Page 91 of Loving Wild
Gabe:You’d do that? Do counselling with me?
His response makes him sound so young, or maybe it’s vulnerable. Never in our relationship have I felt like I have the upper hand, and that wasn’t the aim or purpose of our time apart. All I’ve ever wanted is to feel equal. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about the shift in the dynamics between us, so I tuck the notion away to address later and just give him my honest response.
Gabe:Why are you awake?
Me:Like you, I’ll do whatever it takes to get our shit sorted. I’m awake because I don’t like sleeping without you, and then your text came through, and yeah, that’s it, now I’m awake.
Gabe:Fuck I miss you. Reading that made my dick twitch.
I don’t respond with a message, instead, I giggle, then like an angst-filled, hormonal teenager, I hold my phone against my chest and close my eyes. It takes a few seconds before I realise it’s now vibrating because there’s a call coming through, not another text.
After a millisecond of hesitation, I answer.
“Hey,” my voice sounds rough, so I clear my throat after I speak. “Gabe?” I check the call’s still connected when he doesn’t respond.
“Just . . . give me a minute,” he finally says, his voice sounding raspier than it did when he was here earlier.
“You okay?” I ask after what feels like ten minutes of silence.
“Adjusting the hard-on hearing your voice just gave me.”
I take a moment to enjoy a little power trip, knowing I caused that boner with just my voice.
“Seriously? I know it’s technically the middle of the night, but after that long sleep you’ve had, it’s probably just morning wood. Besides, you heard my voice earlier today, didn’t have that effect on you then.”
“Woman, I barely remembered my own name earlier, let alone how your voice sounded. It’s registering loud and clear right now though. It’s like you’re using my dick as a mic and talking right into it . . . which, if you let me drive over there, could be arranged.”
Both my heart and vagina react to that comment with a round of applause and an emphatic nod, my head unfortunately, but thankfully, overrules them both.
“You can’t, your truck’s still here. Did you drive here drunk yesterday?” I question.
There’s a moment’s pause and I hear him shifting around, the rustle of sheets coming down the phone, and I imagine him lying there, propped on the pillows, one arm tucked behind his head, his dark chest hair on show. This is why I’ve had to do my thinking away from him. He’s so fucking beautiful—yes, I know he’s a man, but he’s still beautiful—that I just don’t think clearly around him.
“I haven’t had a drink since Thursday,” his voice interrupts my thoughts. “But I also hadn’t slept much all week. I definitely shouldn’t have been driving though, and I have no excuse. I feel like a dick for doing it.” He’s quiet for a moment before adding, “I’ll come and collect it in the morning. I can pick you up at the same time if you like?”
“Gabe,” I say his name on a sigh, and he sighs right back at me.
“I know, I know. Sunday. You’ll come back Sunday.”
“I will.”
“Could I just pop in for a blowie when I pick up . . .”
“No,” I cut him off.
“A quickie?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What if you stand at the front door and flash me your tits?”
“I’m gonna hang up now,” I threaten.
“You could just take a photo of the girls and send it to me right now.”
I weigh that idea up for a split second before my brain once again overrides the poor choices I tend to make around this man.
“No. No blowies, quickies, flashes or pics.”
