Adoring You

by Vic Tyler

  Finally, on the last night we had together before he had to leave for Los Angeles, just after 1 AM, I took the leap and asked him to come inside. He stood there with the mental war raging within him displayed clearly on his face, so I helped him decide by kissing him until he stumbled through my doorway.

  Our lips were clasped together all the way until we made it to my bedroom, where we made love all night long. At first it had been rough and desperate, our pent–up sexual frustration and tension needing to be fully banged out of us. And then we freely took our time exploring each other, steadily and passionately.

  In hindsight, it was absolutely a mistake. We didn’t get any sleep, and the reality that we missed out on a week of amazing sex left a regretful ache in my belly.

  I nearly cried when he finally left. The Big Apple had never felt emptier and lonelier than it had the minute Peter’s plane left the ground. But we had made promises to see each other again with concrete plans to look forward to.

  The next few weeks felt excruciatingly long until we saw each other again, and when he was finally back by my side, everything felt right again.

  Our relationship developed over the next few months, despite our not being able to see each other very often. We tried coordinating our schedules together as best as we could, and sometimes we met in other cities – Chicago, Los Angeles, Atlanta, and even one time in Milan.

  Exploring the cities, even visiting places I’d been before, was a new delight when I walked around with Peter. The joy of having someone to share these experiences with and to re–experience them through their eyes was exhilarating.

  There were, of course, times we fought. About his absentmindedness or the times we had to erratically reschedule because he stayed up all night consumed by how the bassoon section wasn’t harmonizing or how to incorporate the extra harps he hadn’t expected. Or about my tendency to be late because I had to get my outfit and makeup perfectly coordinated or my outspokenness with a lack of any filter that often made people feel uncomfortable, which opposed Peter’s quiet, deliberate speech.

  But both of us were resolved not to let it break us. Every argument we got into made us stronger. Jorge even commented on how we seemed to bring out the good in each other. Peter inspired me to be better, and I’d like to think I did the same for him. Sometimes I wondered how I had lived without him in my life. The person I was before meeting Peter seemed like a stranger to me.

  There was so much I had to be thankful to Peter for, and I never felt like there was enough I could do to show him. As his birthday came around and Peter was due to arrive in New York in a few days, I called Teresa, begging her to help me brainstorm.

  “What do you get a man who wants nothing?”

  I shoved my face into a pillow and screamed. Teresa looked up from her magazine with amusement.

  “Have you asked him?”

  “Of course,” I groaned. “And he just gives me that infuriatingly adorable smile and says —” while deepening my voice “— ‘All I want is you.’”

  The resilient pillow absorbed today’s hundredth shriek as I buried my face into it.

  “Well, that’s not nothing, then is it?” Teresa mused, her gaze returning to Cosmopolitan’s ‘What Men Want But Don’t Say.’ “According to Cosmo, it’s a great steak, some cold beer, the remote control, and a mind–blowing blowjob.”

  She teasingly growled at me.

  “He eats steak all the time,” I rolled my eyes. “I eat steak all the time. It’s steak, salmon, or just a medley of grilled vegetables at every meeting, gala, and work function. He doesn’t drink beer or watch TV. And the blowjob…”

  Teresa’s eyes widened as the magazine inched up to hide her faux blush.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, it’s not limited to birthdays.”

  She giggled. “What about his hobbies?”

  I chewed on my lip. “He likes stargazing and music, but he has everything he could possibly need. A telescope, books, stereos, record players, you name it. And he owns a million different instruments – stringed, wind, brass, you name it – that he’s learned to play so he can understand every part of the orchestral arrangements.”

  “Wow, sounds like a real nerd,” Teresa snickered.

  “And he’s perfectly content with doing nothing. He doesn’t want anything. But he’s always taking me everywhere I want to go and giving me presents that I absolutely adore,” I said, falling back on my bed and staring at the ceiling. “Why does he have to be so perfect?”

  My pillow got another dose of frustrated screaming.

