Holiday Loves
Page 23
“We’ll come,” she says softly, eyes still closed.
“Huh?” My head swings around to study her delicate profile and stubborn jaw. “Come where?”
She turns her head and meets my eyes. Her hand covers the few inches separating us and tangles our fingers.
“On tour,” she says, biting her lip and smiling. “The kids and I will come on tour with you.”
“Seriously?” I bark a surprised laugh. “What . . . for real?”
“Yes, for real.” She scoots a little closer and drops her head to my shoulder. “That’s where I was all day. Sarah and I had an emergency meeting to see how we can make it work. What we need to do and shift and adjust.”
“Can you?” I rub my cheek into the silkiness of her hair. “Make it work, I mean?”
“I think we can.” She nods and angles her head so our eyes meet. “We will because we have to.”
“Have to?” I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees and look back at her still pressed into the cushions. “Babe, if I pressured you—”
“Of course, you pressured me,” she says with a laugh. “You pressured me for years to be with you. You pressured me to move to New York when you went to NYU. You pressure me every time you think you know what’s right for us.”
Put like that, I sound like a domineering prick.
“And you know what?” She leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, mirroring my posture so our lips are mere inches and a breath apart. “You’re right.”
“I am?” I can’t resist. I close the space and kiss her, reaching up to gather her hair into my fist while I trace her lips, slip inside and suck her tongue.
“Hmmmm.” She moans into our kiss. “You are.”
She slides off the couch to the floor and scoots between my knees. Her fingers nimbly undo my belt buckle and unfasten my jeans, brushing my cock as she goes.
Okay. I’m intrigued.
“Mrs. O’Malley’s call persuaded me, and a conversation I had with Kai today helped, too,” she says huskily, her eyes blazing into mine. “But you know what really convinced me we aren’t spending enough time together?”
In an economy of words, I lift my brows since obviously her question is rhetorical and the sooner she tells me, the sooner we’ll fuck.
“I couldn’t remember the last time I sucked your dick.”
Said dick goes steely in my pants.
“That is a sad state of affairs,” I agree, helping her out by shucking my jeans and briefs off and spreading my legs to make it easy for her to reach my dick.
“I’m about to rectify that,” she says, lowering her head and taking me into the hot wet heaven of her mouth.
“Damn it,” I hiss, my hand palming her head and shoving my fingers through her hair. “You give good head, Bris.”
“Hmmmm,” she hums, sending a vibration from one head to the other until I think my brain may explode from pleasure.
I sit up and take control, holding her still and thrusting in, fucking her face until I’m just shy of coming in her mouth. Oh, no. I have better plans for this load. I pull out, swiping my thumb across her swollen shiny lips and joining her on the floor.
“What are you doing?” she asks breathlessly.
It’s my turn to undress her, shimmying her jeans down along with her thong. Disposing of her tank top and cardigan.
I bend her over and suck the curve of one round cheek into my mouth, working it until I know it’s marked.
“Jesus, this ass, Bristol,” I say against the reddened skin. “I love your body so much. I love you so much.”
“I know, baby,” she breathes out.
I turn her so her elbows are on the couch and settle behind her to take long swipes of her pussy with my tongue.
“Oh, my God, Grip.” She clenches and a shudder rocks her body. “Again.”
I love it when she thinks she can tell me what to do. I widen her legs and take to her pussy again, licking and biting and sucking until her juices run down the inside of her thighs. That’s what I wanted. I sit up on my knees, running my cock through her wetness and dipping my thumb in, smearing it on her asshole. She knows what that means.
“Yes,” she pants, reaching back to spread her cheeks, “In the ass, Grip.”
We’ve come so far.
“You want it in the ass, Bris?” I ease my thumb in her ass and pass my other hand over her breasts, pinching her nipples. “I’ve only got two hands here. Division of labor. Can you touch your clit for me?”
“Yes,” she chokes, reaching between her legs to touch herself.
“Finger it for me, Bris.”
Her breath is ragged, and I hear the wet sounds of her finger passing through the creaminess between her legs.
“That’s my girl.” I line my dick, shiny with her juices, up with the hole I’ve owned so many times now. I plunge in and almost blow it at the first stroke. I stop and hold, giving myself time to pull it together.
“Grip, move. Fuck me.” Bris grabs a cheek in each hand, spreading her ass for me, thrusting back. “I need it hard.”
I think that’s the only way I can give it at this point. I grab her hip and thrust forward again and again, over and over until I’m lost in a fury of pounding and grunting. I pull her up so her back is to my chest and keep working her ass and pinching her nipples. Bristol’s fingers stroke frantically over her clit, and she keeps thrusting back to meet every aggressive stroke. Her moans dissolve into sobs and she shakes with an orgasm as I empty myself inside her, burying my face in her hair to muffle a roar.
