Page 25 of Untangled
I stay just like that, riding his face, while he gives me themoreI asked for. My orgasm hits like a slingshot, a quick, powerful release that has me careening over the side of a cliff at Mach 1. Holding onto his hair—probably too tightly—is the only thing keeping me grounded. I’m heaving breaths when I come back to myself, to sit on my heels with my heart slamming in my chest.
“Need a break?” Daniel asks.
I shake my head no, as words are still beyond my grasp.
“Good. You stay here.” He slides himself down and out from under me and I collapse on the white fluff of the comforter, face down.
“Ass up, baby,” he commands, and I feel his fingertips grip the hinge point of my butt and hips, tugging. I push up to my knees but leave my chest resting on the mattress.
“Can I take you like this?” The ask is a courtesy; he knows this is my favorite position.
“Always,” I reply, and I mean it. If sex can be like this, the answer is always. Anytime.Everytime. He brings his cock toslide against my throbbing center, wetting himself before he pushes in.
Achingly slow, he feeds his cock to my body, one inch at a time.
“I missed you,” he says, as he lowers to press kisses on my spine while he fills me. “You feel like home. This,” he punctuates with a thrust—finally—“feels like home.”
And it does. His slow pull out of my body and immediate push back in feels as familiar as that favorite sweater. Comforting, warm, well-loved. For all the new we’ve been doing lately, there’s something remarkably blissful about defaulting to what we know we like. It’s a gift from all our years together, the way my body speaks to his, and his to mine, until the only replies are muffled moans.
He continues his pace, slow and then fast, gentle and then forceful, until he says, “You want a hand, baby?”
“Always,” I repeat again, and he brings his fingers to the apex of my legs, just above where we’re joined, to rub circles against my clit. If I weren’t already half-collapsed, this would’ve done it.
“Mmm, that’s it, that feels good doesn’t it?” he asks, then answers himself with, “I know it does. You feel so fucking good, Molls. So fucking perfect. I see you trembling, are you going to come for me, baby? While I’m stretching you out and playing with you, like this?”
If the first orgasm was a slingshot, this one is a boomerang. I release, and release, and release, offering each one to theuniverse while it answers with another. I’m vaguely aware that Daniel’s thrusts have become erratic, that he’s cursing under his breath as he pounds into me, into my pussy that’s squeezing him with muscle contractions he can barely withdraw from. The movement falters and then stops with a groan the entire hall must hear.
He pulses inside me, laying his chest against my back for several moments, before he pulls out. When I start to feel the wet stickiness of his release drip from me as I move to sit up, he stills me and pushes it back inside with two of his fingers. It’s almost enough—almost—to make me ready to go again.
“You better hope my IUD is working,” I laugh when I peel myself off the bed to head to the bathroom.
“Nah,youbetter hope your IUD is working. My part of conception is done,” he jokes back.
When I’ve cleaned up and he’s back in his boxers (and I realize my regret at not bringing a pair of fully-crotched underwear), we settle into bed and turn on the tv like we would at home. But this time, instead of sitting at opposite sides of the couch and intermittently scrolling on separate devices, I lean into him. I scoot my body until it fits into his, with my head on his chest and his arm around my shoulder.
This, too, feels like home. And I didn’t realize until this month, how homesick I was for it.
Day 16
What do you wish your partner knew about you, or your life together?
Sometimes I think about military wives whose husbands deploy for months on end. Next, I think about wives of consultants, whose spouses are gone Monday through Thursday every week on assignment. Then, finally, I think about myself, and the single night away Daniel’s had on the calendar for months, and try to guard against self-pity. Violet and I can handle a work trip for just one night.
I’m curled up in bed, nursing a hot mug of tea and scrolling aimlessly through the worst of the Internet when he calls. When I swipe to accept, my screen fills with my favorite picture, of the two of us in Spain six months post engagement. We look so carefree.
“Hey baby, sorry it’s late,” he says, but it’s only 9 p.m. here.
“I’m up,” I reply, and fiddle with a loose string on the edge of our comforter, twisting it around my finger and then sliding it off with my thumb. “How was it today?”
“Good. One of the better offsites I’ve attended—lots of stuff in the works. How are you? How’s Lettie?”
“Also good. She was cracking me up today. You know those oranges we got in the holiday basket from your office? She’s taken a liking to one. She may or may not be sleeping with it currently.” My chuckle lilts, the tail of a kite caught in a breeze.
“She’s going to wake up covered in pulp and juice,” he replies.
“If she does, I’ll give her a bath. She’ll be the best-smelling baby at play group.”
“And how about you? Miss me yet?”
