The Weight of Life

by Whitney Barbetti

  I danced around him a little, flitting about the room. The table he leaned against was bigger, meant for a larger party than most of the others. And I avoided it entirely as I took in the room.

  There was a light dust stirred up from our presence that lent a romantic feel to the room. Like we’d stepped back into time, and had disturbed a place long untouched.

  Over and over, I walked past him, but never close enough to touch him.

  The fish tank was half-way finished. A layer of blue and green rock was poured into the bottom, and some bright, artificial green plants were slightly buried into the rock. But without water, it looked eerie—like a ghost town in a fish tank.

  “When I was younger, I had a fish tank like this one.” My fingers curled over the lip and I squeezed. “I didn’t have a lot of pets growing up. But I had fish, because they didn’t need a lot of tending to. I had one fish in particular—a Cory Cat. Nothing special to look at, but it was the only fish that thrived in my tank. Even when I neglected it.” I smiled, thinking of the memory.

  “When my parents moved, we had to transfer the fish to a temporary tank, and my father kept saying, ‘It’s going to die. Might as well flush it.’” I sobered up a little then, thinking how funny it was that my father, a man with a son whose life was often just one delicate slip from ending, could be so callous about the life of a harmless fish. “But it lived. I moved it to the new tank and added fish to keep it company, but eventually they all died off except for that Cory Cat fish. I didn’t understand how it could keep living. I was horrible at remembering to clean the tank, and I often bought those long-term feeders for it, because I was just terrible at remembering to feed the poor thing.”

  I looked over my shoulder at Ames, who still leaned against the table.

  “I went away, to spend a month with a girlfriend. My brother, Jude, promised me he’d take care of the fish. When I came home, the fish was dead—through no fault of Jude’s. The tank was probably cleaner than when I’d first purchased it. But it was still dead. It was the first time I’d lost anything of value, and it was just this fish that couldn’t have cost more than a buck, a fish I could’ve replaced with one quick trip to the pet store. But I couldn’t.” I trailed my hand over the fake green plant. “It was just a stupid fish.”

  “But it was yours.”

  “It was.” I hadn’t had a lot of things that were just mine growing up, and remembering the fish now only illuminated that fact. “You should get Cory Cats when you fill this.”

  His face went a little sad and he looked away. “I would, but I’m afraid that that tank will soon be gone.” He waved his hand around. “Along with the rest of this.”

  I found myself gravitating toward him. “Why?”

  “Taxes, for one. We’ve had this for far too long and I just haven’t had the time to put into restoring it.”

  I remembered what Lotte had talked about in her studio. “But Lotte told me how she wants to—”

  He looked at me. “I know, and I can only imagine what she told you. But I can’t—I won’t let her let go of that building to save mine.”

  Because I was close enough, I placed my hand on his chest. With him leaning against the table, we were nearly eye level. “It’s just sad to me, that you have to walk away.”

  “That’s what we have to do sometimes.” He put a tentative hand on my waist and rubbed gently with his thumb. “But it’ll be alright.”

  Alright wasn’t enough to me, but I didn’t press it when it was obviously a sore subject for him. I stepped closer until I was standing between his legs. His other arm came around my back, holding me securely to him. He searched my eyes for a moment. “You’re beautiful, Mila.”

  I couldn’t remember if it was the first compliment he’d given me, but it was definitely the first time I felt it melt right into me. “Ames.”

  “Come on, I have more to show you.”

  I backed up, but he put a hand around my waist before I could move too far. Ames slipped his fingers into mine and pulled me toward the door in the back. The heavy door swung open to another dark room. Without letting go of my hand, he searched for another switch on the wall. A few lights sputtered on before illuminating a completely renovated kitchen. This area was so much different than the restaurant that still sat with wear and tear.

  “It’s so different back here,” I commented, touching the stainless steel island that ran from the wall halfway across the room.

  “It’s not much, but it’s a start. It was a start.”

