He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my stomach as he places a kiss on my neck. “What do you think, babe?”
I think it was a huge invasion of my privacy to have some stranger move all of my things, but I can’t look like an ungrateful wench because frankly, I’ve inserted myself into this situation, so I say, “It’s nice.”
It’s all I can muster.
It’s all my heart can take.
“Nice?” He laughs. “Just nice? Man, I thought there’d be a bigger reaction than that. Do I need to show you the closet space you have to warrant a ‘really nice’？”
“Just soaking it all in,” I say.
“Well, I have one more thing to show you.” He takes my hand and brings me to the door on the left just outside our bedroom. He opens it up, and low and behold, it’s a white room with beautiful hardwood flooring, the same as the entire apartment, with large windows and a single white crib constructed in the very middle. “It’s for our little guy.”
Okay . . . listen up, ladies. This right here, this gesture is cracking my shell of indifference. The irritation is melting into a puddle at my feet, and in its place, an emotion so intense, so palpable starts to take over.
Happiness?
Joy?
Anticipation?
He didn’t decorate this room. He’s done absolutely nothing but leave it as a blank canvas, something for both of us to do together. That was sweet. That was thoughtful.
That right there is why I can’t seem to take a step back from him.
It’s why I’m so confused.
Why my heart is breaking with every breath that I take. With every warring ounce of love I feel. Worry laces his eyes as I walk toward him. I gently place my hand on his face, stand on my tiptoes, and place a very soft kiss on his lips. His hand presses into my lower back, keeping me in place as he reciprocates the kiss, reminding me just how much I’m addicted to him.
To his taste.
To the way his body molds against mine.
And to how he makes me feel protected . . . loved, despite how he truly feels.
My mouth parts, and I slip my tongue against his lips. He parts his mouth as well, and our tongues collide, but not in a frenzy. We’re calm, exploratory, appreciative. His hands slide up the back of my shirt as our kiss deepens even further, pulling the hem up until I lift my arms above me and allow him to take it all the way off, leaving me in my bra and shorts.
He then runs his hands over the clasp of my bra, and in one swift motion, he undoes it and the fabric falls off my body.
“Do you love it?” he asks as he takes me closer, pressing my sensitive nipples against his shirt.
“I do,” I say and then pause to look him in the eyes. “Thank you, Eli.”
His smile stretches across his face right before he bends down and lifts me into his arms. Our lips lock, and he takes me into the master bedroom, where he gently lays me across the bed and pulls my shorts and underwear off, leaving me bare.
From behind his head, he pulls his shirt off and then undoes his jeans and drags them down his thick thighs along with his briefs. His cock juts forward, and he grips the base. “What do you want me to do to you?”
Love me.
Make love to me.
Tell me that I’m the only woman you ever want in your life.
Truly make me yours, brand me, mark me, make sure it’s obvious I belong to no one else but you.
Eliminate this tormenting feeling that’s pulsing through me every time I look into your eyes.
Don’t leave me alone in this world of love, wondering, hoping, begging that you’ll open your eyes and see how much I can offer you.
I swallow and say, “Fuck me.”
“That I can do.” With a smirk, he bends between my legs and brings his mouth to my pussy. My head falls back against the mattress, and I let myself forget my tumultuous emotions, focusing on his mouth and how he’s making me feel at this moment . . . taken care of.
Penny: I want to punch him.
Blakely: Punch who? Eli? Why?
Penny: He’s sooooo irritating.
Blakely: What’s he doing?
Penny: Do you want the list?
Blakely: I kind of do.
Penny: Well, for one, it’s called a shirt, man. Wear it. No one needs to see your perfectly defined abs all the time or round, disc-like nipples. Also, can he stop making me all of this food? Like, breakfast. He makes these eggs that are so delicious. Just stop it. No one wants your eggs. Oh, and get this . . . he’s always leaving the toilet seat down. What kind of crap is that? And then he’s like oh, can I massage your feet for you? Can I get you anything from the store? Hungry at 2 a.m.? No problem, baby, what do you need? And what’s with the baby shit? I’d rather him call me Mistress of the Dark or Dragon Breath, but baby? It’s honestly puke-worthy. Ugh, and he brought home all of these paint samples for the baby’s bedroom, thoughtful paint samples that I talked about. Like . . . he actually listened. And to top it all off, he’s still making me come so hard that I honestly feel my eyes rolling to the back of my head. I don’t want to come that hard. No one, and I mean no one, should have the right on this planet to have that many orgasms in a week. And he’s always giving me oral, like every time. He’s trying to show off. That’s what he’s doing. He’s showing off how good he can fuck me with his tongue, and frankly, it’s getting on my nerves. Congratulations, buddy, you can make me squeal with delight by only using your tongue. Slow clap for you.