JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
26 July
11:40 p.m.
Salt Lake City, Utah
I’ve been neglectful in recording the events of the journey. To be honest, I considered giving up the whole journaling project, but Paulie urged me to continue, saying she was having fun with her own journal and that it gets easier with practice.
I asked her if she was recording conversations. “It seems I have a knack for remembering them, and it makes for more interesting reading than ‘I asked this and so-and-so answered that,’ so I make sure to include as much dialogue as I can recall.”
“I do that, too, although sometimes I have to sit and think about what people said. And of course, I write about us.”
“Us? How so?”
“You know.” She waved a hand around and tickled my ribs. “Us. This. What we do together. The way you used the ice on me, for example. I’ll be sure to include that, although I’m not sure if I’ll ever recover from you popping that ice cube up the ol’ hoohaw.”
“You record our intimate details? Is that wise?” I asked, looking down at the top of her head. We were in my bed, having gone to my room after repeated interruptions in our attempt to engage in lovemaking, and, having completed said lovemaking (complete with a couple of very enlightening ice cubes), were now lying together, our bodies tangled in that way that lovers have, and a towel underneath us to soak up the results of melted ice.
“Wise how? Or rather, how would it not be wise?”
“You said you intended on publishing your diary of the trip. I was considering doing the same, but I would not wish to expose you to improper attention via it.”
She rolled over to lie on top of me, her delicious breasts pressing into my chest in a way that instantly had me thinking about whether or not I could manage a second go-round. “Improper attention. Hee hee hee.”
I swatted her ass. “You know what I mean.”
“I do, and I appreciate your concern. As for my journal, I’m going to edit out all the naughty bits. That’ll be just for me . . . and you, if you’d like a copy.”
“Of course.” I slid my hands down her back to her plump ass. I loved that ass with all its curves and enticing softness. “Would you like me to do the same?”
“Let me read your journal, or write up our smutty bits? Because the answer to both is yes, please.”
“You are an odd woman,” I commented, smiling a little to let her know I meant it in a positive way.
“And you’re just noticing this?” She smiled and drew a pattern on my chest. My penis stirred, leaving me to think thoughts that a second round wasn’t as far-fetched as I might have considered. “I didn’t think I’d like erotic literature, as I prefer to think of our writings, but I have to admit that reading back to that lovely night, it really got my motor running.”
She wiggled against me in a way that definitely made me think I could perform miracles.
“If you keep moving like that, you’ll do more than get my motor running,” I said with a bit of masculine pride.
“Really?” She rolled off me and inspected my penis. “Holy cow, you’re right. I didn’t think men could do that more than once in an hour.”
“Most men can’t, I’m sure,” I said in an insufferably smug voice, but one I felt was fully allowable given the circumstances. “I, however, am a superior sort of man, one who is aroused only by a superior type of woman, and you are most definitely that woman.”
“Goodness,” she said, all admiration. She looked down to my penis, up to my face, and back down to it. “Do you need some help? I should help, shouldn’t I? This isn’t all your responsibility.”
“Your assistance is always welcome,” I said graciously.
“Right.” She got to her knees and seemed to have some trouble deciding what to do. “Should we do some role-playing? That would be exciting and different, wouldn’t it?”
“It would, but I’m not sure we need that—”
“Good! I’ve always wanted to try, and never had a boyfriend who was into it. Let’s see . . . what should we role-play?”
“How about you be a sexy American woman with the loveliest legs in the country, and I will be a visiting Englishman who loves the way your legs wrap around my hips?”
She batted away that suggestion. “Naw, that’s too realistic. What’s exotic and out of the ordinary? Pirates! You can be a pirate captain and I’ll be your buxom first mate.”
“No pirates,” I said quickly, shaking my head at her to emphasize the point. “My brother had a bad experience role-playing pirates.”
“Pooh. Well . . . King Henry VIII?”
“The one who ordered the deaths of many of his wives?”
She made a face. “Yeah, as soon as I said it I knew it was bad. Downton Abbey?”
“Never watched it.”
“Crap. I would suggest milkmaid and shepherd boy, but I have no idea what either does.”
