Chapter Eleven November Six #3
I hesitate, moving my chair a little closer. “I hope you feel loved, too. One day. I... I don’t know if I’m any good at showing it. I never had someone to teach me how to—”
“I didn’t think I was allowed to fall in love with someone I’m working for. Or so fast,” Imogene says in a low, furtive voice as she leans closer to me.
“Oh. Probably not.” The words leave my lips like wounded ghosts, wispy and miserable.
I’m so bad at this, probably rushing, and I was never smooth to begin with.
.. One of my social workers, one of a dozen, said I’d have trouble with relationships, trouble with “attachment.” Well, yeah, sure, if you feel like no one wants you or needs you.
But I need Laurel and Immy. And I wish she needed me, too, but it’s clear she could survive anything, thrive anywhere.
“Lesha told me not to rush. Or do anything rash.”
“She’s right. I know she is. I’m sorry if I—”
“But being with you and Laurel makes me feel loved. If love is when you’re happy all of the time, even if you know things are difficult.
Like...” Imogen looks heavenward for a second, “Like, I’m sad when I realize that even if my mother were around, we wouldn’t have a good relationship.
That I never had a normal childhood, or things like a favorite memory with Sarah or Barton.
” Her voice slips into nothingness. “But then, I think about how you smile at me when you come into the kitchen on your breaks, or how you rush to help me and take Laurel’s diaper bag and my coat when we come in from the park. That kiss. Both of them.”
My hand is sweating against hers. All of me is sweating. My chest is tight.
Who thought love would mimic a panic attack?
“I’m okay with moving fast, as long as we’re taking it nice and slow like this,” Imogene whispers, her eyes barely able to meet mine.
“I’m good with that. I never want to rush you. I just... I’ve never been in love before. Never had someone to love until the two of you.” I rub my sternum with my damp palm. “God, I hope I’m good at this.”
“You are. You’re wonderful at this.” Imogene leans forward, standing in that adorable velvet dress, and kisses me.
“Check, please.” Mr. Argento, the owner of the restaurant and the head (possibly only) chef, slaps a piece of paper on the table.
“I— Oh! Imogene, did you want dessert?” I ask feebly, lips tingly, eyes unfocused as I look at the smiling face of Mr. Argento.
“Tiramisu is already in a container by the door for you two. And anytime you want someone to babysit this little sweetie,” he coos over Laurel as she dozes in her infant carrier strapped to the high chair, “my wife and I volunteer.”
“Thank you!” I’m stunned. Happy. Imogene kissed me. Again!
Imogene is standing up, dabbing her lips, cheeks even pinker than usual. “What do we do next during a date?” she whispers.
“THIS MOVIE SOUNDS SAD.”
“I promise it’s mostly funny.”
Artie and I sit on the couch. Laurel is on his chest, contentedly taking her bedtime bottle.
“But you said a little boy is home alone at Christmas? That’s horrible!”
“You’re right. That is horrible. It’s fictional, so they made it funny, but in real life, it would be awful. We should watch something that’s not sad at all, where no kids get left home alone.”
I’m not in my dress anymore. I’m in my new white flannel pajamas, worn soft and smooth by the previous owners. Artie is in sweats and a t-shirt with the MenuGenius logo. He holds the remote. I snuggle under his arm, and we put on something else.
I don’t even know what’s happening in the movie.
Laurel finishes her bottle, and Artie carries her upstairs.
When he comes back, we smush together like two puzzle pieces.
My heart is thudding. His hand rubs my back gently, as though he’s afraid I’ll tell him to leave.
I place my hand possessively on his chest and look up at him, silently wanting another kiss.
Artie complies, lips soft and sure. This time, his tongue dips against my lower lip, and I let mine wander towards his, sinking into his mouth, and moaning at the sensation.
Connection. Intimacy. Me inside of him, him inside of me, breathing in each other as I cling to him.
I don’t want to lose this.
Scenes from the book club book for next week wander into my brain as my stomach tightens. I just started reading it this afternoon when Artie helped me download it onto my phone.
It’s a steamy, romantic suspense book. Lots of mythological elements, secret clubs, intrigue, and danger.
I focused on the parts when the hero carried the leading lady to bed, reading it like a primer for what to do and expect, confused at how easy it all seemed to them to topple into bed. No vows. No fears. No worries or shyness.
