Sunday, February 18
(Franco)
Gem insisted she take a cab from the airport instead of me picking her up because customs takes forever and she didn't want me standing around waiting for her.
Instead, I've been standing at my front door watching the street for the past thirty minutes for any sign of a cab.
Of course, when I step away for a minute to use the bathroom, she rolls up, and I miss the greeting I had planned. It was to be an ambush at the curb.
Instead, the doorbell rings while I'm washing my hands.
I haven't seen her in a few weeks, the rustling in my shorts is a wily reminder of just how much her presence affects me. She's dressed in all black, except her leopard print Chucks. Her hair is knotted, slightly askew on top of her head leading me to believe that travel has been hectic. The circles under her eyes confirm a lack of rest. But she's smiling, so big I can see all her teeth, like she can't hold back her excitement.
No words have been spoken. We're just smiling like fools at each other, her on my doorstep, me on the inside of my screen door.
"Hey, gypsy."
She lifts her bags, one in each hand, to show agreement of the title. "Your no vacancy sign isn't on. I'm assuming I'm still welcome."
I don't have an addictive personality. There's nothing in my life that I pursue in excess, except maybe drumming. But Gemma? I might be addicted to her.
Opening the door for her, she steps in wide-eyed taking in the pool table and living room within view. "Wow, Franco. This is amazing. I was expecting a proper bachelor's lair. But a craftsman style bungalow, this is cozy."
Ten points to the Decorating Douchebags! I shrug to hide how happy I am that working our nuts off to get this place ready has paid off. "Thanks."
She slips off her shoes at the door, and I unload her of her bags. "Can we play?" Running her hand across the felt on the pool table, she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
Her flirty question and expression beg for a loaded response because I can't very well tell her how bad I suck at pool. "Are you good with a stick and balls?"
She nods convincingly, but a devilish smile is bleeding through. "Very. I've keen dexterity." Her fingers are fluttering in front of her to illustrate her point. "It's a gift."
I'm in trouble. She's been here sixty seconds, and I'm already picturing her naked on top of my pool table. I mutter something under my breath; I can't be sure but it sounds like, "Shit. Fuck. Goddamn," because I'm only thinking in expletives right now.
Gemma's giggle confirms it was cursing gibberish.
I nod my head toward and call off the rooms as we walk past. "Kitchen. Spare bedroom. Bathroom."
"Your bum is definitely display worthy," she says pointing to the framed art over my toilet. "It's my home screen wallpaper on my cell, as well."
I skip the compliment and continue the tour. "Drum grotto." I'm nervous all of a sudden. The spotlight is shining on me. I don't want that with her. I just want to be Franco.
She walks in the room timidly and turns around two steps in to look at me. "Is it okay if I'm in here? This feels like such a private space." The unexpected sincerity makes me smile. It's not the crazed reaction of an avid Rook fan; it's respect for my passion, my career. It's little gestures like this that make people stand out, a testimonial to their character.
My nerves are fading. "Of course it's okay." Now that she's in here I don't want her to leave. My favorite room in the house is perfect.
She goes immediately to the photos on the walls, and I tell her about each one. She asks a lot of questions, and it feels good to talk about it. I draw such a distinction between my personal life and my career because one is real and the other is fantasy. Some people can't reconcile the two, and fame makes authentic relationships difficult. Not on my end. I treat everyone the same, regardless of who they are. But some people only want to be friends with fame, not with me. I'm not my fame, I just happen to be a drummer in a band that works their asses off and who's had some luck in the success department. It's the reason I keep my circle small: pretty much childhood friends, the band, and my family. Not because I'm a dick who doesn't want to let people in, but because, honestly, there's only so many times I can be used before it starts feeling like a kick to the face. A kick to the face that always leaves me questioning my integrity, even when I wasn't the one pulling the 'I'm-a-shady-human-being' bullshit.
Her grin is ear to ear by the time we're done looking at and discussing the photos. "I'm proud of you, Franco. You're living your dream."
