Chapter Twenty-One #2
"Fuck," he hissed, dropping down behind my body, yanking my hips into him, my ass nestled into his crotch.
His face buried in my neck, his lips pressing in once as his heartbeat hammered into my back, as he tried to slow his ragged breathing.
My heartbeat hammered too, hummingbird wings against my ribcage, as other sensations flooded my body at the same time.
A strange disconnected, floating feeling that somehow existed at the same time as the one where I had never felt more in tune with myself before.
I could feel the rush of air as it filled my chest and belly, the prickling of goosebumps as sweat dried and cooled my skin, the flush over my chest, up my neck, over my cheeks, the heaviness of lifeless limbs, the satisfaction that seemed to course over every nerve ending.
A few moments later, Nixon's breath was even, his heartbeat back to normal. His lips brushed my neck again before he rolled away. "Be right back," he told me, hopping up, the bed bouncing a bit in his departure.
Alone, I took a deep breath, willing some life into my arms so I could pull myself further up on the bed, situating myself on the pillows, slipping under the covers as the air from the fan sent shivers across my skin.
I'd been right.
He was good.
Amazing, even.
And, in my experience, things only got better as you got to know each other, as your comfort level grew, as you learned little hot spots on each other's bodies.
Better would be, well, unfathomable.
But highly anticipated.
My hand moved to my chest, feeling a lightness there that I hadn't experienced in a long time. At least not for more than a fleeting second or two when life distracted me just well enough.
This wasn't a distraction, though. This was something new entirely, something I don't know if I had ever experienced, ever gotten in life.
Someone who truly saw me.
Someone who believed in me.
Someone who wanted me even after seeing the ghosts and skeletons, and, well, the occasional mental breakdowns.
Someone who could fuck me like I wasn't sure I ever had been before, to complete body and soul satisfaction.
That was something worth feeling light and happy about.
God, happy.
It sounded so foreign, but there was no denying that it was accurate.
The door to the bathroom opened, drawing my attention over. To Nixon's gloriously naked form.
I wasn't sure it was possible to get sick of seeing him in my space looking like he looked right then.
But he wasn't looking at me like I was looking at him.
Oh, no.
His focus was on the damn closet.
My smile curved up, a laugh bubbling up. "It's not going to come to life, burst out of the closet, and demand your soul, Nixon," I told him, watching as his gaze slid to mine, eyes bright, smile of the warm variety.
"You can't know that for sure," he said, moving toward the bed, climbing under the covers, moving in at my side, pulling me close.
Invited to do so, I rested my head on his chest, taking a deep breath, breathing him in.
It wasn't a scent I had a name for. A hint of soap, maybe a little deodorant of the spicy sort, but mostly just...
him. I wished I could bottle it, spray it on one of those aromatherapy necklaces, wear it around day and night.
Nixon's fingers sifted absentmindedly through my hair as we enjoyed the silence for a long moment. It was only interrupted by the thump of Mal jumping from one of his catwalks, sensing the coast was clear, then leaping onto the bed.
"Watch your exposed parts," I warned. "He doesn't need an excuse to strike. You have to be vigilant at all times."
A laugh rumbled through Nixon's chest, but I didn't miss the way he slid his thigh all the way under the blankets.
Mal stood at the edge of the bed, tail twitching, eyes moving between us, likely judging us for our activities while simultaneously pissed at me for having his boy bits chopped off, so he couldn't prowl for some hot kitties and could enjoy a little carnal love too.
"Watch out; he's on the move," I warned as he started taking freakishly slow steps forward, moving up between Nixon's slightly parted legs.
Then he did something I never could have expected.
He laid down on Nixon’s lap.
"You bastard!" I said, mouth gaping at the sight. Mal never willingly sat on or near me. Ever. Not even when he was all doped up from the anesthesia from aforementioned ball-removal.
Mal's gaze slid to me for a long, stony moment, before he turned back to Nixon, rubbing his head against his stomach, and letting out a low, rumbling purr.
"What!" I hissed, mouth going even wider. "He has never purred before. I thought his purr box was broken."
"His purr box?" Nixon asked, brow raising, shooting me one of those smirks of his.
"Sorry I am not up with my cat anatomy," I shot back, rolling my eyes. "I guess he's had a bit of a change of heart," I said, smiling as my hand reached out toward him for a little scratch. "Ow!" I yelped when his sharp little cat teeth sank into my finger.
