Chapter 6
Six
“ Y ou know me,” I remind her again as the kiss ends. “All the important parts, the things that matter, I’ve never hidden any of that from you.” I probably couldn’t have, if I’d tried. “And that goes both ways, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she agrees, framing my face with one soft hand, gazing back at me, honest and true. Same as she’d always been—with me. Vulnerable. Open. Mine. Because like will always call to like. And, in our souls, we’d recognized each other from the start.
I tighten my grip. Using my fist, which is once again twisted in her hair, I urge her head back. “I want you,” I murmur, brooking no argument, trailing kisses down her neck. “I want you now .”
“Now?” she protests, “But Nick… We have so much work to do.”
“Right here, right now. The rest can wait. This can’t. I can’t.”
“Mm,” she moans, her resolve weakening—predictably—as I reach that place that always makes her shiver. Because, like I said, there are some things that I know, too.
“Right now,” I say again, using a hint of teeth, letting my need show in the roughness of my voice. “On this couch you like so much.”
“Pretty sure you like it too,” she says.
“I do. I love it—when you’re on it. And when you’re on it with me ? I never want to move from it.”
A strangled sob leaves her lips. I raise my head to meet her gaze. “Take your clothes off,” she orders, need blazing in her eyes. “I want you, too.”
I rush to comply, pulling my shirt over my head and off. Then I hook my fingers in the waistband of her leggings, snagging her panties too, and tugging them down her legs. She lifts her hips to help me, and I whip the pants off and toss them to the floor.
Tantalized by the sight of her, rose and gold in the firelight, I glide my hands back up her legs. They fall open for me, but not enough. So I use my hands to spread them open more. My thumbs nudge against her outer folds, parting them as well. Then I swipe one thumb across her clit, a ghost of a touch, a mere whisper, a suggestion of what’s to come.
She gasps, a shuddery huff of surprise that takes me by surprise as well. “Nick!”
I glance up to see that her eyes are wide and startled. “Too soon?”
She shakes her head—slowly, as though she’s puzzling something out. “N-no, that’s not… I think it’s the ginger. Or the mint, perhaps? But…”
The ginger…? Oh! I lick my thumb and taste…a hint of her, a trace of salt, a tingle of— “Ginger. Definitely. Sorry. I should probably wash my hands.”
“Mm.” The faintest of blushes appears. Her eyes hold mine as she settles deeper into the cushions and suggests, “Or maybe you shouldn’t?”
My eyebrows lift. And perhaps, after all, she had a point before. Perhaps, as well as you think you know someone, there’s always more to learn.
I reach for the closest drink, extract one of those sticks I’d so carefully sliced and shaped. I suck one end into my mouth, relishing the heat, running the fingers of both hands along its length; then I drop it back to the table, and turn again to my wife.
“Omigod.” A quick inhale greets the first flick of my tongue. Then, “Ni-i-i-ick!” my name emerges several syllables long as I settle in for a lengthy stay. My tongue laps over her, spears into her, spreading heat and stoking fires as my fingers tease between her legs.
She writhes beneath me, panting breathlessly as my fingers slide through wetness. Then I let them glide lower, circling her backdoor, earning myself another gasp of surprise, a muffled curse, and even more syllables stretching my name beyond recognition as she cants her hips and pushes back against my hand. “Yes. There. So good.”
I can feel the heat lifting off her skin. I can hear the growing desperation in her sobs as she grinds herself against me harder, faster, begging for more, more, more. Until she’s coming hard, like sugar and spice on my tongue.
“Omigod,” she sighs again as I slide up to join her. Her hands are pressed to her eyes, but there’s enough space between them for me to see her lips—puffy, as though she’d been biting on them. Space enough for me to kiss her. So, I do. A soft peck. A final flick of my tongue.
“Good?” I ask as she drops her hands and opens her eyes.
“Mm. And spicy.”
I shrug, “That’s my name, that’s my game.”
“Omigod,” she says again, laughing up at me. “You’re insane. Did you…did you plan this?”
I snort with laughter. “No. Of course, not. You’re giving me way too much credit for forethought.”
“Mm,” she murmurs, sounding unconvinced. Her gaze skates down the length of my torso, turning sultry as her hand follows suit. “You’re still wearing pants,” she complains.
“Not for long,” I promise. But, as I climb to my feet to strip out of them, realization dawns. I don’t want to do this here.
Maybe it’s the maturity that comes with age, though that’s probably a long-shot. Maybe it’s force of habit; we’ve made love downstairs only rarely since Cole was born. And then only when he was safe in his crib and deeply asleep, unable to explore, or come in search of us, unlikely to even miss us. And then, once Kate came to live with us full-time, not at all. But I don’t think that’s it either.
