by B. L. Berry
He sighs in defeat. Though I secretly wish he would come down here. “Okay. Let me rephrase that. Henley, I’m coming down there to snuggle with you. I miss having you next to me. I don’t care if we can’t fit comfortably. It won’t be nearly as uncomfortable as it is up here without you.”
The man is a damn mind reader.
There’s a thud on the floor in the dark next to me, and I feel his weight cause the mattress to sink down. I scoot my back to the wall as far as I can to make room for him. The poor guy is clinging for dear life with half of his ass hanging off the side of the bed. He wraps his arms around me tight and nestles his face against the crook of my neck. The heat of his breath skimming my skin feels nice. I inhale slowly, savoring the lingering scent of spice from his body wash.
“I am so sorry this hasn’t turned out quite as I had planned. I will make it up to you tomorrow when we get to San Diego, I promise.”
“It’s okay. As long as we’re together that’s all that really matters.”
And that’s the truth.
He’s silent for a while, and his breathing slows to an even cadence. Just when I think he’s fallen asleep, he speaks again.
“Henley?”
“Yeah, babe?” I sigh. At this rate, we’re never going to fall asleep.
“We can tell each other anything, right?”
My heart stutters. I’m not sure what the rest of his comment will bring. I’m not sure I want to know either. I swallow hard and brace myself for the pending explosion of his truth bomb. “Of course. You know you can say anything to me. We are an open book with each other.”
He gently brushes his hands up and down the length of my arm. It sends shivers of delight down my spine. “Well…” He pauses thoughtfully and speaks the following words softly, almost timidly. “I’ve always kinda wanted to … you know … fool around in my childhood bedroom?” He says it like a question and not a confession. Like he’s asking for permission.
My eyes go wide, and I try not to laugh in disbelief. “I think that’s a perfectly normal fantasy to have.” Though I know that fantasy isn’t the right word for the occasion because I can’t think of any fantasy that involves bunk beds.
“And I remember what you told me about that guy back in college … and the sleeping dorms … and how awful that whole experience was.”
I'm thankful it's dark so he can't see the heat rising in my cheeks. Ugh. Why did I even tell him that? And furthermore, why is he even bringing it up now? Because if he’s insinuating sex, Leo is the last person I want invading my headspace.
“I wasn’t thinking about that, but I am now,” I say with a sigh. But I can tell he’s trying. And that’s more than what Leo ever did — tenfold. “That’s not exactly the best way to seduce me, Mr. I Participated in the 1995 Field Games and have an amazing ribbon to show for it.”
“Hey, I took second in the three-legged race, thank you very much.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “All I’m saying is that I don’t think bunk beds are all that bad, and you got a bad bunk experience. And maybe, just maybe, with the right person, you could have a positive bunkin’ up moment in a bunk bed memory. Because you’re worth a lifetime of positive experiences.”
I can’t lie. I don’t hate the suggestion. I just hate that Leo got to it first. “Is that so?”
“Yep.”
“You are something else, Jeff.”
“I’m that … among many other things.” Jeff moves his arm underneath the covers and splays his palm against the outside of my thigh, making small circles with his fingertips as they creep toward the edge of my nightgown. My body is so sensitive I instinctually release a pleasurable, inviting sigh.
His lips find mine, and I can feel him smile against me as he indulges in one of those I-need-to-take-you-right-now kind of kisses. And I oblige, running my hand through his hair to deepen the kiss.
As much as my head says this is a bad idea, we both know I’m going to throw caution to the wind and give Jeff exactly what he wants. We’re flirting with disaster with his parents only a few rooms away, but screw flirting. It’s time to fuck disaster and give it the goddamned orgasm it deserves.
His kiss becomes more frantic as he kicks the layers of quilts off of us and starts to kiss his way down my neck and to my shoulders.
“Jeff,” I breathe. His hands slip under the thin fabric as he delicately kisses my shoulder, slowly at first, then with increasing speed as he makes his way to my collarbone before nipping his teeth against my jawline.
