Page 46 of Husband of the Year
“They’re… progressing. I’m spending more time at the rehab than I thought. Liam needs a lot of support.”
“Isn’t that what the rehab is for?”
“Yes, but friends and family are part of the process, and my parents can only do so much.”
My heart skips, thinking about Olan in the rehab. What it mightmean for him. Wondering if it might be helpful for me to be there, for when he’s not with Liam.
“Are you okay?” I ask and hope he understands I mean his heart.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Olan says and there’s some noise, rustling. It sounds like talking, but he’s covered the phone and I can’t make out who’s speaking or what they’re saying.
“Olan?”
“Marvin, babe. I have to run.”
My stomach drops. I’ve been waiting for the call for days and it’s ending already.
“Oh.” It slips out and I hope he doesn’t register my complete disappointment.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be back at my parents’ late and know you’ll be asleep.”
“It’s okay,” I say, hoping he can’t tell I’m faking it. “Go, I’ll be here.”
“I love you, Marvin.”
“I know. I love you too.”
And he’s gone.
I let out a heavy sigh and return my phone to the nightstand. Gonzo balances on my chest as I shimmy back and lay my head on the pillow. Talk about anti-climactic.
I know Olan’s in Chicago to support his brother and parents, and this process is unpredictable and emotional for family members, especially if they’re in recovery. My brain understands why Olan needs to be there—away from me. But my heart isn’t having it. My heart is having a temper tantrum like a big ol’ immature crybaby.
I close my eyes and try to imagine Olan next to me. Naps on Saturdays when Illona is with her mom are his favorite. The cuddling leads to kissing, which leads to sex, which ultimately leads to an amazing nap.
Gonzo kneads my stomach and I rub my thumbs over his face, blinking back the tears. Instead of putting some drivel on the TV tonumb my mind, I grab my phone and cue up Olan’s Motown playlist. The opening synths lead to the thumping bass which vibrates in my chest over the fancy high-tech sound system Olan installed. The music engulfs me from speakers around the room and when the strings of “I Wanna Be Where You Are” enter the mix, I roll over, clutch Gonzo near, and lose myself in a young Michael Jackson’s crooning about missing his love.
When I wake up, once again I’m not sure if I’ve been sleeping for five minutes or five hours. I check my phone and I think it’s been closer to an hour. I’m not a repeat playlist girlie, so the music has ended and Gonzo has left me, probably in search of a prime sunbathing spot. Even I have to admit defeat against the afternoon sun—it’s like trying to outshine a spotlight with a matchstick.
My head feels slightly less dramatic about Olan being away for an undetermined amount of time. As I shift to get comfortable, I realize my dick hasn’t received the memo that Olan is out of town. The quietness of the house. The solitude of the bed. I slip off my boxers and palm myself, letting the heat of my cock soothe my hand, providing a welcome momentary distraction.
Here’s the thing about jerking off. When you’re single, you do it all the time because it’s the only release you have. But when you’re in a relationship, having as much sex as you want, your body craves it even more. Then you’re jerking off in between sex with your gorgeous fiancé. My math skills may be lacking, but there’s no arguing with the male masturbation algorithm.
I fling the comforter off to give myself a little more room, and hold my cock up, giving it a quick study. For sure, it’s pretty. Olan says it’s gorgeous. I giggled the first time he said it, but objectively, it is an attractive dick. Olan does this thing with his tongue, where he licks up the shaft, swirls just over the tip, then goes back down and flicks his tongue right under my balls. My eyes roll back, imagining his beautiful lipsgliding up and down my cock, and blood surges south, intensifying my arousal.
With a little help from the lube in the nightstand, everything speeds up, and I attempt to replicate Olan’s signature move with my fingers. Eyes closed, I imagine he’s here, on all fours, face between my legs, ass in the air, getting me hard enough to fuck him silly. After two years, muscle memory has my cock pulsing at the thought of plunging inside his hole.
The longer we’re together, the more vers things seem to get, and flip-fucking has become one of Olan’s favorite activities. With each stroke, I visualize what would happen next. Me on my knees, fucking his face while I lean over and spread his beautiful ass cheeks. There’s the lightest fuzz, which tickles my lips when I’m kissing across them, getting ready to plunge my tongue deep inside him. Fuck.
My fingers, slick with lube, get him ready, applying a generous amount. I start with my index finger, slowly exploring while he bobs on my cock, devouring me with slurping and sucking noises. Reaching under, I stroke Olan’s cock. He’s rock hard, wanting to be fucked into the ocean. Returning to his ass, I work my way up to two, then three fingers, his hole open and ready for me.
My orgasm knocks as I think about moving behind him. He drops his head to the bed, arching his back, creating the most beautiful, perfect acute angle (I remember some things from high school math). When I position my cock at his hole, Olan pushes back gently—he’s so fucking horny for it, and I watch as his ass slowly swallows me to the base.
And that’s it. Olan’s ass gripping my dick, watching it plunge in and out of him as the muscles in his back twitch with pleasure… my waist tightens in anticipation and then my entire body spasms with pleasure as cum blasts over my torso, the first hit to my chin, taking me right out of my fantasy as I laugh at the force of it on my face.
Olan would lick it off. Moan with pleasure as he tastes me and kisses my nose, calling me “Adorable.” He’d hold me after, gently brushingthe back of my neck with his lips while telling me he loves me. He’d flip over and let me hold him, my cock getting hard again against his ass, but the exhaustion lulling us both to sleep.
My feet shuffle under the covers and I can’t decide if I stay in bed hoping for another adventure in dreamland, or get up and make something to eat. And by “make something to eat,” I mean a strawberry donut from the half dozen I grabbed before catching the ferry this morning.
