UnConventional

by Chie Alemán

  “It’s okay,” I say, reaching my hand up to mirror him, cradling his cheek.

  He smiles, his right cheek tilting up just enough to give a hint of the expression. “The last girl I dated seriously—Veronica—was…before. While I was still at the firm. We met through a series of royalty disputes—she’s a lawyer too, in-house counsel for a small E&P company. We had a lot of chemistry, but…”

  I’m surprised when he leans in, kissing me, passionately, nibbling my lower lip. I return the kiss, eyes closed, melting into it, not sure where he’s going with this, but loving the way my body comes alive from his touch, his kiss.

  He swallows, presses his forehead to mine. “We were never really…comfortable…with each other,” he says vaguely, pulling away so he can meet my eyes. He takes my hand, lays it on his leg, on top of the support just above his knee, as if to clarify.

  I feel like a thousand tiny bees are buzzing around inside my chest. I can almost hear them. “I liked you from the moment I first saw you on the plane. But then you surprised me in the gym with your chair, and later, with your crutches…” I can barely breathe. “I think they’re…sexy. Your braces too,” I say, my hand on his knee. “I love the way you walk, move…” I swallow hard. My cheeks are on fire; I feel dizzy, ready to pass out. “I love the angle of your body as you lean on your crutches. The creak of your chair. The way your legs feel, especially after you’ve taken off your braces. I loved taking off your braces.” I gulp, but air seems to refuse to enter my body. My head swims; the room swirls around me.

  I can’t meet his eyes, nervous of how he’ll respond. Will he feel betrayed? Like he finally allowed himself to be comfortable with me and I’ve somehow tarnished that by admitting his orthotics get me hot? He’s silent so long I’m ready to melt into the cushion of the futon. I’d rather he yell, cry, call me a pervert. Not saying anything is infinitely worse.

  When he finally speaks, his voice is breathy, amazed. “God, you really are perfect.”

  What? I still feel like I’m going to throw up, a mini storm swirling in my stomach. But he’s smiling, eyes trained on me with that look. “You’re…you’re not mad?”

  He laughs. “Veronica used to walk in front of me. She claimed it was so she wouldn’t trip me. But the truth was, she couldn’t stand to watch me. And honestly, I think…” He inhales sharply. “I embarrassed her. She was okay when I was sitting, my braces and sticks hidden…” He grazes his fingers along the edge of my scalp, his eyes soft, relaxed, happy. “I knew you were different from that first morning together, but…” His hand cradles my cheek. “That you can find my walk, my braces, my crutches, my chair—all of me—sexy… Not just part, not just a role… That you can like me for who I really am…” He plants a sweet, tender peck on my lips, pulling back slowly. “You’re the first woman I feel like I can just be with. No facades, no pretending, no hiding.” His cheek perks up, his skin dimpling. “Just honesty, right?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Santiago offered to take us out to dinner, but I decided I’d prefer to cuddle up with him on the couch, so we’re sitting on the sofa in the living room, eating Chinese straight from the containers—take that, Stephen!—giggling and feeding each other with our cheap wooden chopsticks.

  We’re sitting perpendicular to each other, Santiago leaning into the cushions, and me in my usual lotus position, my back against the arm of the couch, a carton of lo mein in my lap, nestled between my legs. In the background, my phone plays my entire punk library on shuffle, the volume turned down low enough for Santiago and me to talk. Every now and then I forget myself, singing along, mumbling with food in my mouth.

  It makes Santiago laugh, his eyes sparkle. A piece of lo mein catches on my lip, and he leans forward, I think to nudge it off with his finger, but instead, he licks it off, kissing me before pulling back. My body reacts immediately, a heat blooming between my legs.

  “Last Night on Earth” from Green Day’s 21st Century Breakdown comes on, and this time I really can’t help singing along, almost crying at the sweet, sad love song.

  Santiago brushes his fingertips gently on my face, chuckling. “You and your music.”

  I immediately stop singing, my gaze darting to my phone, which rests on the coffee table amid the remains of dinner (it’s linked over Bluetooth to the stereo). “I’m sorry. I hate silence. I can shut it off.”

  I reach for my phone, but he stills my hand, shaking his head and smiling sweetly. “No. Leave it. It actually reminded me.” He clears his throat, shoves his chopsticks into the container, and sets it on the table, then takes both of my hands. “You know Green Day has a concert this Friday at the Mitchell Pavilion, right?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to go, but it’s not much fun alone, and Stephen doesn’t do concerts, unless you count the symphony. Besides. It’s been sold out for months.” My brow crinkles, and I pull my hands away so I can stuff more lo mein in my mouth. Being pregnant has a way of working up the appetite.

  He grins and reaches back for his wallet. Now I’m really confused. “Ah, see, that’s the advantage of having a gimpy boyfriend.” He glances up at me for a moment, before returning to his wallet, opening it. In answer to my continued confusion, he explains, “The Mitchell Pavilion actually has a lot of wheelchair seating, and they’re really good at enforcing it too.” He pauses and starts flipping through his wallet. My heart skips a beat, but I wait for him to finish. “That means that even when a concert is ‘sold out,’ they usually have a few accessible seats left.” He fishes two slips of paper out of the billfold. “I know how much you love punk, so I called, and…” He flashes the paper: tickets. Green Day tickets.

  I squeal, throwing myself on him into a hug, nearly spilling lo mein everywhere. He laughs, deep, relaxed. When I sit back and right the toppled carton, I look at him, straight into those gorgeous chestnut eyes, and I realize I could say it. Right now. Those three words.

  He breaks the gaze briefly to slip the tickets safely back in his wallet, and I suddenly realize I’m not hungry anymore. At least not for Chinese. I clear the carton out of the way, not caring if it spills, and climb into his lap, pressing my mouth against his, quickly deepening the kiss. He tastes like dinner—sweet and spicy and salty and delicious. We kiss for a long time, hands roving over each other, nipping at lips, tongues tracing the contours of our mouths, and when we finally pull back, we’re both panting.

  God, I want him so badly.

  “I can’t believe you’re taking me to see Green Day! In just a few days!”

  He laughs again.

  I meet his eyes, studying them, trying to identify every individual facet of his irises as if committing them to memory. “Make love to me,” I say finally, my voice breathy.

  He draws closer, kissing me, gently, tenderly, almost as if I’ll break if he’s too rough. He has one hand on my hip, his fingers on the curve of my ass, the other in my hair, bracing it. When he finally draws back, I see a glimmer of sadness, maybe even regret, in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He attempts a smile, shakes his head. He tries to pull me in for another kiss, but I resist him.

  “Santiago.”

  He smoothes one of his thumbs gently over my cheekbone. “You said make love to you. I can’t.”

  My eyebrows dip. “What? I don’t understand.”

  He sighs. “I can’t make love to you.”

  A loud, upbeat song starts up. Bowling for Soup’s “Punk Rock 101,” and I wish I could snap my fingers and turn it off.

  “Of course you can. You have.” I slide his hand onto my stomach with a laugh.

  He lowers his head. “I can’t take you now and fuck you on the island. I can’t be on top.”

  I frown. Lift his chin, making him meet my eyes. “That doesn’t matter to me.”

  “You say it doesn’t. But it will.” He sighs heavily. “It always matters.”

  I kiss him lightly, just a brush of my lips against his. This must have to do with Veronica
, the girl he mentioned when he first arrived. It seems as if every time I see his confidence, self-assurance chip away, it’s her I see underneath.

  “I’m not Veronica.” His eyes won’t meet mine, so I move my head, forcing him to bring his gaze to me. Looking him straight in the eyes, I repeat, very clearly, “I am not Veronica.” I only know what he told me about her, but she seems as bad for him as Stephen is for me. “I’ve had ten years of the man being on top. The few times we’ve been together? That’s the most fulfilled I’ve ever been.” My eyes search his, trying to impart my sincerity. “I want you. All of you. Just as you are.” Because that’s who I… I force myself not even to think the L word. I don’t know what I’m talking about, do I? I’m just caught up in hormones. Or am I?

  His eyes soften as they study me, and I feel his fingertips on my hair. Finally his face blooms into a smile, and he positions my arms so they’re wrapped around his neck, freeing up his hands as he manages to shift us both on the couch, pulling his legs up one by one, then lying back. Yellowcard’s “Sing for Me” begins to play, soft and sweet, and it feels so perfect for this moment.

