“Every now and then the stars align/ Boy and girl meet by the great design/ Could it be that you and me are the lucky ones?/ Everybody told me love was blind/ Then I saw your face and you blew my mind/ Finally, you and me are the lucky ones this time.” -Lana Del Rey
I wake up, stretching my sore feet down into the cool pockets of the bedding-my favorite thing to do in the morning. Well, my second favorite thing. The first? Owen, in any form.
We were like teenagers, newlyweds-I don’t know what you’d compare it to but we were both still insatiable for one another, even after two years. His rebound time was incredible and I was hitting my sexual awakening-we couldn’t keep our hands off one another. He was delectable in those fitted suits, the smell of his skin all over me all day, the taste of him emblazoned in my mind, his deep most private moans left in my ear, the need for only me that is always in his eyes… I thank Kyra every day of my life for not taking her cell phone that night.
And Kyra’s come around. Mostly. After we graduated, she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do for work so she moved in… with us. And it’s been great. A few nights a month we have slumber parties, relieving the old days together; we laugh, we talk about all the losers she’s dated, we watch movies… it’s so much fun, like old times. We fall asleep in the great room, the TV running all night, empty mugs of chai tea lattes on the table. And after I doze off, Owen comes and picks me up in his thick arms, pressing me tightly to him and kisses my head as he carries me. He. Carries. Me. That will never get old. And he lays me down in our bed. If I wake up, I kiss him. And the kiss always turns into more because it is very hard for us to just kiss one another.
I’ve grown spoiled, waking up to his commanding fingers sliding along the inner waistband of my panties, tickling my soft flesh, teasing me, coaxing me to a darker place. There in the morning light, my hair wildly strewn across our pillows, he hovers over me, his weight on his elbow. His shirt is off, his bare skin so very close to mine. Our eyes still pull to each other, eating each other up as I bite the pillow soft part of my lip and his mouth falls open, inhaling the air between us.
His eyes are the hungriest and the darkest in the morning, after he’s not had or tasted me for hours. He keeps his eyes to mine, his fingers slipping below the elastic. No matter how many times we have been intimate, I still brace myself for his touch, his supremely heavenly touch. Incoherent moans trickle past my lips, always, which he meets with a warm kiss as he finds me, ready, so ready, waiting for this moment.
He groans as he feels how ready I am and I sigh tenderly as he parts me, delving deep inside me with two fingers, inching as deep as he can until my wetness consumes him entirely. I feel his breath on my lips, my eyelids fluttering shut. I feel my need grip him tightly and he groans, nudging the side of my hip with his throbbing erection, thick and hard with need for me. And then he lets his thumb cover my swollen clit completely, moving small and gentle circles on it as he thrusts in me with his fingers.
He kisses my neck, tastes the sweat forming above my lips, whispers that he loves me as I begin spasming, the need inside me so feral that I cannot control my body, my face. Straining in the most heavenly way, my legs drop far apart then quickly retract, tightening around his hand, his beautiful and strong hand. He stays inside me until I’m spent, panting, releasing my claw hold on the sheets. And I watch him-never tiring of this -pull his hand from between my thighs and push his two fingers into his mouth, not just tasting me but swallowing what’s left of me.
And then he removes his fingers, so torturously unhurried that I think I may explode again, just from watching him. My nipples perk; they know the dirty pleasure that is coming. He pushes his fingers into my mouth and I lift my head to swallow them down, tasting myself, tasting him, tasting perfection. He groans, his erection so stiff against me now that I have to reciprocate the pleasure. And he knows.
He rolls onto his back and I tuck myself between his defined thighs, springing his delicious manhood free from his pajamas. I never tire of seeing it, holding it, feeling it… inside me, everywhere. And he’s got quite the dirty mouth on him, far dirtier than I thought British men could be. But he fills my brain with all sorts of nasty talk and my body responds, my heart pounds, my places come alive.
I wrap my mouth around him and sink down, the tight wetness of my mouth consuming every last inch of him.
