Chapter 23 #3
After a few questions, we stumble upon a wild card. We have a minute to write a note to our teenage selves on a piece of paper. “Ready?” she asks once she’s done.
“You first.”
“Okay, this might sound silly, but I really struggled with this when I was younger,” she warns, seemingly worried I’ll make fun of her. “So I wrote, ‘Don’t brush your hair outside of shampoo day. That’s how you get cute curls.’”
“Oh … I think I didn’t do this properly.”
“I’m sure you did. What does it say?” she asks, peeking at my terrible handwriting.
“‘The woman with the curly hair, the freckles, and the Hulk T-shirt you’ll meet in an elevator is the one. Don’t be an ass to her.’”
She stares at me with what’s either consternation or stupefaction. Hard to tell. I’m looking down at the note again when she says, “Okay, I’m the one who did it wrong. I should have given my younger self your name and address and told myself to go get you.”
“I was twenty-three when you were fifteen. I can’t imagine that working out,” I remind her.
“Right … Well, I guess I’ll stick to the curly hair tip.” She picks up a new card. “Oh, this one’s interesting. If you had twenty-four hours left to live, what would you do?”
“I don’t think I’d change a thing. I’d stay right here and enjoy my last hours with you.”
“Alright, that’s it. Put a child in me, Alexander,” she demands, moving to straddle my lap. I chuckle and rest my hands on her hips, enjoying her slight weight on me. Then she grabs my face with tender determination to say, “I’d make it the best twenty-four hours of your life, baby.”
“I know you would. What would you do if you had a day left?”
“I’d spend the first sixteen hours with you, just you. Then I’d want to spend the other eight with you, my family, and Kate. We’d do my favorite things, eat my favorite foods, and have an amazing time together.”
“So I’d have to share you with others in your last hours?”
“I’m afraid you would, yes,” she confirms with an apologetic pout. “I love you more than anything, you know that, but I can’t not be with my parents if I know I’m dying.”
“It makes sense, yes. You make me envy having a loving family, parents you love and who love you back.”
“We’ll have that together. You’ll be the parent who is loved and who loves. I promise.”
Still propped on my lap, with her hands still holding my jaw, she bends forward and gives me a tender kiss. My grip tightens on her hips for an instant, and then she pulls away, allowing me to drown in her dark brown eyes.
“I motion we kiss every time we’re done answering a card,” she suggests.
“And I motion we make it retroactive.”
Giggling, she twists to take the pile of discarded cards from the coffee table while I keep her there, and then quickly counts them. “Thirteen. Do you want them all now, or do we spread them out?”
“Ravish me at once, freckles.”
A laugh bubbles in her chest, but she quenches it to press her lips on mine again.
She counts between each kiss and concludes it with a grand finale.
Her tongue brazenly passes my lips to meet mine for a lascivious graze.
I should push her away before things get out of hand, but I enjoy having her on me like this, this moment that tastes like us, like what we used to be.
Between us, I sense myself hardening, and I know she does too, because she adjusts herself to feel it better.
With a groan, I drag my hands up her thighs, under her makeshift dress.
“Are you wearing nothing under there?” I grunt.
“I wanted something sexy, but all you packed for me is ugly cotton underwear. I thought this would be an acceptable alternative.”
“I find it utterly unacceptable.”
Her smirk comes in the way of our kiss, but she doesn’t let it discourage her.
I squeeze her hips, terribly tempted to let this go further.
As far as she wants it to go, really. When she starts grinding into me, though, I pull away.
I look down, groaning when I notice that the tank top has risen, exposing the curls at the apex of her legs.
“Six weeks,” I grit, to myself more than her.
“Four. I promise I feel great. I love you,” she whispers between kisses. “I love you so fucking much.”
She doesn’t play fair. Never did, never will. She leans in to kiss me again, but I stop her, grabbing her jaw to keep her away. “Lex,” she whimpers. “I want you now. I want you to annihilate me.”
“I will … When I fuck you again, I will ravage you. Which is why we need an extra week. Please, my love, seven more days.”
“We’ll go slow now. And for the next seven days. And in a week, you can wreck me,” she tries, still grinding onto me.
“Andrea, I can smell how wet you are from here.”
“So fucking wet,” she breathes out.
I angle her head to the side and run the tip of my nose up the soft slope of her neck. “What would you do to have my cock in you right now?” I whisper in her ear before nipping its lobe and sucking on it.
