I taste the salt of her tears, absorb the shudders of her pleasure deep into my own muscles, inhale the tangy scent of her arousal and sweat, and memorize the sound of her bliss. She is beautiful beneath me, wrapped around me. Her mouth is open wide as she pants for air, her light brown hair splayed across her purple pillowcase, her pale skin tinged with pink.
Long after our mutual breathing and heart rates have returned to normal, I lick the inside of her mouth in a paltry attempt to recapture the sense of closeness that has already abated. I am still seated as deeply as possible inside her, but it is not the same as it was five minutes and forty-two seconds ago when we orgasmed together.
“Ollie,” she gasps. “You have to call into work. You’ll be late soon.”
I glance at the nightstand to check the time, but Liv does not have an alarm clock like in my condo. With much regret, I retreat from the warmth of her body. “My phone is downstairs. Please do not leave your bed. You must remain prone for at least another fourteen minutes to aid the sperm in their intended journey.”
She smiles and stretches her arms above her head until her hands hit the tufted headboard. She scratches her nails against the cloth, which provides an oddly satisfying sound. “I won’t move a muscle.”
“You just did,” I point out the obvious as I climb out of her bed.
Her smile is lazy and satisfied. A fact that makes pride warm my chest in spite of the chilly temperature apart from her heat. “I will not move a single pelvic muscle.”
“Good,” I say as I walk toward the door.
“Ollie?” she calls when I have barely exited the room.
I backtrack and lean my head inside the doorway. If she requires sustenance and drink, I am already prepared to serve her, but I would be grateful for any specific requests she might make. “Yes?”
A shudder works its way through her body from head to toe. She is clearly moving her pelvic muscles now. “Can we do the couch thing later? I really did want to try it.”
“Of course, Liv. We must save that for our last session of the day, however. I will not be able to be gentle with you in that position.”
“Promise?” she asks with clear anticipation.
“I promise,” I affirm. This is the least of which I desire to promise her, but I am willing to wait for her to ask for the rest.
I will wait as long as it takes.
I have been very patient for fourteen years.
17
Olivia
Ollie’s fingers fly over the keyboard while he works. This is his monthly scheduled weekend to maintain the servers or something computery like that, but he’s worked out a deal with his supervisor to stay home with me instead of going into the office.
I know better than to interrupt him when he’s so focused, but I also know he’ll be mad at me later if I withhold vital information from him for longer than necessary. We’re still working on a balance of being open about his autism while maintaining his personal dignity. Well, I am. I’m working on it. Ollie still refuses to address the elephant in the room. I’m letting him get away with it, just as Mr. Hooper advised.
I never imagined years ago I wasn’t already giving him everything he needed.
“Ollie?”
He huffs out a sigh of obvious frustration before his fingers freeze in place over the keyboard. “Is this important?”
“Yes,” I insist.
With another deep sigh, he rolls his chair away from his desk to face me. His expression is a beautiful combination of worried, curious, and angry. “What is it?”
I pick at a loose thread on one of his oldest t-shirts, the sensation at my fingertips easing me into being the bearer of bad news. “I started my period. I’m not pregnant.”
His shoulders slump on a deep sigh, but he doesn’t avert his gaze from me. “There is only a thirty percent chance of conception during ovulation. We were aware there was a seventy percent probability of not becoming pregnant.”
“I know,” I whisper, tears choking my voice. Knowing and accepting are two very different concepts, of course. Just like knowing and accepting that Ollie defines love by sex. I might not share the same definition, but I’m more than willing to accept my place in his life if it means staying close to him. I’m terrified of the day when I can’t fulfill his physical desires, and he takes his love away from me to give to someone else who can. “We’re going to have to break the news to your mom tomorrow at Thanksgiving dinner though.”
“I am not so concerned about her disappointment as I am about yours,” he admits. “To be clear, you are disappointed?”
“I am.” I hiccup.
He holds his arms out to me. “Come here, Liv.”
I don’t need to be invited twice. Time is not on our side, so I’m going to drink him up as much as possible. I fold myself into his lap and let his shirt absorb my tears, selfishly uncaring that Ollie hates the sensation of damp skin.
“Ssh,” he soothes while stroking his hand down the length of my hair. “It will happen. I believe that, so you should, too. A positive mindset is essential in achieving any goal.”
“We’re already thirty,” I sob against his chest. “The clock is ticking for me in ways it isn’t for you. Data, Oliver. Hard. Data.”
He chuckles, a delicious sensation that spreads warmth and comfort through my cramping abdomen. “Do you need a definitive timeline to work toward?”
“Yes,” I cry.
He pulls my face away from his chest, cupping my cheeks with his hands. His expression reveals more than his words ever could. He kisses my nose. “Christmas, then. We will be pregnant by Christmas. We can announce it to your family when we visit them in Florida.”
“Promise?” I hiccup again.
He frowns. “I will not make you promises I cannot guarantee. I will promise to still be trying to impregnate you even when we are old, wrinkly, and gray haired.”
“My eggs have an expiration date well before your super sperm!” I yelp, hope ballooning in my chest that I snuff out easily enough with a quick replay of his words. At face value, he means he will still want to have sex with me when we’re old.
He winces at my loudness but pulls me close to his chest again anyway. “I know. I know. I can guarantee I will still want to engage in sex with you even when your eggs are useless.”
“Your words do not make me feel any better,” I confess between hiccups and clinging to his hard chest.
“Christmas,” he reminds me as he rubs his lips against my forehead in a motion that soothes us both. “Baby steps, Liv. We can achieve the impossible if we simply break it down into manageable steps.”
“What if we can’t achieve the impossible?” I ask through hyperventilating. My panic is getting the best of me, but I welcome the anguish. If there’s one thing Ollie has taught me, it’s that there can be no growth without suffering. No phoenix without trial by fire. I let the anxiety wash over me to sustain me for the grueling effort to come. We’re not in a place of honesty where I feel I can push him to be completely transparent with me without also pushing him away again. “What if I’m infertile in spite of your super sperm? What if I can’t get pregnant with even the most expensive fertility treatments?”