"Guess he just likes me," Nixon said, shrugging, reaching out to rub Mal's head. Which was allowed. And even enjoyed.
It was like watching a dog snuggle a squirrel instead of killing it.
"He hasn't done anything for you, you know," I told Mal, irrationally annoyed at a cat. "I spend a fortune on that raw food of yours. I made a whole kitty playground of my home. And what do I get? Bloodshed."
"Maybe he is pissed that you named him Fuckwad," Nixon suggested, rubbing his fingers all over Mal's soft coat.
"I named him Malicious Little Fuckwad after he tried to tear my throat out when I gave him a flea bath. Shame on me for stopping the itching, right?" I asked, small-eyeing the cat who was in seventh heaven, his entire body vibrating with his seemingly never-ending purr.
With a sigh, I shifted closer to Nixon, getting an evil glare from Mal in doing so. "You're going to have to share him, you jerk," I told the cat like he could understand me. "And just so you know, he likes me better," I added, wrinkling up my nose.
"I dunno, babe, this purring thing is relaxing as fuck. He's starting to gain some on you."
"Yeah?" I asked, smile going wicked. "I can think of other very effective ways of relaxing you," I told him, my fingers working spiders over his chest and belly, going dangerously low. But not so low that Mal could swipe at me.
His eyes went as heated as I intended. "Yeah?" he asked, voice husky. "Maybe after you feed me," he declared.
"I, ah, have... peaches," I admitted, knowing my cabinets and fridge were woefully, embarrassingly empty.
"Yeah, babe, I know," he agreed, his tongue peeking out to trace the corner of his lips suggestively, making a little shiver course through my sex at the memory of that tongue. "You got any take-out menus?" he asked.
"That I have," I agreed. "And some really good whiskey," I added, sliding away from him, getting out of the bed, not bothering to reach for a shirt or a robe, liking the way his eyes roved over me too much to cover up.
I fetched the menus from a drawer, grabbed my phone, poured the whiskey, and headed back, glad when his gaze followed me every step of the way back to the bed, as he lifted the blankets for me to slide under, as he pulled me back into his side, settled me on his chest as he looked through the menus, hemming and hawing the options.
The whiskey sat untouched until we settled on comfort dishes from a local take-out-only place. Fried chicken with mac & cheese for Nixon. Minestrone soup for me.
"All these options, and you pick vegetable soup?" he asked, face screwing up like I made no sense.
"We were raised to eat healthy. I don't have any attachment to macaroni & cheese like most people do."
"Have you actually had any?"
"I had it in college. It's good. It's no minestrone soup, but it's good."
"You're a fucking freak, babe," he declared, shaking his head as he accepted the glass of amber liquid I handed to him. He took a sip, then held the glass against his belly as he stared off at the wall.
"What?" I asked when I sensed there was something he wanted to say.
"Getting close to the weekend," he declared.
"I, ah, yeah," I agreed, confused.
"Just thinking..."
"About?" I prompted when he didn't continue, finding myself all the more intrigued since he was not someone who hedged things, who hesitated saying something he was thinking.
"Bringing you to Sunday dinner. For real this time," he added, gaze slipping to mine, showing me a hint of that vulnerability again.
I was thinking I was getting to know him enough to know how rare that vulnerability was, and also how uncomfortable it made him, how out of depth he was in it.
And because I wanted more of it, because I wanted him to feel he could share it with me, I figured it was best to make light of it.
"So that's what this was all about," I said, small-eyeing him. "You came over here, charmed me, and bedded me because you wanted to be served Sunday dinner at Helen's."
His eyes brightened at that, chasing away any insecurity, his smile curving up as his hand smacked my ass under the cover. "You caught me," he admitted. "It was all an elaborate ruse, so I can get some bomb-ass mashed potatoes in a couple days."
"You evil man you. No wonder goat-devil wants your soul."
The look on his face was freaking priceless as his gaze went to the closet, then back to me, eyes shining, smile warm, so warm it seemed to chase out any cold inside.
It took a long time for me to recognize the sensation at first, wanting to simply call it 'contentment' because it was easier to admit, a truth more palatable to someone who had been living with a bone-deep belief that they could never know this feeling again, not truly, not fully.
But no matter how much I tried to call it by another name, there was no denying what it was.
Happiness.