I shrug. "I'm no different than you. I'm just doing what I love."
"We're lucky, aren't we?" She means it. Truly. I love humility—it's the equivalent of a neon sign advertising My heart isn't an inconsiderate bastard, I'm nice. For real. Every day this woman is more and more perfect.
I nod. "Truth."
Her eyes shift to my drum kit, and she taps the ride cymbal with her pointer finger. "I have a confession to make."
"Is it dirty? Please tell me it's dirty?" I know it's not by the tone of her voice, but I have to tease to lighten the mood.
She smiles at my come on, "No," but it quickly fades into her serious face again. "I've never heard you play. I've never listened to Rook. I didn't want it to make things weird between us." She sounds ashamed.
I'm fucking ecstatic—separation of church and state and all that shit. She likes me, for me. "It would be awkward if you listened and thought we were complete shit. You know, because Gus doesn't have a British accent."
A smile breaks out at the jab. "Or idol worship. What if I fell in love with your mad skills and started throwing my bra and panties at you? That would be weird."
"You already do that."
"Shut up, naughty American boy. I also wanted to wait until I could see you perform live because live is always better. A Rook initiation in the wild."
"Are you saying you want me to play for you?"
She nods and it's confirmation, truth, and conviction.
I'm nervous again. Not because I can't perform, I can play in front of anyone, anytime, anywhere. I'm nervous because I don't want to let her down. I'm selfish. I want her to dig what she hears. I know how much she loves music and I want her to be into it. "Turn around," I request as I turn on the stereo behind my drum kit. I don't spend a lot of money, but I did drop quite a bit on this setup and the speakers. I play along to tracks when I practice.
"Why?" she asks as she turns her back to me.
"You have no poker face." She doesn't. Her face is overly expressive and cannot be repressed. Sitting on the stool, surrounded by my kit, I pick up my sticks. And instead of hitting play on the stereo, I sit. It's quiet, still, because I'm staring at her. Staring at her wondering what kind of an indicator this moment, her opinion and my need for approval, is.
"Are you taking your clothes off?" she asks suspiciously, and it rouses me from my thought train that has gone off the tracks.
I laugh and clear my throat. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I can't drum in the buff. I need some restriction down below, or things would get aggressively out of hand. You might lose an eye."
"Can't have you flailing about below the belt then."
"Nope. Close your eyes."
"I already have my back to you," she rebukes, but she already has them closed. I can see her in the reflection of the glass on the frame on the wall in front of her.
"Are they closed?" I ask anyway.
She nods.
"Good. Now imagine me naked." And with that, I hit play on the stereo and drop into "Redemption."
Sometimes, when I'm in the zone and feeling the song with everything in me, I close my eyes and just let it fly. "Redemption" leads into "Killing the Sun" and it's not until I stomp out the final thump of the bass drum, that I open my eyes to find her standing directly in front of me facing me. I was right about the poker face: non-existent. And I'm so thankful that Gemma apparently has an issue with authority and doesn't do as she's told. Her big eyes are glued to mine, unblinking, and paired with the maniacal grin on her face, tell me she liked listening to me play.
Loved it.
I can't help but match her smile as I switch off the track. "You're shit at following directions, Gem."
"Bloody hell, you gave me no choice." She's fanning herself. "That was a full-on sensory diddle. I needed to watch to get the whole effect." After some lightning fast maneuvering, she slips her bra off from beneath her tank top and tosses it at my face. "Christ, it's like staring into the sun...or at a fucking unicorn...you're all blindingly bright and shiny and enchanting. It's too much, I can't take it," she says as she walks out of the room into the hallway.
I catch her in the living room and wrap my arms around her from behind. She leans back into me and welcomes the contact. "Thank you." I don't know what else to say. I don't need validation. But her reaction, humor included, put a smile on my face that I'm sure won't go away for days. Sometimes confidence is boosted when you didn't even know you needed it. Consider me boosted. And coming from her, it means even more.
"You're welcome. Now walk with me to my purse so I can get my phone."