“Yes?” he muses softly, before pulling my nightgown up and over my head.
“Keep doing that. Whatever you do, keep doing that.”
Jeff continues to nip at my skin playfully while his hand strokes in between my thighs, hitting everywhere except the one spot I crave the most. I do what I can to try and roll toward him, but it’s no use. There’s too much belly and not enough bed.
“No, no … just relax,” he whispers as he pushes his weight up into his hands and leans down to kiss me deeply. “Let me take care of you tonight.”
My knees go weak at the thought, and I surrender any kind of resistance.
Jeff pauses and sits up as much as possible without hitting his head on the underside of the top bunk, surveying the best way to tackle our situation.
“This isn’t going to work. At least not like this.” I hide the sexual frustration in my voice as best as I can, because the thought of doing it in his childhood bedroom is kind of hot on some bizarre unchartered territory level.
“Just trust me,” he says as determination takes over. He nails me with that panty-dropping, adrenaline inducing, clit-searing mischievous smile.
And I do trust him. Implicitly.
“Lock the door,” I whisper.
Jeff stands and crosses the floor in record time, kicking his pajama pants and boxers to the floor when he returns. His swollen head springs to life right before my eyes in the soft glow of the streetlight streaming through the blinds. I reach out to stroke him, but he shakes his head slowly.
“Nuh-uh. I said I’m taking care of you.” He groans at me hungrily before hooking his fingers inside the elastic of my panties. Jeff pulls them off ever so slowly, never once taking his carnal eyes off of mine. That look alone sends a shock wave straight to my core. And for the first time ever, I believe those trashy novels where a woman could, in fact, be brought to orgasm without ever being physically touched.
But touching is more than half the fun. And damn, I never want to be one of those poor, unfortunate women. Though the thought of an orgasm without the work can’t be all bad.
Jeff kneels on the floor next to the bed and pulls my ass close to him in one fell swoop.
His tongue is pressed between my thighs, flicking and sucking as he hitches my left leg over his shoulder. My pulse races, and my head quickly becomes dizzyingly light, and I fight the words crowding in my mouth. I want to shout that if he stops, I’m going to spontaneously combust.
Keep it quiet, Henley.
It’s damn near impossible, and before I remember where I am, I’m whimpering, begging for more.
But before I can even articulate the words, Jeff stands and repositions me on my knees on the bed. I’m bent over on all fours to avoid hitting my head on the top bunk, but just when I’m about to protest, he leans down to kiss my shoulder and wraps his arms around my body, caressing my breasts, my stomach and then trails his fingers down to my clit. Jeff’s hands are urgent and skillful. He’s eager, but it’s clear he wants to take his time and appreciate the newfound curves of my changing body.
Holy fucking hell. That feels so damn good. Every inch of my body is on fire, and I rub my backside against him, trying to contain the moans growing in the back of my throat.
With one hand firmly teasing the nipple of my left breast, Jeff runs the fingers of his right hand up and down my slick seam before thrusting them inside me. Instinctively I cry out at the sensation, and I can hear his breath hitch at my readiness.
“Shit, Henley.”
And all I can respond with is a breathy, “Please.”
Jeff positions himself against my body and without hesitation, plunges deep inside. We both take a moment to collect ourselves as we melt into each other, and then on cue, savage instinct takes over. There’s an energy about him that’s usually reserved for horny teenage boys.
I have to keep my eyes closed because each time I open them and look at my surroundings, I’m being stared at and judged by tiny figurines atop trophies and well-loved stuffed animals, and it’s kind of ruining my buzz. At least with my eyes closed, I can simply pretend that we’re back in our bed at home.
We’re finding our rhythm and flow in the most precarious of positions, and I reach out and grab part of the headboard to brace myself because I’m getting alarmingly close all too quickly. Tara was right, pregnant sex is completely different — and arguably better — than regular sex. Everything is significantly more sensitive, and I feel like I’m this glowing sex goddess and anything with a penis has come to worship my blossoming body. Jeff is hitting all the right spots in all the right ways, and it’s fucking glorious.
