“It’s just a chain,” he mumbles.
“Then why won’t you let me see it? Is it lucky or something? Is there a rabbit’s foot hanging from the end? Don’t be embarrassed; tons of athletes have lucky charms.”
Ryder sighs, then pulls the chain from behind his t-shirt. I have to lean forward and squint to see, but once my eyes focus in the dark room, there is no mistaking the little, gold ‘M’ hanging around his neck.
I feel my mouth drop open, my breath coming in short, insufficient pants. I try to find the words, but nothing comes to me. I don’t need to ask what the ‘M’ is for, not when Ryder is looking at me with a kind of hopeful admiration I’ve only seen once before, earlier today.
I’ve been captivated by my wife since I was seventeen years old.
All I can manage is a quiet “Is that new?”
He shakes his head.
“I bought it for you, for your sixteenth birthday. I was going to give it to you at your party, with the bouquet of lilies I brought. I was going to tell you…I was going to ask you out, I guess. But then at your party, you were making out with that Canadian, Ross Hosking, all night. I didn’t want to screw things up for you, so I kept it. I figured one day, when I was brave enough to tell you how I feel…well, anyway. I’ve worn it pretty much every day since. And you’re right; it has become something of a good luck charm for me.”
“Ryder…” I trail off, tears swimming in my eyes as I try to figure out what the hell I’m feeling. He reaches over the pillow wall and sinks his fingers into mine.
“I know you’re not ready to talk yet, Mabel, but I need you to hear me. Those things I said today in front of Whitney? I meant them. Every word.”
Even though a tear falls down my cheek, I find myself smiling anyway.
“I know, Ryder. I know.”
We lay like that, hands intertwined over the wall of pillows until we fall asleep.
19
CALL ME MARY
RYDER
Warm.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this warm.
That’s the first thought that crosses my mind as I drift towards consciousness. I am so incredibly warm, especially around my middle and on top of my thighs. It’s a soothing kind of warm, not the itchy, overheated feeling of sleeping too long. It’s almost comfortable. Almost, because…
Hard.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard.
I amridiculously, cartoonishly, painfully erect.
I’m no stranger to morning wood. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old man with a working dick; I wake up with an erection more often than not. But fuck, mycock is throbbing today. Straining, stretching, pulsing, it’s leaking all over the inside of my shorts, leaving the fabric wet and the rest of me aching.
I must have been having one hell of a dream, or maybe I’m backed up since I haven’t cleared the pipes since moving into Mabel’s place, because, fuck, it hurts. I don’t think I can function until I take care of the situation between my legs. I’ve been so good about restraining, but at this point leaving my balls full and aching can’t be healthy. I should probably sneak into the shower before I jerk off. But with all the blood in my body pooled in my cock, it’s likely I’d pass out and fall on my way there. I’ll have to be quiet and careful and maybe spray the couch with some disinfectant when I’m done.
I don’t bother opening my eyes as I slide my hand towards my waistband so I can take care of business. But as my hand snakes down my stomach and hits an unexpected speed bump, it’s like a bucket of cold water being dumped on my head.
Arm. I’m touching an arm. An arm that’s not my arm.
My eyes snap open, and the scene in front of me unfolds like a montage of every fantasy I’ve had since I was a teenage boy.
I’m in Mabel’s bed. The pillow wall she built last night has been penetrated, shoved to the side andforgotten. I shouldn’t have let myself fall asleep while holding her hand. I knew she wouldn’t stay on her side of the bed. When we were still just toddlers, young enough to be put down for our afternoon naps together while our moms gossiped downstairs, I always woke up with a diapered-butt Mabel sprawled across the bed, usually sticking a finger up my nose and the flat of her foot directly against my gut. But even with the prior knowledge of her childhood nocturnal habits, I couldn’t have imagined this.
Mabel, warm and sleeping with her arm around my middle and her thigh slung over my legs, eyelashes fanning her rosy cheeks and her lip slightly parted as nuzzles against me.
My wife is a sleep cuddler, and goddamn it feels good to be the body she’s cuddled against.