Maybe those come later.
All I know is that my stomach is tight, my breasts feel achy and tingly, and my lady parts are making me all wet. I worry I sound naive, and that I don’t know how to be intimate with anyone. I’m not even sure I’m kissing right, but Artie isn’t complaining.
“I don’t know how to do more,” I blurt out between kisses.
Artie’s glasses are off, up in his hair, which is adorably askew. “Do more?”
“Don’t we do more?”
“We said slow. When you’re ready, we can do more. Weeks from now. Months. Years, I’ll wait,” he reassures, stroking my hair back. “I know a good thing when I see it, Immy.”
“I want more now. In case I wake up, and this vanishes. Can’t it be slow while we do new things together?” I plead, squirming and uncertain.
“I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to. You know, growing up without dating.
.. I mean, I didn’t date, really. I went to a couple parties with this girl in my class, and we.
.. I’ve been with someone twice. Then she moved on to someone less awkward and better at being a boyfriend, I guess,” he whispers, a deep line suddenly between his brows.
“You’re not a boyfriend. You’re a husband. Husbands are better. They last longer.”
Artie laughs. “Around you, I don’t know if I’d last long.”
I’m not entirely sure what that means, and my confusion must show, because Artie heaves a sigh.
“It means I would want to give you pleasure for hours and hours. And once we’re—” he interlocks his fingers with a meaningful look, “I’m afraid I’d last minutes.
But I’d try. I think if we take it slow, and you don’t mind that I have to serve you in heats instead of one long marathon, it’ll be okay.
I’m still going to make sure you feel good.
You just have to teach me what you like. ”
“I don’t know what I like.”
“Do you like it when I do this?” Artie rubs my back and kisses me again.
I sigh happily. “I love that.”
“Then let’s do that.”
“For a start. But I need a different outfit. Don’t I need to look sexy?” I trip over words that I never imagined would apply to me.
“Oh, Imogene... You already do. In everything. And you look so cute all the time, even in flannel and fuzzy socks.”
I hesitate, and then use one foot to work down the sock on the opposite foot.
Not hooves. Not human feet. Smooth pink flesh meets hard, flat brown.
Artie stares. Looks sick.
I move like lightning and tuck my legs up under me, stomach swirling. “Sorry, I didn’t... Sorry. I’ll keep my socks on.”
“They cut off your hooves. And your horns.” His fingers touch the tiny nubs with a tenderness that makes my eyes water.
“And my tail,” I whisper. “But I told you...”
I know I told Artie, but I’m not sure he fully understood until now.
He pulls me into his lap and buries his face in my neck.
We hold each other and rock. “Never gonna let anyone hurt you again. And I love you, just the way you are, okay?” His hand runs down my back, lower this time, and traces over the bump that’s left of my tail.
Down to where my feet are tucked under my legs as I half-sit, half-kneel in his lap.
Light strokes over the hard, flat sole. “Does it hurt?” he whispers.
“No.”
“Thank God.”
“You said you love me. Just like I am.”
“Yeah. I’m not going to take it back.”
All the pain of telling him my darkest secrets is blotted out in a burst of blinding light, a flare that seems to come from my heart outward.
I reposition myself, legs wrapped around his waist, and our kissing continues.
This time, I know what the bulge I’m pressing against is. I let my hand leave his chest and move lower, pushing my crotch against him. The jolt of pleasure makes me gasp, and when his hand rests on my thigh, I move it inward.
We don’t speak. Just rub through the fabric, my hand on his erection, his hand where I’m damp and every touch is electric.
“If I keep doing this, and you show me what feels good, I can make you come. You don’t have to do anything back, okay?
This would just be so you can enjoy being touched, and if you don’t like being touched, we don’t have to do these things.
There are lots of couples who have different ways of showing affection. If you don’t want a physical way—”
“I want to be physical. I want it so much, I’m just not sure how to do it,” I repeat my words from earlier.
“How about if tonight, we just do a little exploring, and we can do more later?”
I love this man. I nod and squeal when he lifts me up and carries me to the stairs. Then stops.
“Yeah, I’m not as strong as I wish. If you walk up the stairs, I’ll pick you back up at the top?”
“Deal.”