  There were no appliances yet, but plenty of open, gleaming counters. I loosened my hold and let my fingers slip from his and walked toward the white stone across from the stainless steel island. It was cold to the touch, but so smooth and shiny under the lights. Flecks of silver in the counter glittered.

  “It’s so clean.”

  Ames hand moved to my waist and he turned me to face him. “I admit, I did clean this part.” His smile was playful, and he leaned toward me. “I’m proud of this space back here. It took a lot of work.”

  I leaned back, and spread my arms across the granite. “You did a good job.”

  I was stretched back; my body open to his. I wasn’t exactly subtle. The hand on my waist tightened before his other hand mirrored it, squeezing my waist from both sides.

  When he lifted me to the counter, I couldn’t help the squeal that escaped my lips. I dropped my head to his shoulder and laughed, and judging from the way his shoulders bounced, he was laughing too. I turned my head just an inch, but it was enough to bring my lips to the side of his neck, where I pressed a kiss. His steady breathing had a slight hitch, and he gripped either side of my thighs so gently that had it not been for the thin material of my skirt, I wouldn’t have felt it.

  I pressed another kiss to his neck, this time an open-mouthed one. And it lasted longer than the last one.

  He cleared his throat and turned his head toward me, effectively trapping me in. “What are you doing to me?”

  My lips moved up his neck to his jaw and I whispered against his skin, “Probably, hopefully, the very same thing you’re doing to me.”

  He pulled back, and held my face in his hands, forcing me to look him in the eyes. I wrapped my arms around his back, pulling him in between my legs from where I sat on the counter. His fingers moved into my hair.

  His eyes were heated, his lips slightly parted. I could feel the unsteadiness in his pulse, the way it began beating faster and faster.

  “Kiss me,” I whispered, feeling completely wanton.

  He gripped my chin in his hold, and then moved his lips to the hollow of my cheek. My eyelids fluttered closed as he continued along the line to my ear, dropping warm, solid kisses on my skin.

  It was like slowly being buried by wave after wave. This wasn’t instantaneous—this was the most exquisite torture. I was feeling every single second of my arousal building, every single hitch of breath, and the tightening of each of his fingers as he gripped tighter and tighter. I’d always thought passion was hot and heavy and fast—but this slow rhythm and the way he paced himself as his fingers moved over my body, made me realize I knew nothing at all about sex. This was more than a hurried chance between two bodies—this was an exploration.

  My fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, pulling and pulling, even though he was already as close as he could be.

  His lips met mine, and it was lazy and wonderful and agonizingly slow. I was being savored, and he was taking every single second to taste, to tease, to thrill.

  When his hand covered my knee, I barely suppressed a full body shudder. The slow sips of kisses had primed me in a way I hadn’t expected, so having him touch me—skin to skin—was barely more than I could endure without exploding from the sheer anticipation of it.

  He moved higher up, higher and higher, until his hand reached the hem of my skirt. He paused and I met his eyes, which were already looking for mine. Then, as our eyes held, his hand slipped up the skirt, his thumb brushing ove
r the most sensitive part of my body.

  It was insanely intimate, having him watch me for my reaction to that kind of touch. In the quiet of his kitchen, all I could hear was the hum of the lights above us and our quick breaths, and then the sound of fabric rustling as his finger touched the elastic of my panties.

  I held my breath, my entire body on edge. My nails were digging in more and more into his back, and I was sure I would be leaving marks on his skin.

  His thumb didn’t breach the elastic, but instead just rubbed back and forth along it, driving me crazier and crazier, until my hands bunched up and pulled on his shirt.

  “Take it off,” I half-whispered, half-growled.

  I nearly cried in sadness when his hand came out from under my skirt, but then he bent his arms over his head, grabbing the back of his sweater, and pulled it up and over his head. It was a move I’d only seen in movies, and it was absurdly hot watching him yank it off, leaving his hair a mess that I was itching to make messier.