  “So just give him what he wants,” Teresa said matter–of–factly. “Just lay on his bed — rose petals, candles, music, and the whole shabam — in your sexiest lingerie and tell him to give you his babies.”

  My face stayed buried in the pillow as I didn’t respond.

  Teresa rolled her eyes. “Come on, don’t tell me that’s not limited to birthdays either.”

  “I haven’t told him I want his babies,” I huffed. I pivoted to look at her, narrowing my eyes accusingly. “You just want to make a pregnant lady coalition.”

  Teresa giggled, affectionately touching the weeks–old life that was forming inside of her flat–for–now belly.

  “Besides, we’ve only been dating for eight months,” I sighed, falling back onto my bed.

  “I guess you two keep it exciting since you can’t see each other that often,” Teresa said pityingly. “How long is he in town for this time?”

  “He’s got a couple of weeks off,” I sighed. “But I’m going to Paris next week. He said he’d come with me, but I don’t want to make him travel when he finally has some time off.”

  “Maybe that can be his present. Just let him go with you, and you can rendezvous with him in The City of Love.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  I sighed. An imaginary reel of Peter and me spending everyday together flipped through my mind, tickling my belly.

  “I wish it’d be easier to see him,” I moped. “He’s been so busy lately that we haven’t been able to talk. When we do get to talk, it almost feels like he’s a little distant. And it makes me anxious, like he’s hiding something. It gets me thinking that maybe this isn’t working for him. Sometimes –” I drew in a sharp breath, struggling with the warring turmoil behind the words. “– I think about one of us quitting our jobs so we can spend more time together.”

  For a few minutes, the crinkling pages of Teresa flipping through her magazine filled the silent room.

  “Why don’t you just marry him?” Teresa finally asked. “If you publicized your relationship, wouldn’t everyone be more willing to work around both your schedules?”

  “We haven’t talked about it,” I sighed. “He was so eager when we first met. If it were anyone else, the things he said would’ve come on too strong. I mean, I was a little apprehensive in the beginning. I hardly knew him then. But as more time passed, I feel like I’m being cheesy and swooning over ‘forever.’ And he’s been more than a little evasive about it. We talked about marriage in general, and I think we’re both in it for the long run. But I don’t know if he’s content with our relationship like this or if he even wants to get married.”

  Teresa flipped another page, glancing up to look at me. “Do you want to marry him?”

  I took a deep breath, and the air felt heavy in my chest. Did I? I never considered marrying any of my previous beaus, especially since I wanted to focus on my career. In fact, I hadn’t even thought about it until I met Peter. He encouraged me to pursue my career, and we both recognized how our work made us who we are. It made us happy. We loved each other for it. It was almost scary how synchronized we were. The time we’d been together was so short, but it felt like forever. The man fulfilled me, and it terrified me.

  “Maybe,” I said, the word lingering on my tongue. “Maybe.”

  On the day that Peter was to arrive, I fussed antsily in my home, cleaning over and over again and watching the clock, wishing time would skip to the
part when he was outside my door.

  Finally, I heard the door unlock with the key I gave him a few months ago. As soon as his lopsided grin popped into my apartment, I ran and jumped into his arms. Peter dropped everything in his hands to wrap his arms around me as our lips locked in joyful reunion.

  “Michele,” he murmured between our kisses. I rubbed my hips needily into his, and he groaned my name again. “I need to shower first. It was a long flight.”

  I shushed him, taking my time as I familiarized myself with his body once again. From his soft brown hair to his sharp cheekbones and jaw that were still busily occupying my mouth. My hands slipped to his sturdy shoulders, further down his lean chest, toned abs, all the way under the waistband of his pants —

  “Michele.” His voice was gruff with restrained desire, and he grabbed my wrist to stop me from going further.

  “Peter,” I whined.

  He chuckled and kissed me again, softly, before pulling away. He grabbed his suitcase and headed to the bedroom.

  “Do you want to go out tonight?” he called.

  I used to be thrilled with the idea of going out on the town — dressing up, being around people, drinking sweet, fruity beverages, fun banter with women and men alike.