  I shift my legs so I’m straddling him, leaning forward, kissing him, slow, passionately, savoring him. He returns the kiss with equal depth, a hand cradling my neck, and this warm feeling of bliss, blended with lust, ignites my body. The soft, tender way he nibbles and sucks at my lip, my tongue, the gentle way he caresses my body, his heat and pressure, urgent between us, making my stomach a whirlpool of anticipation. No one has ever made my body awaken like this, as if every nerve were firing at its maximum capacity. Being with him, even just kissing, our bodies pressed together, I feel more alive than I ever have before, and this tightness—not entirely unpleasant—grips my chest, stealing my breath.

  I grind my hips against him, back and forth a few times, continuing the kiss, feeling his moan, practically tasting it. I pull my lips away, kissing the edge of his mouth, his jaw, the crook of his neck. He rolls his head to one side, exposing himself to me, while he slides his hands under my shirt, reaching up for the clasp of my bra. He fumbles with it as I suck the delicate skin of his shoulder, teasing it with tongue and lips, pulling up goose bumps and making him shiver.

  My bra releases, and I feel his fingertips delicately tracing my spine, around my ribs, to the undersides of my breasts, and I start to lose focus. I push up, pull my shirt and bra off, and toss them aside. My nipples harden from the cool air and arousal, and his fingers quickly find them, rubbing, pinching them until my back arches and my shoulders tuck as the tingle soars through my entire body.

  I squeeze my thighs; I can feel his braces, the metal of the supports hard against my legs. I place a hand on his chest and pull back, away from him.

  He frowns, disappointed and confused.

  “Let’s clean up and take this to the office,” I say, grinning. I drag my fingers down his chest toward his crotch, rubbing them over the bulge a few times teasingly. I try to pull away, but he grabs my wrist and presses my hand against him. He’s still fully dressed, and I want him naked. Now. “Check that. I’ll clean up. You, go to the office, strip, and wait for me.” I’m surprised by my commanding tone.

  He studies me, then grins. He dances his fingertips over my ribs one last time and helps me off his lap. I snag my phone and shut it off, immediately gathering cartons and trash. He uses his hands to push himself up, then pulls his legs off the couch one by one.

  “Let me help you with that,” he says.

  “Nope,” I say, hopping closer and planting a playful peck on the tip of his nose. “You have a mission: get naked so I can fuck you rotten as soon as the living room’s clean.”

  He chuckles, grabs his crutches. I feel charged with energy as he pushes himself to his feet and I shove the leftovers into the fridge.

  * * * *

  I’ve discarded my clothes, including my necklace, by the time I reach the office. My stomach does that wonderful flip when I step inside and see Santiago, sitting naked on the open futon, one leg stretched, the other bent, his hands on his foot and ankle. The desk lamp casts the only light softly across the room. His braces and crutches lean against the wall nearby, his clothes folded on the desktop. He eases his fingers over his ankle, his thumb pressing into it carefully, before shifting to his foot to flex it: first down, then up. I hear him hiss as he does this; he doesn’t notice me at first.

  “They really hurt you?” I say softly, mostly to myself but loud enough he stops and looks up at me, sheepish.

  “Sometimes,” he says, abandoning his task and beckoning me over.

  I sit on the far end of the mattress, near his feet. I trace a hand lightly over his shin, glancing up at him as I continue my finger’s trail along the bridge of his foot. “You stretch every day?”

  “Twice,” he says, watching the way I weave my fingertips over his skin, barely touching him, just a graze. I hear his breath catch.

  “I’d like it if someday…you’d teach me how.”

  “You want to help me stretch?” he asks, bewildered.

  I nod.

  He studies me, then drops his eyes to my fingers, still tracing along his lower legs and feet. Suddenly nervous, I still my hand.

  “Is this part of your…thing?” There’s no judgment in his voice, only curiosity.

  “No!” I say a little too forcefully, blushing fiercely.

  He chuckles, reaches for my hand, and places it back on his foot, as if granting permission for me to continue smoothing it.

  I swallow, resuming my tracing; although my stomach’s knotted, the fact that he wants me to touch his feet makes my heart light. “Okay. Maybe a little. But, honestly? I feel like you’ve done so much for me.”

