology and for my sake puts up with a constant barrage of messages and video chats. I'm both pleased and offended when I realise the time she sets aside for our video chats is directly proportional to how likely it is that she thinks she can convince me to strip down to my underwear. Or less than my underwear. She is unsurprisingly both adventurous and very direct on the occasions that she does succeed.

  I enjoy far too much pretending that I would rather be discussing politics, current events or her work than taking my clothes off. Holding out on her until she makes it ever so clear how much she wants me.

  I count down the days and then hours to her flights home and meet her at the airport every last time, my joy overflowing, my arms around her, my kisses raining down on her face. Sheer relief that she has come home safely. She kisses me back with a ferocity that makes me forget how much I've missed her. That makes me very glad that I have taken the next week off work. The anticipation of questions and ideas that she has had in her time away already burning a hole right through me. Because experience tells me that she has a lot of both stored up.

  She brings home random objects from her travels and slowly this house feels more like a home. A rug from Afghanistan. Silverware from Syria. A wall hanging from Bangladesh. Each with a tale of how it was come by, who made it and where it came from.

  When she is here this house is a home, our home.

  I've learned to cook and I enjoy more than anything (ok, yes, almost anything; there are definitely some other things that are significantly more enjoyable), making her the most delicious meals that I can watch her eat with pleasure after however long eating rice and beans overseas.

  I do spend Sundays in the garden under that tree reading the paper and I am happy.

  Jo still sees a patch of blue sky on a stormy day and immediately thinks, 'glory, glory'. I still think 'better pack a raincoat'.

  I don't care.

  I love her.

  I will marry her someday.