We stay like that for a few seconds. On our knees. One of my hands cupping her breast, the other wrapped around her hip. My dick in her ass. I refuse to move. This is Nirvana. Not just anal sex and the blow job.
Though, let’s be honest. It gets no better than that.
Our scents mingle in the air. Deep breaths heave our chests. I press my palm over her heart, feeling the hammer of it. This is peace. My wife in my arms. My kids asleep upstairs. I’ll have them with me on a tour I was dreading because I hated the thought of leaving them.
“Thank you, Bris,” I whisper into her neck.
“It was my pleasure,” she chuckles, turning to face me and frame my face between her hands. “And it had been too long.”
“Not the blow job.” I meet her raised eyebrows head on. “Okay, yeah that, but before that. You bringing the kids on tour with me. Thank you for that.”
The striking lines of her face relax.
“Mrs. O’Malley was desperate for even a crumb from her husband now that he’s gone,” she says, looking into my eyes, showing me her love. “I have you. I have our kids. I have this life with you, and you’re right. There shouldn’t be a season when we miss each other. I’ll make it work.”
“We’ll make it work,” I correct gently, brushing the hair back from her face. “I don’t expect you to make all the sacrifices. I just expect us both to want it more than anything. To want each other more than everything else.”
I grimace at the demand of my words, at the mandate of my heart. I don’t know how to halfway want Bristol. How to halfway love her. I need to have everything and all the time. I have only one gear when it comes her.
All.
But that’s what I want to give her, too.
All.
She smiles up at me, face flushed, her hair a disorderly halo from my fingers and fists. In her eyes, I see it all. Our past and our future. I see us looking down from the top of the world, painfully young with reckless hearts. That was the start of us. Sometimes you don’t know you’re at the beginning when it’s happening. And even though Patrick had been sick for so long, the last time she saw him, Mrs. O’Malley had no idea that it was the end. That’s why we relish every moment. That’s why, even though I may seem selfish or chauvinistic or whatever someone looking in from the outside might call it, I will fight for every second I can get with this woman.
I believe in all the things cynics despise. First kisses on
Ferris wheels. Soul mates and once-in-a lifetime loves. I believe in fifty years and forever. I’m sure Neruda has a poem, a line, that would fit this moment perfectly, but I can’t think of it. I can’t think beyond the woman in front of me, and the word “still” tattooed on her ring finger and mine. I only hear the vows poured in cement over my heart.
I said the words that day in a church on a snowcapped mountain, and I’ll say them every day for the rest of our lives.
Always.
Evermore.
Even after.
Still.
And today, I add another word. The one that encircles and seals everything else.
All.
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My Soul to Keep (Soul 1)*
Down to My Soul (Soul 2)*
Refrain (Soul 3)
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A Top 30 Amazon Bestseller, Kennedy Ryan writes for women from all walks of life, empowering them and placing them firmly at the center of each story and in charge of their own destinies. Her heroes respect, cherish and lose their minds for the women who capture their hearts.
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She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son. She has always leveraged her journalism background to write for charity and non-profit organizations, but enjoys writing to raise Autism awareness most. A contributor for Modern Mom Magazine, Kennedy’s writings have appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul, USA Today and many others. The founder and executive director of a foundation serving Atlanta families living with Autism, she has appeared on Headline News, Montel Williams, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for families living with autism.
The Unrequited
An Extended Epilogue
Saffron A. Kent
My heart is still an animal, a chameleon, to be specific.
I’ve tried. I really have. To tame it. To make it realize that I call the shots. That I’m in charge of it, not vice versa. But we’re still a work in progress.
All of this would be so much easier to bear if only my crazy, stupid heart would behave. But no. It’s not behaving. At all. It’s fluttering, bobbing. A second ago, I swear it was in my stomach. Then it soared to my throat, sat on my tongue, before backing down into my chest.
Calm down, will you, I say to my anxious heart.
We’re dead. We’re so dead, is the useless answer.
We’re not dead. It’s gonna be fine. We’ve done this before.
Yeah, but not like this. Also, what if this is the time everyone laughed?
“Damn it! Just stop,” I snap.
“What?” Comes the voice from beside me.
I look to my side and frown. Then smile. It all comes out in a weird fashion. “What?”
The girl next to me, Josephine, my classmate, raises her eyebrow. “You said, stop.”
“Did I?” I shift in my seat and smooth the edges of my notebook. “Uh, well, I was talking to myself.”