"What do you need your phone for?"
"I need to buy Rook's album on iTunes. We're going to listen to it while we eat and I kick your arse at pool."
I leave Gem to fiddle with her phone while I make dinner. Beer and nachos are on the menu tonight. I'm not talented in the kitchen but I can whip up world class nachos: seasoned chicken I grilled earlier, mega quantities of freshly grated Monterey Jack cheese, homemade salsa, jalapenos, cilantro, and sour cream. I hold the guac since it repulses her.
Gem walks in as I'm putting the final touches on the cheesy masterpiece. "I'm starving and that looks like all my dreams and wishes served up on a platter."
I hand her a bottle of water, at her request because she's a responsible mother-to-be, and she clinks the neck together with my beer bottle. Plastic on glass makes for an unimpressive sound. She says, "Cheers," at the same time I say, "Salud," and all is right in the world. I know outside this house there are billions of people doing a billion different things, but I feel a little sorry for them at the moment. Because they're not in my shoes, in Gem's company. She makes everything better. She's like fireworks, and not the boring beginning and middle part, but the fucking finale that lights up the sky in a riot of color and sound.
"Can we eat while we play pool? I've already racked."
I grab the platter of goodness and follow her to the dining area where the pool table resides. "Whoever loses has to take off an article of clothing."
She glances down at her tank top, nipples perky as all hell, and leggings. "Can I put on a jumper before we start? And two more pairs of socks? And maybe a hat?"
"Nope. I recall some trash talking earlier, something about kicking my ass. What are you worried about, hustler?"
"I may have misrepresented my aptitude for the game," she says sheepishly.
She wildly misrepresented. Gemma is, without a doubt, the worst pool player I've ever seen. She makes me look like Tom Cruise in "The Color of Money."
Her leggings are history. And because I like to keep things even, I throw the second game, and we both start the third game in underwear and shirts.
I know it's contradictory, but every time she walks past me in her tank top and cheeky bright pink bottoms, or bends over and flashes her ass or cleavage depending on where I'm standing—and believe me, I strategically place myself to take in all the angles—she looks like the most innocent form of sin imaginable. A good girl with a bit of a naughty side.
The nachos lay in ruins on the side table—we demolished them in no time. Our album has played through once on her phone. Empty beer and water bottles are lined up keeping each other company.
I'm buzzed. Which makes the ass and cleavage show so damn hard to resist.
Gem's eyes are warm and her smile dreamy and inviting, despite the lack of alcohol.
"I forfeit. You win." Reaching behind my head, I strip my t-shirt up and over my head.
In reality, we're both winners, because her tank top joins mine on the floor.
I've backed her up against the pool table, thigh to thigh, pinning her in place. My lips greedily on her neck. My hands tangled in her hair.
She's equally eager. Her hands are gliding over my ribs down...down...
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Gemma freezes, panicked like she's been caught in the act.
"Ignore it," I whisper against the hollow of her throat. "They'll go away."
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Then comes shouting from the other side of the door. "I know you're in there, dude! The lights are on!" He knows I'm anal about things like that and would never leave the lights on if I wasn't home. "Put your clothes on and come answer the door! Girl Scout wants to meet Gemma!"
"Can they see us? He doesn't know why I'm here, right?" Gemma says with one hand attempting to cover her ample bosom and one splayed over her undies.
I sigh. Because Gus and his timing couldn't be worse. And then I laugh. Because Gem's modesty is grappling alongside fright and it's cute as hell. "There aren't any windows. They can't see us. And no, he doesn't know, he's making assumptions."
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
"I'm coming!" I yell.
"I don't need a mating play by play, dude! You copulate, we'll wait!" Gus replies loudly.
My eyes shift to Gemma, and she's trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle as she shimmies into her clothes. I can't help but laugh too. "I guess I asked for that one."
"You kinda did," she agrees.
"Gem's coming, too!" I yell and am rewarded with a halfhearted slap on the shoulder to shut me up.