“That sweet fucking mouth,” he growls, wrapping his hands around my hair, my golden tresses woven around his bloodless knuckles. I’ve learned he likes a bit of pain with his pleasure, and I grate my teeth against his length as I slowly pull off, my cheeks hollow as I reach his head. He watches me please him, every time, and God does it turn me on.
I feel the crumpled sheets bunched between my legs and I wiggle my hips so that they hit that special place, and I move around on them as I go down on him, deeper and deeper.
“I already want to come, baby,” his growl has tamed some as the impending demand of his need grows nearer. I never tire of hearing him say come.
And I’ve also learned he likes it when I talk dirty to him, too. And I claw at his thighs, the tip of his supreme sex pushing past my lips, butting up against my teeth.
“Let me taste you, baby,” I purr, taking his length completely, thick wads of saliva pooling inside my throat.
I look at up him, I can see the flood of heat taking over him, his eyes momentarily wild before he closes them tightly. And I feel his release coming into me, sliding down my throat, filling my belly. I let my tongue lap at his balls, coaxing him to spill into me again, and he does, releasing another round of creamy passion into my throat. Salty and sweet, it’s his and I love it.
I love him and he loves me, and my life is utterly and completely divine. Sometimes I don’t even believe its mine.
Owen plans the menu for the week with Marie each Sunday, making sure I always get the last say. He feeds me, God does he love feeding me. He watches me eat, that look in his eyes, and when Kyra isn’t around, sometimes I eat dinner in his lap, coaxing his perfect cock to life. It doesn’t take much; sometimes I merely brush past him in the kitchen getting my morning coffee-I feel him, ready for me.
When Marie takes a day off to see her son, and Kyra’s out with her latest boyfriend, we take advantage of having the house to ourselves. He has tasted me in the kitchen, filled me to the brim across the dining room table, taken me from behind in the garden. He’s insatiable for me, have I mentioned that? And I for him, endlessly. But it’s more than that. Love is more than that.
He’s found my mother.
He’s found her and bought her a small home and vehicle. He has someone stock her home with food once a month whether she’s there or not. He’s told her to not seek me out, but he promises to me that we will take care of her. They made an agreement a few months back. The night they talked, I was upset.
“Why?” I sobbed, when he told me his promises to her.
It was hard for me to understand at first. A woman who treated me so callously, coldly, unloving; why are we making her life so much better now? Owen held my face in his hands, kissed me with his soothing lips, and said: “She made you. Without her, I wouldn’t have you. And she wasn’t good to you. I know, darling, and I hate that. It kills me. But you have me now. I will take care of you. I will never let anything happen to you. You will never be alone or scared or hungry or wanting… ever again.”
He’s made good on his word to keep her away from me. She surfaced at our house once, looking for me, presumably for money, but I didn’t answer. Owen had stepped outside, and I still remember the day so clearly. I crumpled near the front doors, on my knees, listening. His voice was controlled but loud and unrelenting.
“I will help you if you leave her alone. And if she wants you in her life, then I’ll find you. But let’s be quite clear, I’m helping you just so you will leave her be.”
My mom had the nerve, the nerve, to act aghast that I would want nothing to do with her. Ha!
I couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying, but I knew her well and based on Owen’s reaction, I could guess.
“Oh really?” he stepped down towards her, his hands tucked in his pockets. “When I met her, she was a twenty-year-old that had virtually raised herself.” I can hear his teeth are clenched, and I imagine his dark eyes are narrow, swirling now with something that mildly scares my mom.
“And did you know how often she went hungry? Did you know she couldn’t afford to feed herself three meals a day and, where the fuck were you?” His voice was coming from the depths of an untapped reserve of raw anger. I had no idea he was that angry about my past. And it was rare that I heard him swear, usually it was in the throes of passion, not borne from anger. Seeing handsome, perfect Owen-my lover-defending me, standing up to my Mom, he is the match that ignites me.