The more likely reason is that I’ve grown more comfortable over time. I feel at home here now. I’m no longer content with carving out an occasional corner for myself. No longer satisfied with a stolen moment here, a random piece of furniture (or a wall, or a counter) there. I want it all.
I want room to explore and maneuver. Space to enjoy the sight of my wife, spread out before me like a feast, naked and ready and mine. Time—not forever, since that’s promised to no one—but enough to meet her every need, fulfill her every fantasy. And mine as well.
Bending my knees, I slide my hands under my wife and lift her into my arms.
“What’s this?” Scout asks in surprise.
“Change of venue,” I tell her. “We’re taking this party upstairs More room, more space?—”
“But…no, we can’t. There are stockings, gingerbread, carrots…”
“Which will all still be here when we’re done.”
“But—”
“Shush.” I smile at her. “I’m flattered you think I can still go all night. But I’m pretty sure we’ll be back down here in plenty of time to complete the list.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” she replies relaxing into my arms.
“Oh, I’mma drive a hard something somewhere, soon enough,” I promise, just to see that wicked smile break out once more.
But as we cross the entryway, she stiffens suddenly. “Hold on a minute,” she says urgently. “Put me down.”
I pause, return her to her feet. “What’s going on?” I ask, eyeing her curiously. “Something wrong?”
“Nope. Not at all,” she says as she sidles toward the stairs. “I just… Well, there are all these stairs.”
“I see ’em,” I reply dryly, reaching for her, eyes widening as she dances out of reach. “They’re right behind you. What’s your point?”
“My point is that you don’t have to carry me up them. That’s all.” Eyes still locked with mine, she starts to climb, backing slowly up the stairs, feeling her way, faltering from time to time. “I mean, really. It’s very romantic and all, but… Well. No sense in hurting yourself, right?”
“Is this about your weight?” I ask—and yes! Okay? I know!
I know I should keep my mouth shut. I know I should know better than to bring up such a weighted (excuse the pun) topic. And the fact that clearly— clearly —I do not proves yet again that I am still and always, eternally her fool.
“My…? What? No, it was not.” Halting her upward progress, she glares at me with what looks like the beginnings of outrage. “Just what exactly are you suggesting, Nick?”
But, oh, hell no; we are not going there. Not on my watch. “Nothing at all. I’m just trying to figure out what you think the problem is.”
“It’s simple. Like I said; you could get hurt.”
She’s resumed climbing the stairs, and now I am, too. Eyeing her with intent, stalking her from step to step. “How?”
“You could…you could have a heart attack.”
I chuckle in response. “I’m not going to have a heart attack.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Pretty sure I do. As of my latest check up, I’m healthy as a horse.”
“The cats, then. You could step on a cat, or trip over one. You know they all think that stairs were made for sleeping on.”
“Bullshit. The cats are?—"
“Right there,” she says, stabbing downward with her finger. “Look!”
I glance down, taking my gaze away from her face for the first time in several minutes and, sure enough. There’s a cat at her feet, lying stretched out along the tread. Buttercup, I think? Although in this light, it’s hard to tell. What’s that thing they say? All cats are gray in the dark? Totally true.
“You could’ve tripped over her right now. And then where would we be? The fall would have killed us both.”
“It would certainly have killed the mood,” I say, pausing where I am—because this conversation is already doing a good job with that.
“Besides,” she continues, undaunted. “You’ve forgotten the drinks.”
“What drinks?”
“The spicy whatchamacallits. We should bring them upstairs with us.”
“Yeah? You think you’re gonna want more of that?
She laughs, a little breathlessly. “Oh, I definitely want more!”
“Fine,” I agree, relenting. “I’ll get the drinks. But you’d better be naked when I get there.”
“Oh, you can count on it,” she says. And, still laughing, she turns and flees up the remainder of the stairs.
I make my way back to the living room. I grab the glasses, pick the clothes up from floor—since I’m there and they’re there, and who else is going to do it?—and head for the kitchen.
I drop the clothes in the washer on the way, deposit the glasses in the sink once I get there, and then set about making two new drinks. This time around, I add ice and a little ginger ale and skip the whip. They’re different now, more like boozy, eggnog-flavored egg creams, but they still pack some heat.
When I enter our bedroom, a few minutes later, I momentarily lose my breath at the sight that greets me. Scout is naked in our bed, lying on her side, with her head propped on her fist, and a smile on her face, looking beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
“Hm,” I say as I put the drinks down on one of the night tables that flank the bed. “It looks like Santa came early with my present. And it’s already unwrapped.”