Gus is laughing heartily, I can hear it in his voice. "Like I said, not necessary to share the details! But I'm proud of you for being a generous lover, dude! That's important!"
Fully clothed, I walk to the door. Scout and Gemma are both shaking their heads and blushing when I open it.
I tip my chin at Gus. "Hola, cock blocker."
Gus opens his mouth to continue the closed door banter, but Scout shuts him down. She looks mortified. "Franco, I'm so sorry. I thought Gus called to let you know we were stopping by. We can go if this isn't a good time."
"No, come on in. We were just playing pool," I lie. Because Scout is nice and I want Gemma to meet her.
Gus opens the screen door for Scout to enter and he follows her in with a whisper directed at me. "Dude, I was kidding. I didn't think love would already be in session this early. I feel like a dick, I can make up an excuse, and we can totally leave."
"It's okay. Stay. Dick," I tease. I wonder how he knew what we were in the middle of, and like he can read my mind he nods subtly to Gem...whose tank top is on backward, and whose face and hair looks guilty as hell.
Gus doesn't miss a beat in trying to smooth this over. "Scout, before I introduce you to your future bestie, I need to show you how pretty we made the Grotto."
"Gus?" Scout protests to his suggestion and gives an apologetic shrug to Gemma. "We really aren't this rude, I promise. I'm so sorry. I'm Scout, Gemma. It's nice to meet you."
Gemma shakes her hand. "Nice to meet you, too, Scout."
Gus's big arm gathers his girlfriend in and sweeps her off to the drum room. "Come on, you have to see this. We're geniuses. And hi, Gemma." I know what he's doing. He's trying to give Gemma a minute to right herself.
"Hiya, Gus."
"We'll be right back. I'm sorry," Scout apologizes again.
When they're out of sight, I whisper, "Your shirt's on backward. And your hair looks like you've just handily, and quite aerobically, dominated me."
Her hands fly to her hair.
I wink. "Why don't you run to the bathroom while they're busy in the other room? I'll get us all something to drink."
She nods, her face flooded red by embarrassment, and hurries off to the bathroom.
When everyone assembles in the living room again, it's quiet.
But not for long. Because Gemma and Scout hit it off like destiny has always intended them to be best friends. Chicks can be brutal. I have three sisters, I'm well-versed in cattiness. But these two aren't and it makes me like them even more. The laughter is instantaneous and nonstop. The insta-friendship is like Gus and me, only less crude. And way prettier.
Gus checks his cell after an hour and announces, "We'd better get going, Scout. I promised I'd help Ma with some stuff tonight."
I know he feels bad about interrupting us earlier, so I don't know if he really does need to help Audrey or if it's a polite excuse to give Gem and me some alone time. He's a good guy, either way.
Scout and Gemma exchange phone numbers, friend each other on Facebook, and hug and I know I'm witnessing some powerful, female, mystical bonding for life voodoo. It's awesome.
Gus hugs me, mimicking the girls. It's exaggerated and long. He even strokes my bald head.
"Thanks for coming over," I tell him. I mean it. My blue balls don't, but I do.
"Sorry again, dude."
"No worries. The force is strong with these two." I point to our girls standing at the door talking.
He looks at them and smiles his Scout-is-everything smile, because serious contentment is what he thrives on these days. And she provides it. "It's cool, right?"
I agree. "It is."
More hugs all around and they're on their way.
Gemma is still beaming when the front door clicks shut. "She's so nice, Franco. Really and truly nice." She says it like she's beyond excited about the revelation. And knowing her and Scout like I do, I know they'll stay in touch. They're perfectly paired.
"She is. I'm glad they came over, and you two got to meet."
"Me too."
"You want anything else to eat or something to drink?"
She shakes her head sweetly. "No, thanks."
"You tired? Jet lag is a bastard."
She nods once, but the gleam in her eye negates it. "A bit. But we can sleep in tomorrow, right?"
I take her by the hand and lead her toward my bedroom. "I am your baby making man servant for the next few days. You tell me when and where to be and if clothes are required, that's all I need."