I mutter a string of obscenities under my breath because I have no idea how I’m expected to silence what is surely building to be an outrageous orgasm of seismic proportions. He quickens his pace and makes swift work on my clit making my body quiver in ecstasy.
“Oh, God,” I pray as I’m traipsing dangerously close to the point of no return. I’m short of breath and seeing stars, and I’m covered in lust and sweat, and it’s all too much and not nearly enough all at the same time.
“Fuck, Jeff!” I cry out and clench on even harder to the bed.
Then without warning, something shifts and the bottom bunk snaps in half, sending us crashing to the floor.
“Ow! Fuck!” My hand is smashed in between the broken bunk bed and the wall.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?” Jeff panics, pushing himself back to his feet and quickly lifting part of the bed up and off of me.
Suddenly the door flies open, and I’m blinded by the overhead light.
“What was that? Are you guys all right?”
I gasp.
Martha gasps.
And then Jeff gasps, completing the trifecta of what the fuck just happened.
“Mother! Get! Out!”
Jeff’s full moon is in clear view as he attempts to shield my body amid the splintered wood at our feet, and Martha’s face turns as white as her pearl earrings as she processes the scene.
Why do we keep getting interrupted in this position?
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” she squeaks as she covers her eyes and quickly backs out of the door, closing it behind her. We hear a muffled conversation as we search for our clothes. “No! Don’t go in there, they’re fine. The uh, the bed is broken. It’s no big deal. Jeff’s got it under control.”
“Fuck,” he says, raking his fingers through his hair. “Are you okay?”
I do a quick assessment and realize that I’m not physically in any pain. And then I laugh, a hearty belly laugh. Because that’s really all there is to do in the horrifying moment where you’re fucking in your finance’s childhood bedroom on a bunk bed that is ten sizes too small for two grown adults, break said bunk bed, and then flash a full moon to his mother.
“Thank God,” he says as he holds me close. “And the baby?”
I feel a little kick inside, and smile. “It’s moving right now. And I’m not in pain, so I think we’re okay. But I’ll call and get an appointment scheduled tomorrow, just to make sure.”
He exhales in relief, probably not even realizing that he was holding his breath.
“Good.”
Jeff reaches down to the floor and passes me my nightgown and panties before slipping into his own boxer shorts and pajama pants.
I'm thankful that we escaped this moment without injury and only slight mortification. In retrospect, this could have played out a lot worse.
I turn toward the bathroom to get myself cleaned up. “Oh, and babe?” I say from the doorway.
“Yeah?” He looks up at me as he's pulling the mattresses from the debris to create a makeshift bed on the floor … something we probably should have done in the first place.
Hindsight’s a bitch like that.
“Thanks for locking the door.” I throw a wink over my shoulder and close the bathroom door.
ELEPHANTS
To say the past few months have been rough is an understatement.
“Oh, the morning sickness will subside when you reach the second semester!” they said.
“You’ll have more energy and feel great!” they said.
I want to find whoever “they” are and hex them to a lifetime of morning sickness where they can only dry heave glitter. Because let’s be honest, glitter is awesome.
And a bitch to clean up.
The toilet and I have become close friends. Jeff has been pretty great about it all. He holds my hair back just like Tara used to do after a long night of binge drinking back in college. All in all, he’s a champ considering his track record with anything remotely squeamish and medical. But if he offers me ginger ale and saltines one more time, I may lose my shit. I make sure to remind him that this is all his fault on a regular basis. Because when you really think about it, it is.
I’m no Virgin Mary incarnate!
Being pregnant is just … weird. Like weird in that way that French kissing is simply tasting someone else’s mouth. Or how a balloon is simply a plastic bag of hot air. There’s really no other way to describe it. Half the time I can’t tell if I’m having gas or premature contractions. The instant I walk out of the bathroom, I have to pee again. That pregnant glow my mom keeps complimenting me on? It’s just sweat. Which means I’m “glowing” all the damn time. And my sex drive is a sling shot. I’m either revved and ready to go with a single hungry glance, or repulsed and closed up tighter than Fort Knox. Even so, I recently find myself wanting to punch Jeff in the face every time I look at him in spite of my inexplicable raging horniness.
