by Kim Holden
She hums as her fingernails drag lightly down my back and her hips move against me. "I don't think I've told you how thankful I am that drumsticks are rough on your hands. Your callouses are heavenly."
I smile against her earlobe and say, "I tend to do things I'm passionate about to the point of exhaustion." Flexing my hips, I grind her into the wall and add, "I go hard when it feels good."
"God, do you ever," she pants before taking my face in her hands and guiding my mouth to hers.
With everything winding up so goddamn fast I expect her to come at me with everything she's got, so when she slows it down and meets my parted lips with a soft peck to the corner of my mouth before sucking lightly on my bottom lip, I'm surprised. The change in pace and intensity is so fucking sexy. Her hands are still resting on my cheeks, holding me in place, while she takes command.
When her lips grace my top lip with a kiss, I meet her with a kiss of my own and it turns into the sweetest fucking game of tag.
A playful nip from her.
A tip of the tongue tease from me.
An open mouth taunt from her.
An open mouth answer from me.
But when I feel her smile against my lips everything shifts, because holy shit this woman can ignite me.
Taking her hands in mine, I thread my fingers through hers and pin them to the wall above her head. Her grip is strong. She's with me. She knows things are about to change.
I think the best sex is a mixture of harmony and discord. A battle within the bliss. Because anything that feels this damn good should make you want to work your ass off for it.
Chase it.
Sweat for it.
Force your muscles to burn for it.
Make your lungs gasp for it.
When we come, I want to feel like we've fucking earned it.
The kiss deepens. Sweet just turned sinful.
Kissing...it's tongues and teeth and moans and sighs. It's as sonically arousing as it is tactilely arousing.
She's shifted her stance to favor one side so she can wrap her calf around mine. She's slick as she rubs against my thigh.
I'm doing some major grinding of my own against her hip.
Holy shit, this isn't enough.
Releasing her hands, I place them on my shoulders.
Never breaking the kiss, I reach down, grasp just below her ass, pick her up so she's above waist height, and guide myself in.
"Yes," she moans. It's loud. I fucking love loud. Sometimes mind-blowing sex requires a vocal release. It drives everything to new heights.
She shouldn't be able to move much pinned between me and the wall, but she is.
The kiss has been broken by necessity to breathe. Chests are heaving with exertion. Lungs doing their part to partake in the full body experience.
Her legs are wrapped tightly around me. Squeezing to angle her hips and deepen our connection.
"Fuck, Gem. This feels good."
"It does. Good call starting in the hall."
It's then that I make the decision to move us because there's something I need to do. Shifting one arm to her back, I hold her to me and walk us into my bedroom, never breaking our connection. My ear and neck are being paid particularly close attention to by her beautiful lips all the while.
When we reach my bed, I lay her down on her back. Gliding in and out slowly at first but building in intensity quickly. It doesn't take long before I'm driving deep, sweat is beading, and we're both panting. I'm seconds away. "Don't close your eyes, honey." This is why I moved us to the bed. So I can look her in the eye when this happens.
I explode inside her, and I swear it's my body's need to claim her physically that fuels it because it's like nothing I've ever experienced. Without a condom, as caveman-ish as it may sound, she's mine.
This is our special moment.
And she's right there with me. Calling out my name with such conviction that it's an unfiltered mixture of sincere and erotic gratitude.
Eyes locked until we both still and our bodies relax into the satisfying exhaustion that hits instantaneously post-orgasmic high.
Touching my lips with the tip of her finger, she brushes it back and forth while her mischievous grin breaks out ear to ear. The gesture says nothing and everything all at once.
I can't help but smile back. "Goddamn, if you aren't pregnant after that it isn't for lack of trying."
She giggles. "If conception is based solely on the experience, I'm likely having triplets."
I pull out, kiss her on the forehead, and grab a pillow. "Lift up your hips."
"Why?" she questions.
I slide the pillow underneath. "Lay there for thirty minutes. I read it increases the chance of fertilization. It's probably bullshit, but my sperm are doing the one-hundred-meter freestyle like Michael Phelps right now, let's help them out if we can." I've been doing my research, reading everything I can the past few days.
When I return from my clean up in the bathroom, she hasn't moved, but she's covered with the sheet. And she's fast asleep.
Before I blow out the candles, I watch her sleeping for a minute so I can remember this night.
Because some moments are too important to forget.
Monday, February 19
(Franco)
Gemma and I are up early, despite the late night. She wants to see San Diego, so each day I'm going to pack in some sightseeing.
"You want coffee, Gem? It's decaf," I yell from the kitchen, while my old-school Mr. Coffee percolates a liquid wakeup call on the counter next to me. I looked at the space age Keurig at Bed Bath and Beyond when Gus and I were there but couldn't bring myself to retire my old diehard and replace it with technology. There's something about the prolonged wait, the aroma, and the noisy brew that makes it tastes that much better. A good cup of coffee should be a production. Even if it's this weak-ass decaf. I know pregnant women should eliminate caffeine, so I'm trying to be thoughtful.