  He laughs. “All I did was get you pregnant…maybe.”

  I smile. “I’ve just realized, more and more…I want to do things for you too. Little things. I know you don’t need it, but I want to be there to help you anyway.” My blush reignites, and I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m being stupid.”

  He nudges me with his toes, forcing me to look up. His arms are open, so I crawl toward him, letting him hold me. “Ay, linda,” he says. He’s silent a moment. “Veronica hated my feet; she thought they were repulsive, and she never wanted to see them.” He sighs. “For a long time, I thought she was right.”

  I pull back so I can see his face. “But…why? Your feet are sexy. Just like the rest of you.”

  He smiles, soft, amazed. He pushes his leg down, directs me onto my side. I watch as he mirrors my pose, his touch on my body light, as if I were something delicate, precious. My heart rattles in my chest, the tiny hairs covering my body on edge, tingling with electricity and anticipation.

  “I’m going to make you sing tonight,” he says in a throaty voice, teasing my nipples, breasts, ribs. Santiago grips my hip, rotating me onto my back, shifting our bodies until our skin touches almost from shoulder to toe. He lifts one of my legs, nudging it between his, my thigh pressed against his cock. I rub it for his benefit as he begins kissing me—soft, tender pecks—creating a trail along my upper body until he reaches my right nipple. He takes it in his mouth, caressing it with his tongue before beginning to suck oh so gently. I’m honestly not sure which feels better: his mouth, or the way his entire body seems to embrace me, warming me to my core.

  He slides one hand down, pausing briefly on my belly. I hold his hand there, and he pulls off, meeting my eyes, gazing at me, mouth open, as if he means to say something. Instead, he takes a quick breath and pulls me even tighter. I don’t have long to think before he’s sucking me again, his other hand gliding down, smoothing over my bump, his fingers easing, tickling their way into me.

  My senses are overwhelmed: the heat of his body against mine; the soft wetness of his mouth on my erect nipple; his urgent pressure against my leg; the smell of both our arousals mixed with sweat and the lingering spice of dinner; the sound of his ragged breathing; the little, soft moan he makes when I press back against him, doing th
e work his weak hips can’t.

  As I ease my leg against him, rubbing and pushing harder and faster, he loses his ability to focus. Pulling away from my breast, he rests his forehead on my shoulder, his breath hot against my skin, making me tingle. He lets me stroke him with my body until he’s so hard it hurts me, but I don’t pull away. He wraps one arm around me, using his other to roll us over, him on his back, me on top of him. I can feel his stickiness on my belly, and when I look, I see he’s fully hard, pressed up against his stomach, leaking. I want to touch him.

  I rub my palm over the tip, spreading his precum on my fingers. He shudders, sighs as I stroke him, his skin shifting beneath my hand.

  “Inside you…” he manages to sputter.

  I shift, rub him against my clit, teasing, sliding along him so he’s at my entrance, but pulling back before he can penetrate. He moans in complaint. His hands rove my body as he plants tender kisses wherever he can. He lets me taunt him like this for a while, until it finally gets too much and he grips my hips, attempting to shove me onto him. I laugh at the sensation, helping him ease in, moaning at the fullness, reveling in the connection between us. He’s a master of guiding me on him, setting the pace, slow, tender, yet urgent, so I hum on the brink of orgasm, like a balloon floating up, up, up, just waiting to burst at any moment.

  I could stay this way forever.

  We rock together like this for several minutes, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so blissful. Our eyes meet, and I lean forward, meeting his lips for a kiss, pushing him deeper so that the combination of his stretching me, the warmth of his body against mine, and the sweet saltiness of his tongue transport me to another plane of being. I’m not singing, but only because my vocal chords seem to have forgotten how to do anything other than moan.

  Suddenly, he spears me hard, pressing me down forcefully, pushing his way into the deepest part of me, causing us to grunt together. I lean forward, bracing myself on his shoulders, rocking my body in time to his more urgent movements, his strong forearms doing most of the work. Without warning, orgasm washes over me; like a pin piercing my balloon, I explode, the muscles in my thighs, stomach, pussy contracting fiercely before they relax, my tension evaporating. I want to slip into sleep, but I can sense his desperation as he continues to press me toward him, anxious for his own release.