“You don’t deserve to relish in her successes as a perfect, beautiful, lovely woman. You don’t. But I will keep you afloat. I will keep you afloat because I don’t ever want her to have any guilt over how she handled things, the guilt that you should feel now.”
Mom says something else, lots of something else’s, and Owen steps down further, making his voice harder to hear through the thick wood doors. I strain hard, my toes white from crouching for so long. My body burns for his. For him.
“You show your face here when she says, not when you want.
Understood? I will not let you further emotionally wreak havoc on my
Wife. Not anymore. Goodbye.” My Wife.
I never tired of hearing those lovely, exquisite two words. The day by the pool, Owen and Kyra shared a most private and important conversation that, to this day, remains privy to just their bond. But I do know that he sought her approval-made sure she was okay with me becoming his wife. It took her only two short days to mull it over. In two days, she could see the love between Owen and I-deep and real-and she gave him her blessing. And we married at the end of summer, just two months later, on my birthday.
He stomps up the stairs and the doors swing open, and his brooding eyes snap to me, curled onto the floor. I don’t know when it started but I’m crying, and without a moment’s hesitation, he reaches down and scoops me up, carrying me through the entire house out to the back, where he lies back on our hammock, my body still curled into his chest.
“I love you,” I whimpered into the crease of his neck, his thick chest still reeling from the encounter.
“I love you, too, darling,” he planted a kiss on my head and we swung gently in the hammock, the crisp air nipping at my naked toes, the faint sunlight finding its way between the foliage, trickling onto our faces.
I am his wife, he is my husband, and he takes it very seriously, loving me, protecting me. And the thought sent fireworks inside my soul. How did I get so lucky? Is this really my life? My inner voice is in the rafters, waiting for this moment. Because you deserve it. You deserve all of it.
And while the dust from our turbulent start has settled, and while Kyra finds her footing now working for Owen, I’m finding my own passion. I have finished my teaching credential and started teaching second-grade, which is what I always wanted to do. I love going to work every day, a sea of smiling-faced seven years old’s, eager to learn and loving me for giving them glue sticks and reading them stories. I love talking to the parents, so eager for their children to succeed, so happy to watch them develop through the school year. It’s the perfect job for me. And when I get home, I relax with a glass of wine, my feet in Owen’s lap as we read, listening to the distant humming of Marie, who whips us up an amazing meal, every night. Everything has just turned out so perfect for us all.
Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, panicked, thinking I’m back in that trailer, alone and hungry. And I reach out for Owen, and he’s there, he’s always there, his arm draped across my belly, which is now a tad thicker than it was a few years ago. And I realize it’s the past. It’s now the distant dream and my current life is the reality. I am so fortunate. So happy.
I CAN SMELL, all the way up on the second floor, the silver dollar pancakes that Marie is making downstairs. She always made them on Friday’s. And then, what’s that other scent? Indiscernible at first but then wait, it’s so familiar… I snap up in bed and feel the heat burning up my throat, making it’s way to my lips.
My feet are on the floor and I’m running, the acid pressing hard against my lips as I drape my hand over my mouth. But, thank goodness, I make it before the remains of last night’s chicken get splayed over our bathroom floor. When the sickness has passed, I step out and brush my teeth and tiptoe gently across our bed room and settle in next to him. He lays his heavy arm across me and I scoot back into him, the ridge of his sex pressing against my panty-less rear end. Mmmm.
Gently, I grind my hips into his sex and I can feel that he is fully erect, ready for me. Oh, he always is.
“Have you just been sick?”
Oh, the way his accent makes even the worst of sentences seem lovely and romantic.
“Yes,” I moan impatiently, needing to feel him inside of me. “I’m fine, I need you,” I pant, twisting my torso back and kissing him deeply.
“Don’t worry, a few more weeks, the morning sickness will go away,” he smiles at me, kisses me tenderly, and then he fucks me, so hard, on our sides in our bed. It fills me up and makes me whole. And I cannot wait to love another part of him when our child is born.
Life is perfect. It was all worth it if I get to end up here.