She stops at the bathroom. "I just need to use the loo, I'll be in in a sec."
"Take your time."
While she's in the bathroom, I undress. And then I light the candles Gus insisted I buy and turn off the light. Propping pillows up against the headboard, I climb in and rest back against them, covering myself to the waist with the sheet because the dude downstairs is ready to report for duty, and even though the candlelight is setting the mood and casting a glamour shots type glow, when he's this excited he looks overly aggressive.
It's quiet, too quiet, and that's when I remember the playlist I created. I'm not a sappy dude, but I like to think I'm compassionate. Even if this isn't the happily ever after scenario she always dreamed of, I want her to have good memories about the conception. And I know fucking isn't a philosophical act, but I just want her kid to be created in a moment of good. Happy, calm, loving sperm make happy, calm, loving baby—that's my plan. Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I open my music app and hit play on the playlist titled My sperm are better than yours, in keeping with the positive self-talk translates in positive action, and hit play.
I'm well into song two when Gemma walks in. And my breath is taken away. Her hair is up, and she's wearing a pale pink silky nighty that barely brushes the tops of her thighs. The pale hue of the fabric against her pale skin paired with the candlelight is stunning.
"You look gorgeous, mamacita."
In true Gemma form, she pauses to curtsy and say, "Thank you," on her way to the bed. When she's sitting in bed under the covers next to me, her eyes roam the room. "You did all this for me?"
"I'm shit at romance, Gem. And I know this isn't your fairy tale ending with a wedding featuring a rugby player with beastly good looks and a personality like Edward Cullen—"
She interrupts, "You're not shit at romance. Cullen's got nothing on you except sparkles."
"Blame Gus for the candles."
"And the music? I quite like this song. They're British." She turns her head to face me for the first time and winks.
That wink. Everything stops. Goddamn, she's beautiful. And funny. And smart.
And she wants to have my child. Even if, according to the contract we signed, the child never knows who their father is, I'll know that I got to be a part of making Gemma's dream come true. That's an honor.
"I figured I'd better keep it strictly British or it would squelch the vibe for you. And God forbid conception takes place to the wrong song and jinxes your kid, and they grow up loving only American bands. That would be tragic."
I smile at her, and she rubs her lips together nervously. No witty comeback. The importance of tonight just hit her, and her eyes drop to her lap to meet it, wrestle with it. I lay my hand, palm up, on the bed between us. It's an invitation for contact and comfort.
Her hand is trembling slightly when she laces her fingers with mine. I don't know if it's adrenaline or second thoughts.
"Gem, you don't have to do this. With me," I add in a whisper. "If you're having second thoughts and want to go the medical route, I completely understand." I'm watching her profile for further signs of distress. She's staring straight ahead, her lips rubbing together furiously to stifle emotion. She's a fairly private person, I know this is hard for her, but when the first tear falls from the corner of her eye, I can't hold back. "Hey, honey, look at me."
Reluctantly, she tilts her chin to meet my gaze. Every emotion I've ever seen a human being project is flashing across her face like a movie screen. Releasing her hand, I wrap my arm around her and pull her into me. She rests her cheek against my chest under my chin and holds me in an embrace, arms tight around my waist like everything inside her is at odds.
Holding her, I stroke her hair.
I'm not going to force conversation.
I'm not going to pretend I know what's happening in her head.
I'm not going to judge.
I'm just going to hold her because sometimes touch is the only way to tell someone that you care unconditionally. It doesn't require complicated, deep explanation—it only requires effort. Effort is who I am, I can give her effort all night long.
"I'm sorry, Franco." It's muffled, the words spoken into my skin.
Kissing the back of her head, I whisper, "No need to apologize." I want to say more, but I shut it off there because she's the one who needs to talk this through if she wants to. And if she doesn't, we go to sleep.
She sniffles and raises her head to look me in the eye. Her mascara-ringed eyes are shiny with more unshed tears. "Jesus, I'm a mess. I never cry, and I've now managed it three times with you. I'm sorry. You must think I'm a lunatic."