“Oh-ho-ho,” she teases. “Is that so? And have you been a good boy this year?”
“This year and every year,” I quip, shucking out of my pants at record speed. “Move over and I’ll show you just how good I can be.”
Scout arches a brow at me. “And what if I want naughty?”
“I can do that, too,” I answer as I reach for her, but she holds me off.
“My turn,” she says, rolling me onto my back, and then leaning across me to grab one of the glasses. Her body slides against mine as she does, breasts pressing softly against my chest, my rib cage. The smell and the feel and the weight of her, the sheer thrill of having her near is overwhelming—even all these years later. And I close my eyes to better experience it.
I hear the clunk of the glass being returned to the nightstand. Then she shifts away, taking all that heat with her. Before I can open my eyes or protest the loss of contact, her lips touch my chest and she begins to drop cool, damp, butterfly kisses there, then down the center of my torso, over my abs. I groan in pleasure as she pauses to circle her tongue in my navel.
I do open my eyes as she moves further south, however. There’s no secret about where she’s heading and the sight of her mouth stretched wide around my cock is not one that I’m ever willing to miss, no matter how many times I’ve already seen it. She licks across my groin and my cock jumps in anticipation.
Laughing, she turns her head to ask, “Nervous or impatient?”
“What do you think?” I return.
Instead of responding she runs her tongue around my crown, and I groan again. “Oh, God, yeah.” It’s like a whisper of fire and ice, cool yet tingly, setting my nerves alight. “Keep going,” I growl as she pauses to gauge my reaction. “Please.”
And now she’s opening her mouth and taking me in, lips ghosting up and down my shaft—warm sparks igniting on the way down, cool stings like ice-burn on the way back up. One hand massages my sac, moving in counterpoint to the swirl of her tongue, exerting just the right amount of pressure. There’s an extra bit of heat there, too, I think. The barest suggestion of flame licking over my flesh. Perhaps just a trace of ginger on her fingers?
And then, just as I’m getting close, she backs off—gradually slowing her strokes, lightening her touch. “Nick?”
“Mm?” I mumble. And, realizing that I’ve closed my eyes after all, I open them again. “’S up?”
“I want… Do you think you could?—”
“Anything,” I promise, reaching out to stroke my hand down her arm, desperate for more. “Whatever you want.” Whatever will make you start touching me again.
“Fuck my ass?”
“Well, yeah,” I chuckle, grinning at her in a lust-soaked daze. “I could definitely do that.” How is this even a question? And if I sound a little surprised, it’s because I am. I mean, I know she likes it, but I’m usually the one who initiates this sort of thing. I’m not sure why she’s changing things up right now, but I’m more than willing to follow her lead.
I sit up and drag a pillow down from the top of the bed as she comes to her knees beside me. While she gets herself in position, draping herself over the pillow with her hips in the air. I reach into the nightstand drawer where we keep the packets of lube. Packets now; ever since Cole had an incident with the tube we used to keep there. So far, this has worked for us. But if there’s another on the way? Well, that’s what child-proof locks are for, I guess. The only shame of it is that we’ve only recently taken them off most of the cabinets.
The packet I grab, at random, turns out to be warming gel, which seems in keeping with tonight’s theme, so I decide to go with it.
“Oh, yeah,” Scout gasps as I start to prep her. “That…that’s…”
“Nice?” I suggest, harking back to our earlier conversation.
“Mm,” she murmurs, breath coming harder, duvet crumpling in her clenched fists. “Very, very.” She twists around to meet my gaze then asks, “And you’re still telling me you didn’t plan any of this?”
“I swear I didn’t,” I say, continuing to scissor my fingers inside her. “We just got lucky.”
“Oh, we did,” she agrees as she drops her head back onto her crossed arms. “We so did.”
When I judge that she’s ready, I palm her cheeks, holding her open as I fit myself to her opening and push inside—just a little at a time. And then…bliss. The sight of her body spread before me, open, vulnerable, taking me in. The sound of her breathy helpless grunts as muscles relax, as they soften and give way; until I’m fully seated deep inside. The feel of her skin, warm and slick, against my own. The heat of her body, the force with which it grips me. It’s all of that together, that’s almost my undoing. And I have to pause, to breathe, to scrape together the unraveling threads of my control.
A single thought has broken loose in my mind like a bird taking wing. My head fills with its song. Mine. Mine. Mine . Mine. Mine .
