THIRTY-SEVEN
Cece
It’s been exactly four days since I started my new medication. And other than occasional headaches, I haven’t built much of a relationship with them.
The last time I was on Abilify was years ago. So, it almost feels like a new experience.
But it wasn’t until a few days ago that I realized something else.
I never want to build a relationship with any medication. The fact that this vocabulary even lives in my brain is a terrifying thought.
When I abruptly stopped Seroquel a few months ago, I had plummeted towards what felt like an endless, empty pit. That blackness had left little room for me to breathe through any kind of emotions—let alone identify them.
I had started thinking of my life, my love, in a linearly sliced timeline of before and after Seroquel.
I even questioned which version of me loved Levi. Whether that version even existed in the first place.
‘Every. Fucking. Version.’
His enraged confession often lingers in my head for longer than I want it to. Only, I think he simply echoed my own words.
Every version of me loves him. I just didn’t let every version of me believe in his love.
But I’m learning to believe him. Trust him.
The same trust that shattered under his lies of omission is building back up stronger—with each passing truth he unhesitatingly volunteers.
With the way he always offers me information about his schedule.
With the way he not only loves me specifically, but also notices all my little habits that I have subconsciously resumed in the past month.
He notices.
He learns.
Then he makes room for me to learn.
And I now hear the truth in his words from last month. That he won’t ever stop learning me.
Well, neither would I, it seems. Because he’s gained a new, irresistible habit of running his fingers near my throat, enticingly moving them toward the nape of my neck before feeling my sharp, coarse hair.
And what always follows is his gentle yet needy pull until his lips are on mine. It’s almost like a signal now. His signal.
The second his hand is anywhere near my neck, I’m melting into a puddle. I’ve started to anticipate the kisses so well that my lips always part in invitation, tongue darting out—all before he’s even leaned in.
According to my psychotherapist, it is my own way of initiating. Although subtle, it’s an initiation nonetheless.
Ever since she told me that, I’ve discovered several other ways I’ve started initiating all kinds of interaction. Physical and verbal.
Hell, even the tug is something I’ve finally admitted to being my initiation—an action of my love within itself—instead of the daunting plea for a hug that I thought it was.
So I’ve been evolving the tug even more now, using it to convey more than I set it out to mean. Which is why I knew exactly what I intended when my knuckles paled against his blazer as I pulled at the lapel. And this man understood it within the space of our muffled breaths.
His arms had already been around me. His entire body blazing against the front of mine since there wasn’t a single inch of space between us.
He was as close as he could get, yet I still wanted him closer. Burrowed under my skin.
Because I didn’t want him to let doubt seep in again.
Because I can’t watch him slowly abandon the idea of me ever saying those three words back to him. Or even say them first.
Because he has shown me that his touch is worth a thousand words of reassurance.
Because… oh, there are a hundred damn becauses.
But those three words still got heaped somewhere between my throat and lips, every time I’d try to move them past that lump.
So, I decided that this was one of the ways to show him until I learned how to love him better. Until I could say those words without panic drumming up in my chest.
When we reach the corridor of his penthouse, I’m a needy, hungry mess who wouldn’t let go of his lips. The only reprieve he had was when he drove us here.
Now, he doesn’t need both his hands. Only one to unlock his door while the other remains clinging to my skin, squeezing the back of my neck every time I try to come up for air.
“God,” he gasps into my mouth as he lifts me up with one hand expertly under my ass.
My legs wrap around his waist, feeling his cock pressing against the thin fabric of my pants.
“Christ, feral Cece,” he chuckles when my mouth drags along his neck. “Let me open the door first, baby.”
I barely hear the distinct click of the digital lock. Or the alarm system engaging again. My brain keeps itself hooked on those two words.
Feral Cece.
I believe I’ve become a bit feral for him lately. Especially when he keeps finding new reasons to kiss me silly.
I make him a cup of coffee with his favorite beans? Kiss.
I run a preliminary financial audit for election preparation? Kiss.
I touch my ring on his little finger? Kiss, kiss, kiss.
So now, I’m just addicted to them. And it’s his damn fault.
There’s one thing about this feverish need that has enveloped me since he visited me in my office. It all feels new, yet deliriously familiar.
And I realize, just like with everything else, this non-medicated Cece is an entirely different breed when it comes to sex.
She’s less restrained. Less doubtful. Less cautious. And more… well, feral.