"Nope, and no apologies for tears, remember?"
She nods and exhales deeply. It's a cleansing, tension releasing breath. "I'm scared." Her voice rings clear and resolute despite the vulnerable message.
"What are you scared of?" I prompt.
Her big blue eyes fix on mine, and I know she's about to be real with me. Soul bearing real. "Do you think sometimes dreams are better left as dreams because they still hold possibility and wonder and there's no room for failure?"
I don't hesitate, not even for a split second, because I believe it so fiercely. "No. I believe that dreams fuel life. And it's when you're chasing them that you're most alive. There's no reward in settling for the safety of status quo."
She swipes under her eyes. It smears mascara across her cheekbones instead of clearing it away. I don't tell her because I don't want her to get rid of it. Life can get messy when you're fighting like hell. I think it's a sign of the courage she's digging deep for. "What if I'm a horrid mum?"
"Impossible. Your heart's too big," I answer because it's true, all the best moms I know have huge hearts. "What else are you scared of?"
"I'll be a single parent, what if I die? My child will be left alone."
"What if you don't and you live a long happy life with them?" I counter.
"What if I can't afford to give them the life they deserve?"
"Then you'll give them what you can, and that will be enough because they'll be loved like mad and that's what really matters."
Another deep breath and I'm sensing that she just needs to give all of her fears, irrational or real, a voice. "Fear is a shitbag."
I have to laugh because the tone of voice she used tells me she's gathering her courage and is about ready to kick fear square in the balls full force. "Agreed. It is."
Pulling back the sheets resolutely, she climbs out of bed and heads for the door.
"Where're you going?" I call after her.
"We're starting over. I'm going to wipe this mess off my face and come back, and we're going to pretend that I didn't just break down like a blithering pussy."
"Leave the mascara, it's kinda sexy," I yell because she's already in the bathroom judging by the light in the hallway.
"I look like a fucking raccoon; that is not sexy. Unless the threat of rabies turns you on," she yells back.
The water turns on and off, and I hear the towel ring mounted on the wall squeak as she dries her face and hands. Then the light flips off, and suddenly we're back to where we were when this all began. Her footsteps padding on the hardwood stop short of the doorway. "Franco, can you restart the music from the beginning? This sex soundtrack of yours is outstanding, and I couldn't fully appreciate it while I was whining."
I smile to myself, open the playlist, hit play on song one, turn it up, and reply, "It's called My sperm are better than yours," as I climb out of bed and walk to meet her in the hall.
"I knew I picked the right man for the job," she says with a grin when we come face to face. The fear is gone.
I look her up and down. The faint glow of the candles from my room highlights her. "You really do look gorgeous in that nighty, Gem, but I'd love to touch and taste what's underneath."
"In the hall?"
"For starters, yeah." Grasping the hem, I raise it up and off, dropping it on the floor next to her.
When I step into her, she stands her ground and accepts the contact. Hands on her hips, I take another step forward. She's forced to take a step back. We continue until her back is against the wall. I'm fully loaded, the length of me pressed against her belly.
Lowering my mouth to her shoulder, I press my lips and let them linger. Followed by a sweep of my tongue so soft there's only a hint of contact. When her head drops to the side to allow full access, I know she approves, and I continue toward her ear, while my hands begin to explore. Fingers wrapped, palms flush, pads of my thumbs anxiously brushing back and forth looking to connect with anything that will make her gasp. Cupping the underside of her breasts, I restrain myself and give them a gentle squeeze before my thumbs get greedy again and sweep up and over repeatedly.
She hums as her fingernails drag lightly down my back and her hips move against me. "I don't think I've told you how thankful I am that drumsticks are rough on your hands. Your callouses are heavenly."
I smile against her earlobe and say, "I tend to do things I'm passionate about to the point of exhaustion." Flexing my hips, I grind her into the wall and add, "I go hard when it feels good."