Feeling the baby kick for the very first time wasn’t this amazing, miraculous moment. It was really fucking freaky. It’s like this kid already hates me since it’s beating me up from the inside out. And just last week I had a nightmare that my labor and delivery mirrored the scene in Spaceballs where the tap dancing alien burst through John Hurt’s stomach to a rousing rendition of Howard and Emerson’s Hello! Ma Baby. I woke up traumatized with my pillowcase drenched in sweat. I mean drenched in pregnant glow.
Aside from this constantly growing list of amazing moments on the road to motherhood, things have been relatively normal. It’s summer break, and I haven’t even thought about updating lesson plans for the upcoming year. Nor do I plan on thinking about them until a week or so before school resumes next month.
Nobody warns you about the horrors of being pregnant in the summer. It is akin to being a fiery furnace lounging on the surface of the sun. Whenever I set the thermostat to a temperature I’m finally comfortable with, Jeff is wearing wool sweaters and thick socks. And don’t get me started on the sweat. There’s back sweat, boob sweat, ass sweat, belly sweat, baby sweat, south of the border sweat, and the meat sweat which come regardless of if I’ve eaten meat or not. Naturally, a cool shower has become my second home.
Which is where I find myself now on this ninety-two-degree day. Actually, night because it’s pushing seven o’clock and I’m quite enjoying the feeling of cold water running over my body.
I’ve finally rinsed the shaving cream out of my long auburn hair because pregnancy brain strikes again and I’m incapable of putting a coherent thought together when I’m this cranky, swollen, and sticky. It’s not the first time I’ve tried to wash my hair with something other than shampoo — and I doubt it’ll be my last.
“Babe!” I call out from the bathroom as I turn the water off, prepared to venture back out into the heat. I hear Jeff come stampeding down the tiny hall an
d watch as his disembodied head pops through the crack in the door.
“Yeah, hon? Need me to help you shave your legs again?” He gives me a hopeful smile.
I feel my face turn red and try to push that memory out of my mind. I still have scars from all the skin he accidentally chipped off my legs. It was the thought that counts. Even in his faults, he’s sickeningly perfect for me.
“No, not this time. I was wondering if you could pass me that towel.” I point to the backside of the door where a fluffy blue towel is hanging on a hook. The bathroom is long and narrow, making everything virtually out of reach. Whoever designed this apartment was left with a random strip of space and decided it’d be a good bathroom. And if you were the size of a twig, it would serve its purpose well.
“Oh … sure.” Jeff sounds disappointed but hands the towel to me. I cautiously step out of the shower and prop one leg up on the ledge of the tub to dry it off. And that’s when I see it. Or rather don’t see it.
Oh my God.
Traitor tears prick the edges of my eyes, and I suddenly feel short of breath.
Jeff sees the panic and is instantly at my side, worry crinkling the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Henley?” He says my name delicately, like he’s afraid to tip the scales and watch his fiancée come crumbling down.
“Oh my God! It’s gone … it’s gone!!” I gasp as the floodgates open, and I start to sob freely.
“What’s gone? Your engagement ring?” Jeff storms through the bathroom, flipping over everything on the counter and searching for my ring.
“No! Not my ring!” I suck in air and snot in a high-pitched wheeze. “My ankle! My ankles have disappeared!!”
Jeff stops in his tracks and whips his head at me in an alarmingly fast snap. When he sees my engagement ring still on my finger, he howls in high-pitched laughter to the point he can’t even breathe.
“It’s not funny.” I scowl and wipe the tears from my eyes. He covers his face and tries to contain his laughter. “I have some really adorable sandals that strap up the ankles that I’ll never be able to wear because I have no ankle! I have a swollen, horrible, ugly cankle. I’ll be lucky if I can get my big ole feet through the straps of a basic flip flop!”