She's in the bathroom putting on her makeup, but she wanders into the kitchen to join me, wearing only a bra and panties, to answer. They're mismatched, red lace on top, white cotton on bottom. Devil and angel, it's quite a combo. "Yes, please."
I look her over, damn she looks edible. And it is breakfast time. "You're beautiful."
Her cheeks blush slightly, but she tips her head and smiles. "Thank you."
"Cream? Sugar?"
"Little bit of both, please." I doctor her cup up just as she's asked and hand it to her. "Mmm," bliss hums from her throat as she swallows and her eyelashes flutter. Which is funny because she's only had time to apply one false lash and she's lopsided.
"You want something to eat before we go? Bagel? Cereal? I can make eggs." I ate a bagel and cream cheese while she was in the shower.
"I usually don't eat much in the morning. I'll grab a bagel on our way out to take with and snack on." The view is outstanding when she turns and walks back to the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, she and her bagel are ready to go.
My San Diego sightseeing list is long.
First stop is the beach. Because that's how every day should begin. A light layer of fog is hanging low. I love the sun, but it's mornings like this that the beach feels intimate and protected from the rest of the world. The separateness and security it offers always makes me more contemplative. Introspection is strong under cloud cover.
Gemma and I take our shoes off and walk hand in hand in the wet sand close to the water. We talk about little things, like seagulls and shells. And big things, like deep-held values and the greatest songs ever written. Every comment, every answer, every explanation, sheds more light on this incredible woman. She's opinionated, sarcastic, and politely outspoken. And I don't know if it's just the accent, but I get the feeling she's the type of person who could tell you to, Fuck off, and you'd take it as a compliment and respond with, Thank you very much. But she's also silly and fun and playful and owns it without a shred of embarrassment. Which is vital to surviving friendship wit
h me.
Second stop is the San Diego Zoo.
Because...sloths.
It turns out Gemma wasn't lying about being obsessed with sloths. We watch them for an hour, though they barely move. She makes up names for all of them, like Lefty and Slippery Nick and Mr. Lucas Lightning Leadfoot, and tells me facts about what they eat and their most common cause of death. She also invents a somewhat perverted, and highly entertaining, story about their active nightlife strictly for my entertainment. I buy her a stuffed animal sloth at the gift shop on our way out, so she has a souvenir. She immediately names him Cecil.
Third stop is home.
Sex.
On the couch.
We didn't make it to the bedroom.
It was even better than the hallway last night.
Fourth stop is dinner at Delgado's.
It's classy. Gem protests when we walk in the door because she feels underdressed. She's not. They don't have a dress code.
I order halibut.
She orders crab.
The banter before, during, and after dinner is endless. Her wit is always sharp, but it's in rare form tonight. Twice we laughed so hard it brought tears to our eyes and the attention of everyone within twenty feet of us. I wasn't sorry, not even a little bit. That kind of laughter is a gift.
Final stop is home.
And hell yes.
Sex.
In bed.
It.
Was.
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Tuesday, February 20
(Franco)
I showered first this morning.
While I'm brushing my teeth, Gem wanders in, undresses, and gets in the shower.
I can see her through the glass door. It's the kind of company I could get used to every morning.
"Why do you shave your head, Franco?" Gemma asks as I apply shaving cream to my skull.
I glance at her and tease, "You don't like the bald look?"
"With a face like yours and those insanely intense eyes you could wear your hair any way you like and it would look handsome. I'm just curious what made you decide to shave it in the first place?"
I've shaved my head so long that I kind of forgot that I have the option to stop and let it grow out again. "I had a close friend who had cancer. She went through chemo and lost her hair." I shrug, I always avoid this story because people's reaction is usually to tell me what a good guy I am for the act. It wasn't about being a good guy, it was about supporting someone who was self-conscious about losing her hair. It was about her, not me. "She never complained but I knew losing her hair bothered her. I didn't want her to be alone in it."
Gem's quiet. No, You're a great guy. No, That was nice of you. And when she asks, "How is she now?" I want to hug her because she gets it. It was about my friend, not me.
"She fought like hell. Twice. We lost her a year ago. She would've loved you." Guaranteed she would've.
"Cancer is a bloody fucking bastard. It always comes for the good ones first." She's lost so many, she knows.
"Yup," I agree as I run the razor down the center of my head, and that's where we leave it.
By the time she finishes in the shower, my head and face are smooth. Sad discussion aside, everything feels normal, hopeful. There are some people in life that you can vent to, or pour out sadness to, or voice frustration to, and they readily and willingly absorb it for the sole purpose of ridding you of it. They're the same people who can immediately replace that negativity with their light. Their presence gives you the power to purge the bad and embrace the good. It's rare. I've only known a few people in my life who are that way.
Now I know one more.
Coffee and bagels and we're out the door for another San Diego adventure.
The beach is first. The weather is much the same as yesterday. The walk and conversation are too. I know this is only the second day she's been here. The second day we've done this. But I'm going to miss her when she goes home.
Second stop is Balboa Park. There are many museums, but the reason I brought her here is to show her the Japanese Garden because it's one of my favorite places. Every time I walk through the gate to enter, it has the same effect on me. Calm. It's not that I'm a high-strung person, I'm fairly laid-back—but this place, it's healing. All the negative drains out of me as I walk through and I always leave feeling like a better version of myself. I know she'll relate.
Gemma is mesmerized by the koi pond. She's never seen koi apart from photos or on TV. The level of curiosity she shows to things she's interested in is fascinating. She analyzes and asks questions with deep thought behind them. Nothing superficial—the how, what, where, and whys are in depth. I love that, because it shows she's paying attention. Life's too short not to. Some people skim life and some people read so closely they see the things others don't. That's where the beauty lies, in between the lines, in the details. The story within the story. She sees it. She gets it.
Third stop is my parent's house for an early dinner. Pulling in their driveway, I offer a pre-emptive apology, "I'm sorry ahead of time for the embarrassing shit my mom no doubt is going to say and do. Just be thankful my dad is out of town at a convention and you're only getting one-on-one treatment instead of a tag team of the dynamic duo."
She laughs.
"You think I'm kidding? God bless you," I add sarcastically.
My mom greets us on the front step. "Hola, mijo," she says while she hugs me. She hugs with the strength of ten grizzlies. She's not a big woman, I don't know where it comes from.
"Hola, Mamá. Qué pasa?"
She releases me before she can answer and goes straight for Gemma with laser focus.
When I hear the air audibly forced out of Gem, in the form of a surprised and impressively loud wheeze, I remind my mom, "Easy on the lovin', Mamá. Don't break mi amiga, please."
She releases her in a flourish, because she goes big with everything. Passion is her middle name, her life force. "It's so nice to meet you, Gemma. I'm Maria. Franco's told me so much about you."
I haven't. I told my mom I had a friend visiting from out of town and I'd like to bring her over for homemade tamales because they're the best. That's it. I like to keep it vague with her because it's fun when she makes assumptions. Phishing for information is a game, a past time that she believes herself to be slyly, and exceedingly, skilled at. She thinks she's sneaky. In actuality, she's boldly obvious. And completely harmless. It's hilarious.
Gemma subtly straightens her shirt and collects a deep, lung-inflating breath, before answering. "It's nice to meet you as well, Maria."
My mom physically startles at Gem's accent and a huge smile breaks out across her face as she ushers us into the house. "Are you from England?"
Gemma takes off her jacket, and I hang it on a hook by the front door. "Yeah, I'm from a small town in northern England."
Mom looks at me and nods shrewdly. That means she approves, the nod is her stamp of approval. I'm convinced she thinks she's so sneaky that no one except the person she directs the nod at can see it. In actuality, it was so bold, because she can't temper her passion, that the neighbor down the street saw it. She cracks me up.
My parents live in the same house they bought when they married. It's a small, humble, three-bedroom ranch. It's dated—they don't believe in updating—but they're the heavyweight fucking champs of maintenance. They have a love affair with home repair, it's an obsession more than a necessity. My dad fixes stuff long before it breaks. Same goes for cleanliness. It's paramount. Sacred. The house has always been neat as a pin, nothing out of place. Even when all five kids lived at home. Looking back now, I realize how miraculous that was. Back then we just knew Mom would give us a verbal ass lashing if we didn't comply.
Dinner consists of the tastiest tamales in SoCal and a peppe
ring of questions from my mom: "What do you do? How long are you in the states? How did you meet Franco? How old are you? Tell me about your family? Where did you go to college? What are your hobbies? What do you think of my son's music? How often do you floss?" (My dad's a dentist, teeth are kinda our thing.) "Do you own a home?" (She's a realtor, houses are kinda her thing.)
Gemma Hendricks is a goddamn saint. She answers every question in detail, like she's enjoying the grilling she's receiving.
The approving nods Mom's directing at me are even accompanied by the rare widened eyes under arched eyebrows combo. In summary, it means, Did you hear that, Franco? Holy mother of macaroni, she's perfect! Stop fucking around, take a goddamn knee, and propose already. I want this girl to be my daughter-in-law and have my grandbabies. Like yesterday. Of course, she wouldn't use those words but that's the gist of it. She's constantly and lovingly reminding me that I'm not getting any younger and that I should be married by now. Don't get me wrong, my mom thinks the world of me and brags endlessly about how proud she is of the man I am, and the band, but marriage is a touchy, old school subject for her. My two older sisters are married. My younger sister is engaged. And my older brother, Julian, is divorced but has two kids, so the grandkids appease her.
At my mom's request, which is a demand in the form of a polite question with por favor tacked on the end, I do the dishes when we're done eating, so she can show Gemma the family photos in the hallway. The hallway is a shrine and the photos are a pictorial history of the Genovese clan. Baby photos through present. All of the embarrassing stages captured and preserved for prosperity.