  But I halted from touching it once I looked at his chest. Twin-inked sparrows were suspended just under his collarbone on either side of his chest, their long wings crossing over the top line of his pec. I traced one of the sparrows, and felt his heart thump hard under my fingers. I met his heavy-lidded eyes and felt my stomach bottom out between us.

  There was an anchor on his bicep, and I was so surprised by the amount of ink on his skin that I’d been completely unaware of that I nearly forgot what we’d been doing before I’d been distracted.

  His hand moved to where my shirt was tucked into the waist band of my skirt and with his other hand, he gently pushed me until my arms were spread behind me, bracing myself on the counter top. With unhurried and steady hands, he pulled my shirt from the waistband, allowing the cool air of the unheated room to flash over my stomach.

  He gripped the hem of my shirt and kept his eyes on mine as he lifted it, higher and higher, until he was able to slip my head through the neck hole. He was leaning over me, our chests touching. He pulled the shirt fully over my head and behind me, caging my arms while they were still trapped in the holes.

  His hands glided over my chest, over my breasts, toying with the lace that enveloped them. He traced the curve down to where the cups met, hooking his finger in the center and pulling me up so that his mouth could close over mine.

  The combination of the cool air against my skin and his hot hands, and hotter mouth, was sensory overload. I pressed as much as I could against him, but he still trapped my arms behind me with my shirt.

  His mouth left mine to trail down the side of my face, pressing warm kisses to the underside of my jaw, to the place where neck met shoulder, and across my collarbone. I knew I was writhing, anxious to release my hands so I could torture him the way he was torturing me. But his lips kept going, down and down, over the cups of my bra, and his hand pulled the strap down on one side before he tucked his fingers into the cup and tugged it from its hold on me.

  I didn’t have giant breasts, but seeing his hand close over one of them, they felt exactly the perfect size. My nipple pebbled in the cool air, but his warmth made me understand the pleasures of hot and cold, and how they worked together.

  His mouth replaced his hand, and when he looked up at me, my nipple in his mouth, I felt I could have dissolved right then. Change my body from solid to liquid in his hands.

  I tugged against the hand he held at my back. “Let me go,” I whispered, desperate to touch him, to get closer, until I couldn’t tell where he began and I ended.

  “So impatient.” He let go and placed a hand at my back to support me while I tugged the shirt the rest of the way off, and when I was free I slipped my hands between his skin and the top of his jeans, my nails grazing over the happy trail that disappeared into his pants. My chest was heaving, my breasts rising and falling with each quick breath I took. I wrapped my hand around his neck and yanked him to me, planting my lips fully on his—taking control the way he’d taken control of me.

  His fingers weaved through my hair, tugging and bunching, making me aware of every little pleasure point on my body. He pulled on it hard enough to look me in the eyes. “Are you sure?”

  I couldn’t help it: I laughed. My whole body shook, and tears bunched up at the corner of my eyes. I dropped my head to his shoulder. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  His touch gentled, and he pushed the hair that had fallen over my shoulders away. He pressed his palm flat to my chest, right in the center of my breasts. “God, Mila. I find you…” he swallowed, and I saw how his chest was heaving too. “Fucking irresistible. But I don’t want to rush you—”

  I closed my mouth over his in a hot kiss before pulling away. “Shut up, Ames. Don’t stop touching me unless you want me to destroy this kitchen.”

  He laughed, and I loved the way it reverberated through his chest and against mine. “Let’s do it anyway.”

  Before I could say another word, he yanked me off the counter and hooked his arm under me. My legs wrapped around his waist as he carried me, and I giggled as he moved me across the room. Things rustled across the floor, newspaper and empty paint cans that rolled away from us.

  He set me on the stainless island in the midst of a mess and pressed his mouth hot to mine. “Lean back.” His voice was so commanding, so sure, that I became instantly compliant and laid back, gasping when my skin hit the cool steel, my legs hanging over the edge.

  His hands slid under my skirt, wrapping around the waistband of my panties and pulling them swiftly off, tossing them across the room.

  The determination, the heat, in his eyes made me forget all about the cold counter beneath me. How could I be cold, when he was looking at me like this?

  His hand swept over either side of me, knocking things off the counter so that they rolled to the floor, providing the music of this moment.

  A paint can clattered and his pants unzipped.

  A bag of tools banged on its fall to the floor and his pants dropped.

  “This island is on wheels,” he said, as a loud click sounded in the air.

  Oh shit. My heart was thundering as he grabbed me by the ankles and gently pushed so that the table I laid on slid feet away from him. He spread my legs and then pressed his mouth to my calf. In all my years of sexual activity, I couldn’t recall ever being kissed there—and judging by the way my body squirmed, I knew I’d remember being kissed right there. His lips moved up my leg, and with each inch, he pulled the table ever so slowly back toward him.

  I was burning, my body on the edge of combustion, when his lips moved over my knee and up my thigh. With a wicked glint in his eye, he flipped my skirt up and his mouth grazed over my center. I went cross-eyed, and nearly bucked clear off the table. But, just as his mouth touched me there, he pushed the island away, and started the process again on my other leg.

  “Aaames,” I moaned, more impatient than I had ever been in my whole life.

  But he said nothing, just pulled the table slowly and slowly closer to him as he had before. When his mouth hit the top of my thigh, I pushed myself up and threw myself at him.

  The island loudly slid away as we fell to the ground. I reached behind me and unsnapped my bra, before he ripped it off of me and threw it across the room. When I leaned down to kiss him, he flipped me to my back and sat back to pull a condom out of the pocket of the jeans he’d discarded.

  I didn’t care that I was laying on dusty newspaper. I didn’t care that we were surrounded by painting supplies. I couldn’t find it in myself to care about anything except the moment when Ames leaned over and checked to see that I was ready.

  A smile curved my lips. “You really think I’m not ready?”

  He laughed, leaned over and kissed me. His mouth pulled away just long enough for him to whisper, “Shut up,” against my lips before he slid into me.

  Pleasure speared through me, making my body desperate. Arms and legs wrapped around him before releasing and then repeating it again. It was as if I had no c
ontrol over my body, over how it responded to him. I was a slave to my own submission for him, a facet of myself I didn’t know existed until that moment.

  Over and over, he rocked into me. As he drove me higher and higher, my back arched sharper and sharper, and I thought I’d split in half from the sheer intensity of it.

  He gripped my hips and lifted them as he moved to his knees and increased his pace. The difference in angle sent me reeling, twisting my body left and right, seeking the release I was so needy for.

  When it finally exploded into me, my voice sounded foreign to my own ears. Incoherent sounds came from my lips but I was so overwhelmed by the sensations bursting along my skin that I couldn’t focus on anything—not a single thing.

  He buried his head into my neck and huffed out heavy breaths before he slowed and collapsed on top of me.

  After several seconds, he rolled off me, but pulled me so that I covered him. His breathing was evening out, but mine still felt so shallow, and my warmed body started realizing that I was naked except for a skirt.

  The rustling to my left had me lifting my head to look at Ames.

  “What are you doing?”

  He smiled, and my heart fell over in my chest at the warm look in his eyes, the sweat that curled one tendril of hair across his forehead. “I don’t suppose newspaper is a suitable blanket.”

  What was it about him, that made me find every little thing he said or did so fascinating? I propped my chin on his chest. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I have plastic sheets.” He tilted his head back and looked at the sheets that hung from the kitchen to the restaurant.

  “That’s only necessary if you plan to Dexter me.”

  He laughed, and his fingers grazed up my arm. “I don’t have a boat.”

  I laughed, and felt the urge to wrap my arms around him and squeeze. When he was playful like this, I was amazed by just how much it affected me.