Chapter Twenty-Two Nomi
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NOMI
The first thing I’m cognizant of is happy.
The emotion stretches luxuriously within my body as I blink toward consciousness, without me fully understanding why or where it came from.
The warm cocoon wrapped around me feels safe and complete, putting me at perfect temperature equilibrium in the cold air whirring from the window unit. I just had the best sleep of my life.
Perhaps wildest of all, I feel hungry. Not from weed and not the false hunger that sometimes precedes a Crohn’s attack, either. Just pleasantly, normally, hungry. A body asking for what it needs. I let my eyes flutter shut and relish the feeling.
With chronic illness, you learn to notice and celebrate the brief interludes where nothing hurts and everything’s working as it should.
Then you systematically interrogate everything you did, looking for answers to finally escape the locked dungeon of your disease.
But as my sleepy brain trawls over the food I ate yesterday, the strain I vaped, it doesn’t add up.
A greasy, decadent spread of boardwalk food doesn’t make me feel like this.
The warm pressure at my hipbone materializes into a hand, flexing one finger at a time. The cool tip of a nose burrows into my hair, warm breath cascading across my neck, coalescing into a word as soft as my pillow.
“Nomi.”
His hand skims down the slope of my stomach, pinkie brushing the edge of my dark, unshaved curls, lighting up my entire core with a giddy rush.
Julian.
That’s what’s different. I don’t believe Julian and his magical cock fucked my disease away or anything, but maybe giving in to these feelings that have been building within me for months released a stress my sensitive body has struggled to handle.
There’s also fascinating evidence that orgasms activate your parasympathetic nervous system, inducing a state of calm at the biochemical level, which can in turn dampen the damaging impacts of increased cortisol so common in those who suffer from inflammatory bowel disease.
Simply put, Julian didn’t fuck me cured, but he might have fucked me chill.
Maybe he’s my doctor, after all.
He draws me against him. I’ve never fit so perfectly anywhere in my life as I do in the crescent moon of his strong, sheltering body.
Spooning. I finally get it.
“Good morning.” I turn so that my cheek brushes his lips.
My hand caresses his stubbly jaw, and he kisses my palm, drawing a fingertip into his mouth and gently sucking.
I exhale a soft rush of air as his hand travels lower, finding my split and stroking the quickly swelling bud there.
I press greedily against his palm, delighted with how much of me can be covered by one of his long, graceful hands.
He slides down until the heel of his palm presses against my clit, slipping his middle finger inside of me, then another, stretching me deliciously as he strokes into me.
His thick erection nestles between the halves of my ass, waiting to explore me next as I tremble against him.
“Nomi, Nomi, my Nomi…” he whispers into my hair, then licks the back of one ear. His hips grind against me while he works me, easily, with his hand. “I was so afraid it was all a dream.”
I come hard, sandwiched between the pressure of his hand and the wall of his groin.
“Can I, baby? Please?” he asks into my ear, and I moan out a desperate yes.
God, I love it when he begs. Before the shudders are done, he flips me onto my stomach, rolls on a condom, and enters me from behind.
My muscles clench and release around the sudden presence of his cock, the orgasm renewed, heightened, amplified, his palm reaching around to press hard against my clit once again as I rock against him, around him, with him.
He pushes deeper and deeper still, as if he’d lose himself in me if he could.
Up until now, we’ve both tried to be quiet, but when he comes, he releases a straight-up roar. We collapse against the mattress in a heap of limbs, then he rolls onto his back, and I curl into his arms, my cheek pressed against his chest.
“How am I supposed to live now?” He idly brushes my hair back from my face. “How am I supposed to get out of this bed and eat breakfast? Go to work next week? How am I supposed to do anything else, ever again?”
I laugh into the divot between his pecs, where the hair is softest, completely blissed out. I feel almost stoned from the rush of serotonin and dopamine flooding my body. “I don’t know. How have you coped with this issue in the past?”
He tips my chin up. “What past? This has never happened to me.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Julian D’Angelo, the most intense man alive, has never gotten this horny before?”