“How about,” I said, rolling her over until my mouth was hovering over one of her round breasts, “we leave the role-playing for another time, and instead I kiss every inch of you?”
“That sounds jim-dandy fine with me,” she agreed quickly, and dug her fingers into my shoulders when I took a nipple gently between my teeth. “Oh lord, yes! To hell with role play! Kiss my inches! Kiss my inches!”
I did so. It was glorious. She tasted of salt and woman and something that I couldn’t define, a slightly sweet scent that seemed to wind itself around me and hold me in bonds. Silken bonds. Silken bonds of desire . . . No, that sounds too trite and purple.
But it was true. I felt bound to her in some way that went beyond just the physical pleasure I found in kissing and tasting and in some cases nibbling on her. It was as if she satisfied me at a level that I couldn’t explain. I still can’t. It doesn’t make sense, because I know she isn’t interested in a long-term relationship. She’s made it perfectly clear that she enjoys our time together, but that she’s a free spirit.
That’s fine. I’m a free spirit, too. I am not looking for a girlfriend or, god help me, a wife.
One thing did bother me while I was doing all the nibbling and kissing and touching and rubbing her silken legs alongside my aching flesh, and that was the need to tell her the truth about Rose.
“You are so beautiful,” I murmured against her thigh, feeling like I was going to burst soon if I didn’t plant myself inside her. “I love the way you taste and feel.”
She pulled me upward, her hands caressing my back, and then lower to my ass. “That is very sweet of you, especially since I’m not beyond mildly pretty, but I appreciate it nonetheless. And I love how you taste, too. I’ve never thought much about it before, but you are all hot and spicy and salty at the same time, and it kind of drives me crazy. It has to be some primitive thing, and if you don’t put that condom on right now, I’m likely to die right here of unrequited lust.”
I smiled and got the condom on without incident, the feeling of her heat when I sank into her sending little streaks of fire up my groin and straight to my spine. It was a glorious feeling, and when I lifted her hips to better position myself, she went wild underneath me, her legs tightening around me until I found myself on my back with her riding me.
“Do you mind?” she said in little panting breaths. Hell, she even panted in a sexy manner.
What was going on that I found panting arousing?
“Not at all, just so long as you don’t stop that little twirl you do,” I managed to answer. It wasn’t easy, because at that point my brain felt like it was full of treacle and operating at one-eighth the normal speed and, frankly, I was a bit surprised I could even get coherent words out.
“I like the twirl, too. What about this?” She shifted forward a little when she sank down on me.
My eyes rolled back in my head, and despite my attempts to put them back where they belonged, they stayed there happily, as I enjoyed the sensations she was sending firing out to all points on my body.
“I’ll take it that the groan is a good sign. Wait. There’s something else I want to try . . .” She leaned to the back and with one hand took my balls and gave them a gentle squeeze.
I damn near came off the bed at that.
I sat bolt upright, my hands on her luscious thighs, and demanded, “Don’t ever stop doing that!”
She laughed—she actually laughed. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Now I know that women are truly the superior sex, because it’s all I can do to keep my autonomous functions like breathing and my heartbeat going, and here you are not only laughing and coming up with inventive and incredibly arousing things to do to my poor man’s body, but you can also talk in actual sentences and not just grunt noises of rapturous pleasure like I am doing.”
“You’re actually talking now, you know,” she said, her breath hitching when I took her breasts in my hand and lay down again, bringing her with me. “Oh man, that’s really good at this angle. Dixon, I hope you’re not going to be long, because I’m about ready to blow up into a thousand orgasm pieces.”
“Now,” I said, reverting to what I thought of as single-syllable caveman words. I thrust upward into her, my hips working overtime. “Do it now.”
“If you insist . . .” She did another twist and arched her back over me, her inner muscles trembling and tightening around me in waves that pushed me into my own orgasm.
One of the things I like best about Paulie is how she smiles after we’ve had sex. It’s not a grin, or even a happy-go-lucky greeting . . . It’s the lazy, exhausted smile of a woman who has been pleasured from the tips of her adorable toes to the top of her head. She smiled now, her body draped across mine as if she was a toga, one that was custom-made for me.