“Anything … Please, baby …”
“Would you beg for it?”
“Yes!”
My free hand rises between us to find a pebbled nipple and pinch it. “Would you get on your knees and implore?”
“Yes! Anything …”
“What a hungry little slut you are … You’re so starved for my cock you’ve lost all dignity.”
“Fuck you, Alexander!” She tries to move away, but I keep her right there, grabbing her hips again.
“I thought you wanted me to fuck you?”
“Not if you’re gonna be an asshole about it.”
In her struggle to get away, the strap of her tank top falls to the side, revealing the pink scar.
It draws my eyes immediately, and then my hand rises to it, my thumb gently brushing the mark.
It looks good. No scabbing, no redness, no swelling …
The surgeon did a great job with the stitches, and in a year or two, it should be almost invisible.
But seeing it still hurts. No matter how many bandages I changed or how often I assisted her in the shower, this permanent reminder that she almost died still affects me deeply.
“I’m okay, baby,” she promises, grazing the side of my troubled face with a tender hand.
“Andrea, I … I’d feel more comfortable if we waited another week,” I insist.
She meets my eyes, and whatever she sees in them pushes her to give in. “Okay. We’ll wait, baby. But can you … help me?”
“With what?”
“It … it hurts,” she explains. Before I can worry about her wound, she presses her bare pussy onto me.
“You want me to make you come?”
“Just once. Doesn’t even have to be a big one. But I need … I need something, Lex.”
This is a compromise I can get behind. Especially since I refuse to leave her like this, needy, aching, and desperate. If I don’t help her, I know she’ll do it herself, and I’d much rather see it happen than not.
So, without a word, my hand lowers from her healing shoulder to between us, and my fingers seek the wet, heated expanse between her legs. Gratitude fills her eyes as she rises enough for me to reach where she needs me so earnestly.
“Fuck, you’re drenched.”
She nods, pearly white teeth biting into her lower lip as I give her swollen clit a graze. The second time I do it, harder, she shivers on me, releasing a faint, trembling breath. Oh, this will be so easy.
I go slow, working her up one touch at a time.
Whenever she tries to move, to ride my hand, to give the pace, I retreat, forcing her to stay still and accept my rhythm.
My rules. Once she’s been cooperative for a moment, I arrange my hand to enter her with two fingers while my thumb keeps working on the swollen bundle of nerves.
I know she’s nearly there when she moans my name, her hand clutching the hair on the back of my head.
“You want to come, freckles?” I ask, fingers pumping in and out of her tightness while my thumb gives her the maddening rolls that’ll push her over the edge.
“Yes.”
“Then ask nicely.”
“Please make me come, husband,” she begs. That word might genuinely be my kryptonite because I feel my cock pulse within its confines while a stream of precum leaks out.
I set a firm pace between us, not too fast but definitely not slow, strumming at the little nub that pulsates on my fingertips while fucking into her, feeling her walls spasm.
When she tilts, face twisted with pleasure as moans rise from her heaving chest, I take in the spectacle of her orgasm, subjugated by the sheer beauty of it, entranced by her unfathomable perfection.
“There you go,” I encourage sweetly. “Such a good little wife, coming on your husband’s fingers like this.”
“Fuck, baby,” she moans, her hips thrusting of their own volition. Good to know those words also work wonders on her.
Her climax is modest, enough to give her some respite, but definitely not the kind that would satiate her appetite.
I could probably keep going and make her come a few more times like this, give her what she really wants, make her squirt all over me as her entire body shakes from the pleasure.
But I don’t, because this was the deal. The compromise.
One small orgasm as we wait until next week to return to our intrepid adventures.
So, instead of listening to my desire to give her more, I accompany her down her orgasm, fingers slowing until they come to a full halt.
“I love you, freckles,” I whisper as she sags onto me, spent.
“I love you, baby.”
I remove my hands from between us, resisting the urge to lick her off my fingers for fear it might break my resilience.
We remain like this for a few minutes, basking in the nearness of our bodies and souls.
It’s only when I hear the raspiness of her breath that I realize she’s fallen asleep on top of me.
There, the proof I needed. If such a mild orgasm can knock her out so efficiently, she definitely isn’t ready for more. Soon, though. One more week and I’ll do whatever she wants.
Five weeks is a good number. Right in the middle of the surgeon’s suggestions.
How reasonable of us.