“Clearly,” she scoffs and turns away.
Josephine and I, we’re not friends. We’re sort of enemies, actually.
So, this semester I’m taking a class where we’re supposed to incorporate a real life event into a piece of fiction. It’s called Turning Life Into Fiction. And the first time we workshopped my story in class, Josephine was the one to call it cliché and forgettable. I still remember being red in the face, sweating and angry. No one, and I mean no one is allowed to call my story cliché. Because, hello, it’s not. I mean, falling for a married professor, when has that happened in the history of the universe?
Our love is our art, Layla. And people always judge art. They tear it down. They pick it apart. That’s just the way it is. That’s what my blue-eyed professor said to me later that night when I told him how mad I was. I jumped his bones after that, and when he was inside me, big and strong, I asked him to repeat those words. He did. And since then, I hate Josephine a little less and I love Thomas a little more. I think I keep loving him a little more every day.
The professor calls out Josephine’s name and she stands up, grinning, like she’s been waiting for this moment all her life. Well, maybe she has. We’re at a bar in East Village, and every Friday they host a Lit night. It’s open to all the schools around the tri-state area and only the best of the best go up there and read their work.
This Friday it’s our school’s turn and they have chosen me and Josephine. So basically, I can’t fuck up. I need to be good, confident, presentable. I need to be fucking awesome at this. My words need to be fucking awesome.
Okay, I need to stop. I’m scaring myself. My coward heart can take only so much.
I sit up in my seat by the stage and watch Josephine walk up to the mic. She is smiling and confident, and despite myself, I feel proud of her. She opens her notebook, clears her throat and begins. Her voice is loud and her tone has inflection in all the right places. I can feel the room sigh and gasp with her. The more I watch her, the less nervous I become. I can do this. I really can. All I have to do is stare at my purple notebook and read something I wrote. I’ve done this countless times ever since I started at this school almost a year ago. How hard can it be, right?
Right?
Well, it can be pretty hard.
Because when they call my name and I stand up, my legs begin to shake. My knees knock against each other. I swear I feel the sweat dripping down the back of my checkered-skirt covered thighs.
I get on the makeshift stage and stand in front of the mic, run my fingers over the spiral bound notebook. I’m scared to look up and find every eye in the dimly lit room on me. There’s something about being judged that still gets to me.
Shaking my head once, I close my eyes and think of something good, something encouraging. It’s a thing I’ve been doing this past year. Whenever I think I’m less or I’m unworthy, I think of something precious in my life. Something that I earned for myself. I think of the love of my life.
My firebreather.
Behind my closed eyelids, I see his eyes. They are blue, bluer than the water, the sky, the flames, and they are blazing. Then I see his smirking lips, full and kissable. They are mouthing the words, the magical, life-changing words: I love you. Goosebumps pierce my skin. I feel electric. He loves me. Me. How can I be less? How can I be unworthy when he is the face of my requited love?
Smiling, I open my eyes and look up. And there he is, plucked right out of my dreams.
Thomas Abrams
.
He stands in the back. In fact, he’s the only one standing in the room full of people sitting down. He looks large and looming. He looks like the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
Well, duh, my love-drunk heart scoffs.
With a cigarette in his mouth, he leans against the maroon wall. His face is dipped, the dark hair hitting his eyebrows. He needs a haircut, but I keep telling him to leave it long. It makes him look dashing. He laughs at me. But whatever. He hasn’t cut it yet.
Even though his face is dipped, his eyes are on me. They are fraught with heat. So much so that they could burn me from across the room. Well, what else is new? When Thomas is around, distance has no meaning. He touches me without even laying a finger on me.
I take another deep breath, badly hoping to taste the smoke rising from his lips. Maybe I do because all of a sudden, I feel relaxed. My anxiety is gone. He’s here. My heart’s still fluttering, though. Still kicking up a ruckus. But only because it wants to tear out of my chest and fly to him.
Leaning down, I say into the mic, “Hi, I’m Layla Robinson. And my story is called, The Rulebreaker.”
Words river out of me in thick streams. I wrote this story in the days when Thomas was repenting. When I was mad at him for abandoning me, for making me miserable, for making me think the worst about myself. Since then I’ve added to it, polished it, wrote about things that I was scared to examine. I’m not the kind of writer to do that. I write and I move on to something else. But I wanted to finish this story, make it into something beautiful and ugly, at the same time.
I say the last words and look up. I’m breathing hard. It feels like I’ve run out of words, my language is dried up and I’ll never be able to talk again. It feels like all my emotions leached out into the open and I’m empty.