I had to focus, before I lost my train of thought.
I cleared my throat, because that’s what you do when you’re trying to jump-start words you’re only half-ass sure about saying. “I know what you’re doing.”
Her head tipped downward, but I caught it.
Oh, honeybee. This isn’t a rejection.
“Hear me out. I remember how devastated I felt when my mother passed away and how you were there for me. Granted, I didn’t lure you in with soapy water and my A-game in sexual prowess, but I can’t deny that you being there—being with me when I needed that connection—helped. I want to help you. I want to make you feel better and take all of it away. I can’t though and doing this won’t make any of it disappear. But maybe in some way it’ll prove I’m here. I’m all in, honeybee.” Damn it, she had to know, but I wasn’t keen on guesswork anymore. Frankly, it was my pleasure having the opportunity to reassure her.
She needed it; so I needed to give it to her.
Her head fell to the side and she kissed my hand. I saw so much love in her eyes. It reduced my worry—if only for the moment—that she was still struggling.
“I do need you,” she admitted as she stood. The robe fell away and she let it slip off her arms, never breaking eye contact. She spoke softly. “I want to feel a loving touch. I want to be swallowed whole by your goodness and tenderness. Casey, touch me so I know I’m not broken. I want this to be day one. I’m feeling better. I’m ready to start getting back to normal. Or at least start looking for our normal.”
Those moments, where she let me see her vulnerability, seared her name on my heart. Being able to help the one you love most, makes you stronger. It never dawned on me that it wasn’t the sex—a distraction, a high—but it wasn’t. It was intimacy she was longing for.
She leaned into me and, if I needed any more convincing, she provided it. Her warm lips briefly met mine. Her timid, yet purposeful, hands began to undress me. They slipped under my T-shirt and ran over my stomach and around to my back as she lifted it off. Her fingers disappeared under the waist of my shorts and she pushed them down. Her breathing was controlled and deep.
I bent forward and pressed a kiss to her neck and a quiet moan filled the silence of the steamy bathroom as she moved to give me more of her skin. Her fingers laced with mine and she stepped into the bath. My arm around her waist insured she was steady.
For a brief moment, I took stock of the fading bruises on her body. Yellow and green cloud-like shapes painted all over her.
I swallowed emotion after emotion I felt.
She wanted a good day.
She wanted me.
I’d give her anything I could. I’d offer my body for us to share when hers needed mending. I’d touch her in a way that left no room for doubt that I’d always put her first. I couldn’t heal her, but for the rest of my life I’d love her through sickness and health.
Monday, June 14, 2010
HE HEALED ME FROM the inside out. My pain turned to gentle pleasure.
“Love me,” I begged.
“I do.”
“Fix me.”
“I will,” he promised.
He gave me everything I craved that morning. Patiently, he watched me with hungry eyes. Never taking. Never rushing. For long minutes I slowly rose and fell over him. I enjoyed the sight of him beneath me, kissing my breasts. I savored every serene second. The sensation of our connection took over me, and it washed away some of the hurt, replacing agony with adoration.
“Make me yours.”
“Honeybee, all of you belongs to me. Always has. These lips are mine. That bright pink nose. Your mistakes. Your smiles. This body. Your heart. Your future. All mine.” His voice was thick with desire. He spoke words into my ears cloaked in love and unashamed possession, and I fell apart listening to him affirm how beautiful I was to him. He found his release as I held onto him for dear life.
Such simple passion, but as quiet as it was intense, it satisfied.
“I love you,” he whispered tenderly as he stroked my back. The water had turned cold over time while I regained a little piece of myself. I was still straddling him and curled into his chest, having taken what I desired. It didn’t feel like theft though, regardless of the robbery I’d staged. He offered himself freely without the objection I expected.
“We should get out of here before you sprout gills and fins,” he said.
“I know. You need to get going.” I was glad he was going to work. I could only speculate about the many things he’d pushed aside to care for me. Also, I knew he wouldn’t leave if he was worried. I was getting better. I was healing on the outside enough that he trusted I’d be okay on my own for a while. I had to believe he was right.
“What are you going to do today?” He kissed my head as he stepped out of the bath.
“I don’t know. I thought about going to the store. Maybe do some cooking. What sounds good for dinner?”
What sounds good for dinner? Was this real?
As I took the towel he offered, I could see that the silly, mundane question excited him too. I never wanted to take these small things for granted.
“Kiss me,” he requested with puckered lips.
A tiny milestone and a turn in the most precious of directions. I was so damn lucky I’d get to have conversations like this—with him—for the rest of our lives. Well, if he ever asked me to marry him.
Shit. Did the paperwork even matter?
I gave him a quick kiss in exchange for the towel he’d already finished using and bent to wrap it around my head. My side still ached, but it was improving. I stood up and watched as he prepared to shave in front of the mirror.
“What can you make?”
“Please,” I scoffed. “Name it. I can make it.”
“I want ribs.” He swathed the fluffy foam over his face, then wiped and methodically cleared a stripe from his lips with the back of his thumb. Even with a snow-white Barbasol beard he was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
“Ribs are doable. Hey, if you want, ask Troy if he wants to come over.”
He nodded as he ran the razor down his cheek and along his outstretched neck, then tapped it clean in the warm water pooled in the sink. He winked at me when he caught me staring at his reflection from behind him, and said, “You need to call Reggie. He called after you fell asleep on the couch last night.”
“I will.” I’d do whatever he said if he winked at me like that. That tiny gesture affirming everything was going to be all right. I love that man and his wink.
I kissed his shoulder and left him to it.
After reminding me he was just a phone call away no less than three times and kissing me goodbye twice and finally pulling away, I made a list of things I needed around the house and the items I’d need for dinner.
It had been nice having people take care of me—well, kind of—but I was in need of human-sustaining items, and my little apartment—not accustomed to so many people coming in and out—was showing a real need of cleaning. It wasn’t a mess, but it wasn’t in order. My order anyway. I didn’t have OCD, and I certainly wasn’t a clean freak, but—like most people—my things needed to be the way I liked them.
They’d all done a good job of making sure the trash was out and the dishes were done, but things weren’t in their typical places. Coffee mugs were in the wrong cabinet. My refrigerator looked weird. Call me crazy, but condiments belong in the door of a refrigerator, not the shelves. Silverware handles should all be going the same direction in the drawers. The toilet paper should be under the sink and not simply in an open pack next to the toilet. It was small tweaks like that which begged for my attention. None of them truly mattered, but when you’re trying to feel normal, having your house feel like your space is essential. So I swept through my place and took pleasure in making it feel like mine again.