"God, do you ever," she pants before taking my face in her hands and guiding my mouth to hers.
With everything winding up so goddamn fast I expect her to come at me with everything she's got, so when she slows it down and meets my parted lips with a soft peck to the corner of my mouth before sucking lightly on my bottom lip, I'm surprised. The change in pace and intensity is so fucking sexy. Her hands are still resting on my cheeks, holding me in place, while she takes command.
When her lips grace my top lip with a kiss, I meet her with a kiss of my own and it turns into the sweetest fucking game of tag.
A playful nip from her.
A tip of the tongue tease from me.
An open mouth taunt from her.
An open mouth answer from me.
But when I feel her smile against my lips everything shifts, because holy shit this woman can ignite me.
Taking her hands in mine, I thread my fingers through hers and pin them to the wall above her head. Her grip is strong. She's with me. She knows things are about to change.
I think the best sex is a mixture of harmony and discord. A battle within the bliss. Because anything that feels this damn good should make you want to work your ass off for it.
Chase it.
Sweat for it.
Force your muscles to burn for it.
Make your lungs gasp for it.
When we come, I want to feel like we've fucking earned it.
The kiss deepens. Sweet just turned sinful.
Kissing...it's tongues and teeth and moans and sighs. It's as sonically arousing as it is tactilely arousing.
She's shifted her stance to favor one side so she can wrap her calf around mine. She's slick as she rubs against my thigh.
I'm doing some major grinding of my own against her hip.
Holy shit, this isn't enough.
Releasing her hands, I place them on my shoulders.
Never breaking the kiss, I reach down, grasp just below her ass, pick her up so she's above waist height, and guide myself in.
"Yes," she moans. It's loud. I fucking love loud. Sometimes mind-blowing sex requires a vocal release. It drives everything to new heights.
She shouldn't be able to move much pinned between me and the wall, but she is.
The kiss has been broken by necessity to breathe. Chests are heaving with exertion. Lungs doing their part to partake in the full body experience.
Her legs are wrapped tightly around me. Squeezing to angle her hips and deepen our connection.
"Fuck, Gem. This feels good."
"It does. Good call starting in the hall."
It's then that I make the decision to move us because there's something I need to do. Shifting one arm to her back, I hold her to me and walk us into my bedroom, never breaking our connection. My ear and neck are being paid particularly close attention to by her beautiful lips all the while.
When we reach my bed, I lay her down on her back. Gliding in and out slowly at first but building in intensity quickly. It doesn't take long before I'm driving deep, sweat is beading, and we're both panting. I'm seconds away. "Don't close your eyes, honey." This is why I moved us to the bed. So I can look her in the eye when this happens.
I explode inside her, and I swear it's my body's need to claim her physically that fuels it because it's like nothing I've ever experienced. Without a condom, as caveman-ish as it may sound, she's mine.
This is our special moment.
And she's right there with me. Calling out my name with such conviction that it's an unfiltered mixture of sincere and erotic gratitude.
Eyes locked until we both still and our bodies relax into the satisfying exhaustion that hits instantaneously post-orgasmic high.
Touching my lips with the tip of her finger, she brushes it back and forth while her mischievous grin breaks out ear to ear. The gesture says nothing and everything all at once.
I can't help but smile back. "Goddamn, if you aren't pregnant after that it isn't for lack of trying."
She giggles. "If conception is based solely on the experience, I'm likely having triplets."
I pull out, kiss her on the forehead, and grab a pillow. "Lift up your hips."
"Why?" she questions.
I slide the pillow underneath. "Lay there for thirty minutes. I read it increases the chance of fertilization. It's probably bullshit, but my sperm are doing the one-hundred-meter freestyle like Michael Phelps right now, let's help them out if we can." I've been doing my research, reading everything I can the past few days.
When I return from my clean up in the bathroom, she hasn't moved, but she's covered with the sheet. And she's fast asleep.
Before I blow out the candles, I watch her sleeping for a minute so I can remember this night.
Because some moments are too important to forget.