It takes just a slight arch of my back to curve my ass to reach him again, to make him mine again tonight.
It’s just that one arch until he’s clutching his hands into my skin and I’m digging mine into the mattress. It’s almost unnerving how he’s not rough, not fast. Slow and gentle. Sex from behind like this is usually dirty and raw. Hard and fast. Well, from what I understand. I’ve probably been with someonelike this only a few times, and it wasn’t all that fun. Tonight? The way Dave moves is deliberate and controlled, so slow and intentional. I feel his hands ease over my thighs, rake down my back. His gentle touch, his care and caution with me, makes me want more.
Eventually, I reach back. “Please go harder.”
And he does until both of us are heaving and desperately trying to find air.
After, even in my fog, I know, somehow, that one arch of mine changed things between us.
For me, not facing a partner in our most intimate moments requires a deeper level of trust, of security. Until now, I didn’t realize I had that with Dave.
We sleep for a bit, but I wake when he’s got me on my back again, his chest against mine. His mouth and tongue are so beautifully sweet and relentless against mine as his hand strokes blissfully between my legs.
“You didn’t finish last time,” he whispers.
“I don’t. I haven’t. Not during sex,” I manage as I squirm.
“That’s okay. My hand doesn’t tire easily.”
Which he proves as he teases me over and over with his touch, holding me, wrapping me in what feels like more than just a physical embrace. Finally, he makes waves of heat crash over me, his lips hovering over mine, relishing and breathing in my panting.
“And just so you’re aware, my mouth doesn’t tire easily either. For future reference, and all.”
I don’t doubt it.
As I’m shuddering, he adds, “Diana, just know, I wanted you in my arms. To feel you like that.”
We only stop out of pure exhaustion. Our need for actual, deep, re-fueling sleep is finally greater than our need for eachother right now. I swear that if we could stay awake, we’d be screwing constantly for the next week.
I’m wasted tired as I drift off in his hold.
Shit. And dammit. And all the swears.
Meaningless vacation sex isn’t turning out to be meaningless vacation sex.
Dave did just fucking make love to me. Again and again.
So cheesy and gross to even think that. If I wasn’t so damn satiated, I’d puke at how corny I was feeling.
And worse? I liked it.
Too much.
Bastard.
When I’m Twenty-Six
Ayear after the most devastating loss imaginable, I fly Patrick and his best friend from high school, RobBob, out to Boston, and we drive almost wordlessly to Cape Cod and to the house I’ve rented. The house is so cute and quintessential Cape Cod, all white with its gray shingles, gabled roof, and shuttered windows.
It’s such a cozy home. This East Coast place has got to be healing.
He didn’t ask for us, but Patrick needs his best friends.
“We’re in seafood territory, I think, yes?” RobBob raises his hand and cheers. “And that means a good dinner, right? Mussels and lobster from the docks? I think Patrick has stopped with his fabricated allergies, yes? But we’ll have a steak in case he sticks to his claim.”
We unload, but Patrick only gives a half-hearted smile when he walks his bags to his room. My best friend is so not himself. So despondent.
“Do you want to drive back to town with him to get the rest of what we need?” I ask RobBob. I can tell he is uncomfortable, being around our friend who is not the person he’s used to seeing. “I’ll see what I can do while you’re gone.”