I stroked her back, my own body feeling like it was made of lead. The thought flitted through my head that now would be the perfect moment to come clean about Rose.
“Erm,” I said after a couple of minutes to catch my breath and let my heart stop racing.
“I know,” she said, stretching languidly and sliding off me to curl up at my side, one of her legs still across mine. “It was very erm, wasn’t it? Although I swear I’m going to walk funny tomorrow after two times in one night.” She yawned and snuggled tighter against me.
“I might do so as well,” I said, shifting my arm so it wouldn’t go to sleep under her. Sleep pulled at me with tiny but persistent fingers, urging me to fall fully into its grasp, but I felt the need to be honest with Paulie. “Not to take anything away from what we just did, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“OK. Tell away.”
I looked up at the ceiling, trying to decide how best to put it. “You know, of course, that I was engaged to be married when I was in my early twenties.”
“Yup.”
“Rose was a few years older than me, divorced, and ready to settle down. I assumed I was as well, because I fell in love with her while I was in university. She was the daughter of one of my professors, and I thought she was the most glamorous woman I’d ever met.”
“Mmm.” Paulie shifted slightly, her breath warm on my shoulder.
“She suggested we get married, and I reckoned that was a good idea. I’ve never been like Rupert—interested in a number of women—and Rose was, after all, more worldly than me. So we announced our engagement and set a date for the following year. Almost immediately after that, I realized I’d made a mistake. What I’d thought was a worldly woman was one who wanted absolute control over me, what I did, what I wore, who I saw. When I thought she was settled and centered, I didn’t realize she was simply set in her ways and unwilling to compromise. We started fighting, at first over silly things, but she would never let anything go. The arguments increased and became more serious. I actually suggested that we put off the wedding while we sought couple’s counseling to work out our issues—she refused, saying that we were two intelligent people, and if we couldn’t work things out by ourselves, then no one could help us. This went on for months. I was miserable. I think now she was just as unhappy as I was, but for some reason she clung tight to the wedding as a point of salvation.”
Paulie murmured something unintelligible.
I stroked her arm, feeling a sense of comfort from her nearness despite the bad memories. “Four months before the wedding, I decided to break things off. I knew it would be the best thing for both of us, but before I could do so, Rose was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Quite an aggressive cancer. Naturally, I couldn’t leave her then. She became a different woman—distant and cold and bitter. I could understand it; after all, she’d just been given a death sentence. I stayed with her to the end, but by that time she was telling me daily how much she hated me.”
The room fell silent. My heart ached at the memory of that dark time. “I know it was the cancer and harsh drugs talking, but it still hurt. Around others, she was fine—calm and collected, and saying she was ready to face her end. But when we were alone, she was simply . . . cruel.”
My throat closed up a little. I gave a cough to loosen it up.
“I didn’t tell anyone how she had changed. I didn’t want them thinking of her being so hateful. I didn’t want to remember her that way. We did have some good times, after all. And of course, all of this meant that everyone—my family, her family, my friends—all believed I was deeply grieving her loss. I couldn’t tell them the truth. But I can tell you, because I know that you will understand.”
I waited for her to say that she wholly and completely understood why I did what I did, and that she thought it was damned nice of me to keep Rose’s memory positive despite what I’d gone through, and many other suitably nice things, but Paulie was silent.
Horribly, wrenchingly silent.
“You don’t . . . understand?” I asked at last, rising slightly on one elbow to peer into her face.
She was sound asleep, her mouth open slightly, a tiny little puddle of drool forming on my arm.
I’d sexed her into sleep. There was something satisfying about that, even if my soul baring had been so uncaptivating that it had put her to sleep. I closed her mouth, wiped up the drool with the pillowcase, and rolled her over onto her side, spooning behind her. She murmured something and wiggled backward into me.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I said, allowing myself to sink downward into sleep. “I’ll explain it all then, and you will stop worrying that I’m pining for a woman I haven’t loved for a very long time.”
The following day (today), was hectic, to be sure . . . Ah. There is Paulie, at last. I will resume this at a later time.