And in that moment of transcendent clarity, I understand that it’s never been about possession, nor less ownership. That it’s always only been about one thing: Belonging. We belong with each other—with, not to. We always have; and I’ve always known it. Since the night that we met, it has been my one inescapable truth, guiding my footsteps, bringing us home.
“Nick,” Scout gasps, a plea for movement. And in response, I coast one hand up the length of her spine; the heel of my palm digging in just enough, exerting just the right amount of pressure. Reassuring yet dominating, exactly how she likes it, pressing her deeper into the mattress. I gather her hair together at the nape of her neck, then grip her there as I begin to move within her. Long, slow strokes at first that gradually gather speed and force, until I’m pounding into her, giving up everything to her in the end, even my hard-won control.
At some point, I’ve changed my grip. I clutch at her hips with both hands now—hard enough that I know I’ll leave bruises. And I know I’ll take guilty pleasure at the sight of them until they fade.
A tingling rush erupts up my spine and I’m coming. Surrendering. Pouring everything I have into her as her body shudders beneath me, convulses around me. As she lays claim to me yet again.
Breathe in. Breathe out . It’s a struggle to remember how that’s done. Slowly, carefully, I withdraw, easing out of her.
“I’ll get a cloth,” I mumble as I climb out of bed. I stumble to the bathroom, and then back again, only to find she hasn’t moved. At all. I use the washcloth I brought back from the bathroom to clean her off.
“You okay?” I ask, just checking in.
“Mm,” she murmurs. She crawls to the top of the bed, and then collapses again.
I settle in beside her. We still need to go back downstairs, but not just yet. Maybe I’ll set an alarm and we can take a quick nap. I pull the covers over us, wrap an arm around her. She cuddles against me with a happy little sigh.
“So, was that what you wanted?”
“Mm-hm,” she says, head shifting against my chest as she nods.
“Yeah? It was good?”
She opens one eye and side-eyes me. “Was it good for you ?”
My mouth falls open. “Really? You need to ask?”
“Well, I don’t know, Nick.” She shifts to view me with both eyes. “You asked me . Did that seem necessary?”
“I…” I break off laughing. “Fine. You got me. I don’t know what I was thinking, either. It just seemed…I dunno…appropriate? Polite?”
“God yes,” she nods in agreement. “Manners are so important when you’re fucking someone’s brains out. Good idea suggesting we move upstairs, by the way. This would have been harder to manage on the couch.”
Her eyes slide shut, and I cuddle her close once more as my thoughts drift back downstairs. To the couch. To the first time we made love there…
It had been one of the darkest periods of my life. After twenty years, I’d found her again. But now, only days later, I’d already failed her. She’d needed me and I hadn’t been there. I’d let my fear of being hurt again blind me to the reality, to the very real danger we had both been facing, until it was nearly too late.
Now she was leaving. In a day—no. Less than that. In only a matter of hours she’d be gone, out of my life, forever.
All I had was one last night, one final opportunity to amass all the memories I could.
“Do something for me,” I begged her. “Just for tonight. Lie to me. Tell me you love me. Promise you’ll stay. I need you so much right now, and I need to hear you say it. I swear I’ll believe it, even if it isn’t true.”
“But I do,” she murmured, raining kisses over me—cheeks, and lips, and eyelids. “I will. Of course I will. Always. Always!”
And just like that, from confusion to clarity, from despair to elation; in one, single moment, with no more than a handful of words, my whole life had changed. Could it be that easy now? Was I once again letting fear hold me back and keep me silent? Had I learned nothing in the course of five years?
“So, talk to me,” I say—immediately earning myself another side-eyed glance. “what’s going on with you?”
“Nick…” Scout’s face assumes a pained expression. “Is this you being Captain Obvious again, asking questions that should be rhetorical, yet somehow aren’t? What’s going on with you tonight?”
“I’m not talking about tonight,” I tell her. “Or at least, not just tonight. It’s been days. Ever since you got back from LA you’ve clearly been upset.”
“I told you,” she says, pulling away a little, leaving me immediately mourning the loss. “I had a?—”
“I know. I heard what you said. You had a bad dream. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? Even before your trip, you seemed different. Distant. Unhappy, maybe. And I… I need to know what it is. Is it me? Was it something I did? Or is there something I could do now—or something I should be doing, that I’m not?”
“Oh, Nick.” She throws herself back in my arms, which should be a win. But she’s crying again, sobbing, “No, no. It’s not— There’s nothing—” And that sounds like a whole lot of nothing good.
Perhaps, sometimes, those singular moments can change your life the other way, too. And still with just a handful of words.
That possibility seems even more likely to be the case when she sits up, abruptly, wipes the tears from her face and says, “Well, for starters, there was no bad dream.”