I wonder if it’s because I’ve been stripped of the lens with which I saw our relationship. Shadowed by that clause that’s no longer a part of our lives.
I inhale his musky scent as he carries me to our bedroom. His hands frantically untuck my shirt, roaming aimlessly around my back.
He’s mumbling something about my lip gloss when he lets me down near the edge of our bed. Capturing my lips in a searing, near-desperate kiss. “Cece, baby, you gotta be sure,” he rasps, yanking his blazer off and pulling his shirt over his head. “Because I’m not sure if I can hold back tonight.”
I hurriedly take off my own shirt and pants, leaving myself in just a pair of teal underwear.
His one hand wraps around the back of my neck again, the metal of my ring cool against my heated skin. The other fumbling blindly with his belt.
My mouth is already parted, as usual, when I have a sudden vision of a way even he can evolve this signal of his.
My confidence wavers for half a second before I shove him lightly. He lands on the edge of the bed with a dull thud, eyes wide. He’s already shirtless now, his eagerness palpable even through his questioning gaze. “What are you—”
In a blink, I drop to my knees, hooking my fingers around the waistband of his pants and boxers, and the damn man helpfully lifts his hips, letting me strip them off.
There he is, completely naked, bared to me with his undeniable, glorious muscles. And irresistibly mine. His hard cock rests against his stomach, but I don’t touch him immediately. He’s watching me now, waiting, with his hooded eyes gleaming with need.
Lightly trailing my fingers up his thighs, I stop just shy of his eager, rigid length. I grin when it twitches, his face pinching with a mix of frustration and sheer desperation.
“Fuck, you’re killing me, Cece,” he exhales sharply, desire thick in his voice.
A wicked smile touches my face when he takes a deep, ragged breath.
Settling down further between his wide legs, I grip his thighs, slowly dragging my tongue from the base of his cock to the glistening drop of pre-cum at the tip.
His groans echo through the room, spurring me on.
Finally, he does what I hoped he would. Leaning back, he props himself on one elbow and then locks his other hand behind my neck, guiding my mouth gently.
“Oh fuck,” he grits out when I grip the base of his cock, and envelop the head with my lips, sucking maddeningly.
“Fucking hell, baby!” he gasps with a tormented whisper when I groan while taking him deeper. “Jesus.”
Tears well in my eyes as his length meets resistance. But I don’t look away from his face twisted in pleasure, his own gaze never wavering from mine.
God. I’m doing this to him. I’m making him lose and surrender the control I thought he always carried.
“Baby, I don’t wanna—come down—your throat. Fuuuuck,” he manages between breaths, even as he thrusts up to meet the back of my throat.
Reluctantly, I release him with a pop. But not before edging him to his blissful release.
He nods as a wild smirk takes over his face. “I see… that’s how it is, huh.”
Before I can even take a single breath, he hooks his hands at my armpits, and I’m mid-air for half a second. Then I land in the middle of our bed with a bounce.
“Le-Levi,” I whimper as he hovers over me. An untamed, animalistic gleam catches his eyes.
He nods again, still smirking. His breath tickles my neck, and he nips at my skin softly. “Well, you asked for this, Cece, didn’t you?”
I don’t even notice when he shoves the fabric of my panties aside. “Oh God, yes,” I moan as two of his fingers fill my wet heat expertly, skillfully, and relentlessly.
He exposes my breast with only his teeth and proceeds to lavish attention on my nipple. His tongue dances on it all while his thumb presses against my clit.
“Oh—Oh my God!” I gasp, nearly thrashing against his weight when his fingers find an enticing rhythm, breaking down every barrier of mine. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Leviiii.”
His pace on my clit roughens slightly. “Get there, my Cece. Drench my fingers.” He burrows his face into my neck, leaving scorching kisses as a guttural groan leaves me. Surging me into a fierce climax. My whole body wracking with waves of my orgasm.
As I fall back down from the ecstasy, I feel his fingers withdraw. He brings his fingers to his lips, lapping at them, tasting me, savoring every drop. His eyelids flutter shut on a groan. The sight leaves me dizzy with the need for more.
“God, you make me want to have a fucking safe word, baby.” He grins down at me.
I’ve rarely been vocal during sex, but this doesn’t feel like sex anymore. It’s raw, carnal fucking between two people rediscovering each other.
“For you or for me?” I ask cheekily, making him grin wider at my uncharacteristic boldness.