by Celia Crown
“You’re going to cry. Stop it,” Moira scolds, pinching my cheek harshly to bring me out of my gloominess.
I wince, complaining at her unnecessary ministration. Turning my head away, my skin pops from her merciless fingers and I rub the sore spot. It aches with small pricks of pain. It’s going to bruise, and I would look like I have a bug bite on my face.
It’s not pretty.
“Shut up,” I huff, pressing down on my cheek to ease the throbbing.
“You are pathetic,” she glares, leaning her arms on the kitchen divider. “If he didn’t want you, he wouldn’t have come back. You’re overthinking, and don’t you dare tell me otherwise. I know you and you’re sensitive, but take it from me. He adores you.”
“I know,” I agree because I have been spoiled by him through money and affection. “I just can’t stop thinking that this is a dream.”
“If he pulls that stunt again, he’s going to have to deal with one crazy Hawaiian girl. I’ll learn Kapu Kuʻialua to lock his pressure points and beat his ass. He’s going to regret hurting my family.” Moira cracks her knuckles and grimaces at the pain.
“I love you, Moira, I really do, but you’re crazy.” I giggle, feeling a big portion of my doubt lifting from my shoulders.
She swings her hands in the air in a mimic of martial art moves, kicking her legs and I feel the embarrassment for her. There are things that made me wonder why I was attracted to her personality in the first place because this is not appealing.
Her having the illusion of eight limbs and making garbling noises is a questionable moment.
I take it back, she is downright whacky, and I love her to death.
“Moira, dear, please,” Peter gently lowers her flailing arms, bringing her to his chest, and she snuggles into his body and grins cheekily.
“How do you want to pack?” she asks, rocking her body in her boyfriend's hug.
I gulp down the cold orange juice, licking my lips and scraping my tongue to the roof of my mouth. The aftertaste has a small amount of bitterness, and it’s always there when Moira buys it from the grocery store.
‘Freshly Squeezed’ is a lie that people blatantly disregard. I try to tell her that she should just buy regular oranges and squeeze them herself if she wants to drink it. Apparently, her hands are broken every time I bring that up. Moira’s mother loves juicing and they are always the freshest ingredients.
I never thought grapefruit juice would taste good, but she adds other things in there, and I would gulp all juice in one sitting.
“Peter and I can help you; it shouldn’t take too long. You don’t have much stuff anyway,” she said, a thoughtful expression caste her eyes to the side and up the ceiling.
Something is off about that comment; it’s like she wants me to move out quickly and she would voluntarily help me pack without having to wait until the last minute like she always does. She’s scheming, this woman has no shame in terms of getting what she wants.
“What if I want to be an adult and live out my lease?” I scrunch my nose, “I like this place.”
“You can’t be an adult when you have a sugar daddy willing to fight the building manager to leave with you,” Moira points out the obvious fact.
She’s not wrong. Derek is a sugar daddy without the title. He gifts me things, pays for our meals, and takes me on expensive dates around the city. Moira is envious that Derek would do that for me while she stayed in the dorm eating her instant noodles.
I offered to ask Derek if she could come with me, but she denied my request. She doesn’t want to be the third wheel and she needs to find her own man to spoil her. Her strong independence doesn’t allow her to be taken care of.
Independence is her choice, and she is proud to eat her microwavable meals with the money she worked for. I would have agreed with her before Derek had infiltrated my life with his superiority and powerful stance, but he would not let me use my money.
Not that I can afford a glass of water from the places he takes me, but it’s the principle that counts.
Derek isn’t someone I can say no to.
“Are you that quick to want to get rid of me?” I frown at her.
She rolls her eyes, flicking her hair over her tanned shoulder. The off-shoulder shirt is stylish, matching with her frayed jeans and a pair of ivory earrings. Although I don’t understand the purpose of the earrings on a day where she isn’t going out, I don’t question her peculiarities. I’m too used to it by now, and it took Peter a while to stomach the insanity that Moira brings.
He also has to deal with other men and women wanting Moira even though she is not single anymore. It doesn’t stop anyone from trying. They usually don’t have shame in doing so either when Peter and Moira are holding hands or after they break apart from a kiss.
“I want to have sex with Peter on the stove,” she answers quickly.
I want to say something, but the door opened with Derek coming back and he makes a beeline towards me. My eyes brighten at him, giggling happily while he kisses me on the cheek.
“You’re back.” Smiling up at him, I admire his sharp features.
“We can leave now,” he rasps, pushing the bridge of his nose to my cheek, and I nod eagerly.
After hearing Moira’s plan with the kitchen, I doubt I can step foot inside ever again. She wants Peter to live with her, and I want to live with Derek. It works out perfectly as Peter had voiced his opinion to me about sharing the rent with us earlier in the month.
“Shoo,” Moira fans her hands towards the door.
“I haven’t packed—” I stutter as Derek closes his arm around my waist to steer me towards the door.
I have no personal items on me, not even my phone but it had magically appeared in Derek’s hand when he hands it to me. I don’t know where to start questioning this entire situation.
I have a sense that all three of them planned this, but I can’t tell who initiated this idea. It has to have conspired last night when I was sleeping after rounds of pure fucking against the bed.
He said he’d make love to me another day and that we both needed to feel.
Derek growls, “I will buy you everything new.”
I nod, overwhelmed but not scared. I’m ready for Derek and the life that revolves around him. I have been waiting for this man to sweep me off my feet and guide me to a direction that was never paved for me.
Questioning whether this relationship and love is too fast and too unorthodox would be an insult to Derek. He has shown me unconditional love, and I trust him entirely. The misunderstanding that’s still fresh in my head is a lesson for the both of us that communication is the key to a happy ending.
This is another chapter of my very long book, a chapter where Derek will be my main character just as he had from the beginning of this love story.
Epilouge
Rebecca
Eleven Months Later.
Being married to a man with hands more calloused than sandpaper, it’s bound to scratch on my clothes. He hates it when I try to sneakily put lotion on his hand because it hinders his work, but it hurts my bare skin on the week of my menstrual cycle.
I’m more sensitive in mind and body for the week and I would be ready for the cramps. There is never one identifiable source that could change this pain for next month; I try to eat healthy and clean but it always hurts no matter what.
Married for ten months and still not pregnant, I thought something was wrong with my body. Every month I would get my period and I would be devastated, hormones are high, and every little thing triggers my tears. I hate being like this, but I can’t stop myself.
Thank goodness my husband is an angel.
Many would state otherwise.
I have been tracking my cycle to be prepared when my period starts and it’s somewhere this week. I can feel the twinge of aching in my lower back. It’s a classic symptom with the heaviness of my boobs, I get very turned-on during my time and I hate how I can’t do anything about it.
> There is something that I have been doing and it’s either stupidity or torture, I would use a pregnancy test near the week of my period. It turns up negative and my period takes that as a cue to start. I wanted a result and it’s never the one I wanted.
Then, this month, it happened. I took the pregnancy test this morning and it came out positive. I took several more just to see if I’m not having a false-positive read.
It wasn’t.
They all turned up positive, and I screamed on the top of my lungs. Derek had gone to work and meet with someone, so no one is home to hear me struggling to not break the walls with my happy shouts.
I want to surprise him, but I don’t want to do the cliché and cheesy pregnancy reveals. They are too overdone, and I doubt that would have an impact as big as I want him to have.
Derek has been with me the whole way and through every false test. He knows that I love him for still being with me and telling me that there are other ways to have a baby. I don’t know what comes over me, but I want it the traditional way with my stubborn refusal to do anything else.
I want him to fuck a baby into my belly.
We went to the doctors and they said that I’m not infertile and neither is he, so we were at a loss at what to do. It had to do with my genes as my mother’s side always had low fertility rates; I was the result of years of trying even with her healthy eggs and my father’s sperm.
I nod when I hide the tests in the bathroom drawer. A plan is formulating in my head as I giggle behind my hands. Excitement is boiling in my belly as my heart slams in my ribs. I do the breathing excises that I picked up on the internet, and it works wonders when I feel my nervousness soothing down.
He should be back soon as he promised he would come home for dinner. Derek tells me a time range, and he follows through his words. I love this schedule he has; he can freely come and go or push back a meeting with the people he’s supposed to be collecting debts from.
I gather ingredients for a recipe that Moira’s mom had sent me over text message. It’s a recipe passed down from her previous generations, and it is her saimin noodle soup.
It’s quite simple and too heavy of a meal gives my stomach soreness in the middle of the nights. Derek eats whatever I make him so he’s going to get a bigger bowl than what I eat. My handsome husband is working hard, and I want to take the burden off of his massive shoulders the moment he steps home.
Nighttime is my time to take care of him.
I hum a song, stirring the soup as steam fans in my face. The smell flows throughout the large kitchen while I put the wooden spoon to the side after getting a taste for seasoning.
“I’m home, Rebecca,” Derek comes to stand behind me at the stove, “I missed you. I’m sorry it took longer than I expected.”
He wasn’t late so it’s good. I have no reason to be upset with him even if he did come back late. He calls me to let me know if it happens and he would try to finish his work as soon as possible depending on the complexity of the situation.
I giggle, watching the steaming soup while his hand grips my waist. Spinning around, I hug him with my nose buried in his shirt and lean on my toes to kiss him. He has mercy on my neck and crank down to push against my lips. His breath has a faint minty smell.
“Welcome back,” I breathe, “Dinner is ready.”
“Can you set up the table?”
He nods, murmuring into my cheek, “Of course.”
Kissing me again, Derek smacks my butt, and I let out a yelp. I pout at his smirk, wiggling my nose at him.
Derek gets two bowls and utensils onto the kitchen counter while I portion out the meal, the soup is boiling hot when I pour it over the noodles. The garnishing and final touches create a mouthwatering piece of art that I don’t want to destroy but my stomach is growling.
He takes the bowls with ease and goes into the dining table to put them down. I follow him with the stove off and utensils in my hands.
Dinner goes well; he talks about his day and the morons that he met today, and how they always run as if it’s the only solution. To most, it’s the only appropriate action when facing a loan shark who is the strongest man I know.
I’m also very biased; I think Derek is the best at everything.
When he goes to shower, I wash the dishes quickly and take off the apron to practically leap down the hall to our bedroom. My fingers are clammy and the floor sways. I shake my body and count down numbers in my head.
The tic in my cheek breaks and I twitch awkwardly. The shower turns off while I wait by the bed keenly. All the pregnancy tests are in the bathroom drawers, and he is in there now. I want nature to take its course and let him discover things on his own.
The bathroom door opens with steam rolling out to the bedroom while he rubs his hair with a towel. He’s bare and captivating with his bulky muscles rippling, big cock forming a tent in his black briefs. That tight underwear leaves my eyes no room to imagine anything but the truth, and the truth is that he’s massive and very veiny.
My cheeks redden, burning with humiliation as he cocks a grin at me. My dear husband is a tease, and he knows what his body does to me, especially around my cycle. What he doesn’t know is that this new hormonal change is not from my period, but from something that will shock him.
“Give me ten minutes, dear wife,” he walks up to me and drops a kiss on my head.
I whine, “Please no.”
“It’ll be quick,” he promises.
He has lose-ends to tie up and it shouldn’t take long, but I don’t want to wait. He works so much that I forbid him from working at home, and definitely not near bedtime when we spend the night in each other’s arms.
We compromised with a computer in the room to do emergencies, and this tricky man does more than emergencies because I would catch him doing work at four in the morning. He either never slept or woke up super early to tap on the keyboard. I scowl at him for taking away my cuddle time and his valuable sleep.
He needs sleep because he works too much. His body burns more energy during the day when he chases after money borrowers.
Change of location, but it’s still within my plan. As he sits on the computer chair, I slink into the space for his legs and parts them with my head poking out from the edge of the desk.
Derek cocks an eyebrow down at me and I smile innocently. My bright eyes are scheming and playful when I meet his amused grey eyes. He indulges in my whims, and I watch him wake the computer with a click of a mouse.
If he can know my school schedule, he can predict my cycle too. He knows the passcode to my phone; I have nothing to hide and I trust him. Derek is the one that told me his password first; I didn’t ask for it since I have no use for it, but it’s for emergencies in the future.
“You’re bold tonight,” he remarks suspiciously.
I mentally curse his acute observation, “I just want to take care of my dear husband. Is that so weird?”
“Only if you’re hiding something from me,” he said nonchalantly and I freeze the stroking ministration on his thighs.
Derek impassively asks, “What did that woman put you up to?”
I have to distract him. This is going to ruin my plan if he keeps questioning me. I’m never good at hiding things from him, or he’s too good at interrogation that I’m the worst detainee he’s ever put his hands on.
Tugging on the waistband of his brief with his shower steam emitting onto my fingers, I palm his thick bulge through the fabric. He has no reaction, and I once again mentally curse his ability to be unaffected if he allows himself to focus.
“Tell you later?” I beg, taking the fabric down and his hard shaft bounce out.
It’s glorious with a long vein and intimidating size, a bead of precum falls down, and I catch it with my tongue. I kiss the weeping head, wrapping my lips around the bulbous crown and wiggle my tongue.
I look up, leaving a trail of wetness connecting to my lips and the head. “Don’t you have work?”
He
regards me with scrutinizing eyes. Derek silently starts clicking on his computer, and I get back to my own work. I bite back a smile and dip my hand down to stroke his pulsing shaft, caressing the tip with my other palm before licking my lips.
I lap at his cock, getting it nice and wet with the smoothness and hotness dragging on my tongue. It doesn’t give me a reaction, and this is his way of challenging me as he does all the time.
He’s been trying to get me out of my inexperience shell and do things to see what I like and what I don’t like, and I find that I really like the feeling of his cock on my tongue.
It’s an easy journey when I take him down my throat. I don’t gag anymore when my lips reach the base. I have had too many practices to be an amateur at this, and he says that he’s delighted of me for being able to deepthroat.
I have not been so embarrassed by his vulgar wordings for a while.
I hum softly and that gets me a shuddering groan. He’s a man of his words when he told me that he wants me to take the lead to find my sexual preferences. He said it in a cruder fashion, but it’s about the same.
Bobbing my head until his legs widen, I peer at him through my lashes and his straining concentration on the screen shows through the way his hand had moved from the mouse to clench at the edge of the desk.
He doesn’t force his hand into my hair when I explore, but when I’m not, he takes control of how fast and how deep he wants me to take him. Derek loves yanking my hair while I’m moaning wantonly on his cock; sloppy slurps and painted squeals are his favorite.
His shaft throbs as my throat close around the tip and send a wave of vibrations up his cock, involuntary twitches that are violent and strong pules in my mouth.
“Rebecca,” Derek groans in a low voice, dropping heavily on the back of the chair. It squeaks under his weight, and I cup his full balls while his cock throbs.
“Fuck, you’re addicted,” he perches his elbow on the chair support and tilts his head down to look at me through lustful eyes.
I slurp obscenely on the thick head and pouts wetly. It’s a weakness that he has and will not admit to me. I know how I must look in his eyes, a sex-addict girl on her knees and servicing his cock.