He frowns at me, his hair so adorably mussed and imperfect that it makes me want to hide every brush and comb in New Jersey. “I’m telling you that I have never, not once, looked at someone and felt like my entire life’s finally begun.”
My throat tightens, and I struggle to swallow as the pale-blue lakes of his eyes reflect my face back to me. “You can’t say stuff like that after one night together, Julian. You’ll scare the women away.”
“Good. I don’t want other women. I only want you.”
“Fine. You’ll scare me away.”
“I don’t believe that.” His serious face transforms into a slow, knowing smile as he brushes his finger against my cheek.
“You’ve seen all my scariest sides, Nomi, and you’re still here with me now, looking at me like that.
So, forgive me for telling you the truth, even when it’s scary, even when it’s too much. Besides, I think you like my too much.”
“I do,” I whisper, still strangely choked.
In a world where so many are terrified of being cringe, of being seen and judged and found ridiculous, Julian’s unabashed insistence on being himself might be my favorite thing about him.
It’s a form of bravery, I think. A confidence that transcends the small-minded fear of others’ opinions.
In this day and age? Where every text is carefully calculated to show just enough interest not to be embarrassing, to never fully put your feelings on display, always maintaining your ability to walk away and appear utterly unscathed, Julian’s full-throttle devotion feels like a homecoming. A relief.
And also? Way, way too serious.
“We should talk.”
“Alright. Let’s talk.” He regards me patiently, almost amused, as I clear my throat.
“As I have mentioned, I don’t date.” I watch him closely, but his expression doesn’t change.
“Good. Me, either.”
“Good?” I blink, wondering how I got off so easy here. “Okay, then. We’re in agreement. We’re not dating.”
“Right,” Julian agrees, pulling me fully atop him. “We’re skipping dating and going straight to being together.”
“Julian!” I laugh despite my intentions to be serious as he bites his bottom lip into his mouth and bucks me lower onto his lap, where his thick cock swells between my legs. “I thought we could, you know. Be casual. Have some—fun.” My moan splits up the sentiment.
“What a pretty little liar you are, Wyeth,” Julian pants out, smirking as his thumb finds my clit and bears down, hard. “You never thought that I could be casual about you. Admit it.”
I whimper as I settle onto his cock, and his slack-jawed smile curls into that insolent grin, all the confession that he needs.
By the time we mosey into the kitchen, Eve is already up and baking. “Muffins,” she announces grandly. “With honeyed peaches and oats.”
“And weed?” I ask.
“Without, actually,” Eve responds airily. “I figured the doctor might enjoy some sobriety this morning. But these are for the rest of us.” She reveals a platter of pale-green blondie bars under aluminum foil and grins wickedly.
She delivers a muffin and banana to Julian, along with a mug of coffee and a little smile. “Thanks for taking care of my number one all night, Doc. Glad you’re here.”
Julian’s expression goes impossibly touched at the gesture, his eyebrows folding into a single, perfect arch. “Thank you for inviting me. This has been the best weekend of my life.”
Eve presses a hand quickly to her chest and sniffs, a frankly wild display of emotion for her toward a straight white man, then pushes his plate to him on the bar.
“Go on, eat up. I even added some protein powder. You’ve got to keep your strength up the way you two are going.
” She winks, and Julian salutes, while I sigh and grab a blondie.
I knew she wouldn’t let us off the hook today, not after she came stumbling into our room at two a.m. while I was riding Julian like a seesaw, screaming “Pumpkin!” but unwilling to stop for even a minute.
But if there’s one thing I’m picking up from Julian, it’s that feeling embarrassed is overrated.
I make my way to the couch, not quite bowlegged but pushing it, and grab my phone from where it’s been charging overnight.
I flip through all my usual notifications—texts from Mom, pictures sent from Graham and Eve as they terrorized a mini-golf course last night, then flip over to email.
Most of it’s trash, but one subject line makes my heart rate spike:
NOTICE OF ZONING HEARING
I toss down the uneaten blondie and click on the email, my eyes racing over the lines of text.
Ms. Wyeth: