HOMECOMING （PART 2）
I knew Barry was coming home in the middle of the night and went to sleep excited to see him the next morning—only, I woke a few hours later to the press of gentle kisses on my bare shoulder.
“Barry?” I asked, still half asleep.
“Hi,” he said, and kissed me. I was too tired for it to be well-coordinated, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I missed you.”
I didn’t tell him I missed him too, it felt obvious that I did.
I tried to make out his face in the shadows of the dark room, not quite able to see where he had stitches beneath a bandage.
He smelled like him—that warm, woodsy smell that had become so comforting to me—and I wanted to press my face directly into his neck and inhale.
When did that happen? When did being near him start to feel necessary?
“What were you dreaming about?”
“What?” I blinked, my eyes still bleary.
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You were moaning in your sleep.”
I covered my face with my hands, embarrassed though he couldn’t see me clearly in the darkness.
He chuckled, lightly shushing me while scooting closer behind me.
I didn’t remember my dream, only that I had been having lots of sex dreams about Barry, usually involving me wearing a nightgown I did not own and his large hands sliding said garment up my thighs. Among other things.
“I was dreaming about a very good meal,” I said into the night.
“I’ll bet,” he whispered, then lightly kissed my ear and back down my neck and shoulder.
His hand brushed over my stomach, down my hip, my thigh, my calf, all with quiet reverence before following the path back up.
He squeezed one breast, then spanned his whole hand across my chest, feeling me breathe for a moment before sliding down and beneath my shirt, his skin casting goosebumps all over mine.
My breathing had gone shallow, little puffs of breath with the tension settling heavy in the air around us.
In contrast, his breath left him like an unsteady engine, rattling out of him while his caresses moved from featherlight to firm—a hunger in his touch that made me dizzy.
He pressed light kisses down the side of my neck, almost chaste, a dozen little pecks to my skin, but they grew longer, then punctuated with a light lick of his tongue between each. They made me lightheaded and horny, my pussy clenching, aching for him to just touch me there.
“Barry.”
“I missed you,” he repeated before I could beg.
“You already said that.”
“No, I mean that I really, really missed you. Every time I go on a road trip, I wish I could bring you with me. Keep you nearby. Sleep in bed with you after every game.”
“Because you miss having sex with me?” I asked, not nearly so bold as I sounded. I felt his laugh puff against my neck, and my eyes fluttered shut at the sensation.
“That, sure, but not nearly as much as I miss everything else about you.”
“Like what?” I managed, even with his fingers pinching my sensitive nipples in a way so distracting I’m amazed I could speak at all.
“Your puzzle face, the squeaky laugh you get especially with your family, your overalls, the way you look when you sleep.” While he spoke his list into my ear, his hand roamed down my side and to the increasingly eager place between my legs.
He cursed and pushed aside the fabric. “You’re soaked, baby. ”
“You miss that too?”
He growled, I think. I didn’t know he could make that sort of sound, but it made the “soaked” situation even worse.
“I miss this”—he pushed two fingers inside of me, eliciting a breathy, high-pitched sound—“little noise you make when I make you feel good.”
He kept his fingers rubbing inside of me, and I rubbed my ass shamelessly against his crotch, trying and certainly failing to rile him up half as much as he did me.
“Please fuck me,” I whispered.
“Not yet. You’re always so overwhelming to me, it makes me rush. Let me take my time with you.”
I groaned and pressed my hips back with more insistence. His boner was a stiff rod begging to be dealt with. “What if I don’t want you to take your time? What if I like you overwh—”
He slipped a third thick finger inside me, and my voice faded into a low moan.
“Did you miss me too, Hannah?” His mouth was right next to my ear, every word giving me chills.
“Please.”
“Please what? Are you asking me to take care of you, baby?”
I was, of course. But admitting that I needed him in bed was not nearly as difficult as it was to admit it in any other aspect of my life.
With sex, it was simple: he wanted to help me, I wanted the help.
It would be fun for both of us. With anything else, it felt like a personal failing—like additional evidence that I couldn’t take care of myself if I readily accepted his help in any other way than this.
“You have no idea how badly I want to,” he said, and it felt like he was also thinking about more than just orgasms.
“Please take care of me,” I said, so quietly. I feared he’d make me say it again, louder this time. Feared I wouldn’t be able to.
He took mercy on me, though, grunting and biting my shoulder before kissing and licking where his teeth had just been.
“Good, baby, you let me take care of you.”
I moaned when he pulled all three fingers out of me and pulled my panties down my hips. I wiggled, attempting to help him in my desperate frenzy.
“Gonna fill you up with my dick, ’kay? You’re ready for me?”
I moaned, pressing my hips back into him until his fingers were indeed replaced with him sheathing his cock halfway in one stroke, then all the way in.
“You were dreaming of me sliding in and out of you? Needed it, didn’t you?”
I needed to know immediately who taught Barry to talk like this and thank them for their service, because what the fuck! I was wet and wanting and this horny demon Barry was really, really working for me.
“You want me to take care of you at all times of the day? Want me to quit my job to be your personal toy? That all you want from me? Because I’ll do it, Hannah. I would.”
“Barry,” I moaned, and turned my neck as far as I could in search of his mouth.
He obliged, mixing our breaths in a way that made me tremble with wanting.
I was delirious, all awake now but still felt like I might be dreaming.
He tweaked one of my nipples while thrusting into me, and I clamped down hard in response.
He laughed, a low, sinful noise, and put a hand on my hip to stabilize me while he fucked me harder.
It was no wonder I got pregnant in the first place. Barry Wright brought to sex the same deliberate focus and precision that he did to everything, but it was also maybe the only place I’d seen him let go, too.
Thinking about being the source of Barry’s undoing while he grunted his unending stream of filthy words in my ear, I tumbled into a dizzying orgasm.
I practically strangled his dick in the process if his halting moaning was any indication.
His hips jutted against me as he came, and I could picture his face, scrunched up in pleasure so intense it was like he was also in a bit of pain.
Would it always be like this with him? What we were doing felt dangerous—playing with something that would burn me and leave a scar. I didn’t know how long I could pretend that after the baby came, I could just quit this, him—us.
I was afraid to imagine this future he claimed he wanted: him and me and our baby, romance, puzzles, trying and trying until we got it right.
You’ll see. And I’ll wait.
What scared me more was that I was starting to believe him.