  But going out with Peter was different. The more I went out with Peter, the more I realized how other women would gaze at him under their lashes, giggle and touch his arm, no matter how much I glowered at them. He never seemed to notice them and on the contrary, seemed bothered by all the men who smiled at me and offered to buy me drinks.

  But the only person whose attention I craved was Peter’s, and he, mine. There was no need to go out to be together, even though it was still fun once in a while. And better yet, we didn’t have to deal with hailing cabs, running through hallways, and stumbling through the door when our desire for each other overflowed and intoxicated us.

  “No,” I hummed. “I already ordered your favorite.”

  Peter appeared in the doorway, frowning as he took his tie off. “What do you mean? Do we have to go pick it up?”

  I hopped onto the barstool and smiled coyly at him. “Lombardi’s started delivering their pizzas.”

  He gaped at me before striding towards me, covering the distance in no time with his long gait. He covered my mouth with his in a deep kiss, yanking my hips up to meet his, his excitement hard against my pooling heat.

  “What have I done to deserve you?” he chuckled, his hands slipping under my shirt and teasing my back.

  I giggled. “I didn’t do anything about their delivery. I just got a pamphlet in the mail.”

  “Still,” he said, nipping at my lip. “You’re making miracles happen.”

  I playfully shoved him away. “Go take a shower. The pizza should be here soon.”

  “Mm, my second favorite thing to eat,” he said, swooping in for another kiss.

  He dodged as I swatted at him and gave me one of his lovable lopsided grins again before running to the bathroom.

  Not long after the water starting running, the pizza arrived, and I set it down on the coffee table in the living room. I glanced at the little bag next to the couch, biting my lip. It took me a long time to decide what to get him, no thanks to Teresa either.

  Choosing a present for him was the most infuriatingly difficult thing I’ve ever had to do, but more importantly than that, would he like it? It already pained me to think I might not know the things he liked as well as he knew mine.

  Peter soon entered the room, toweling his dripping wet hair. He gave me a lazy smile as he approached, gathered me in his arms, and kissed me.

  “Smells delicious,” he murmured.

  “Hungry?” I whispered.

  “Always,” he said before deepening his kiss. “But I need my appetizer first.”

  He pulled away, smirking, as he snatched the nearby plates and handed one to me. I laughed and opened the box, watching as he practically drooled over the stretchy mozzarella cheese hanging off of the steaming hot pizza.

  It felt so good to be with him again. It felt like home. He was home.

  We ended up finishing the entire box of pizza and snuggled together on the couch, much too full to move.

  “Before I forget,” I said, grabbing the little bag next to the couch. “I got something for you.”

  Peter raised a brow as he weighed the bag in his hands. “Should I be scared?”

  I stuck my tongue out at him, and he chuckled, yanking me back into him and enveloping my tongue with his mouth. We nearly got sidetracked as our kiss grew more heated, but I pulled away and nudged him towards his present.

  “I want to see you open it,” I said, trying to hide the anxious flutter in my heart.

  Peter grinned, his eyes still dark with desire. “Alright, let’s see.”

  He reached into the bag and pulled out a ukulele, which looked like a toy in his large hands. His eyes studied the small instrument in his hand with an unreadable expression on his face as he stroked the maple body, his long fingers gently tracing the tear shaped hole.

  “You have all those instruments for work,” I started, fidgeting. “But I thought maybe you’d like something small you can carry around and play. Since you already know how to play the guitar, and –”

  His hand wrapped around the back of my neck, as he leaned in to press his lips deeply into mine. He briefly pulled away to place the ukulele gingerly on the table, taking a few extra seconds to study and admire its wooden handiwork, before pushing me onto the couch and leaning over me, his large body blanketing mine.

  “I love it,” he murmured between kisses. “Almost as much as I love you.”

  My heart swelled so much, it felt like it would burst. It felt like a milestone that I could give him a taste of the joy he’s given me over and over again.

  His kisses ignited fire on my skin, and his weight was lying comfortably on me, promising of a different weight that would stretch and fill me soon. But I pressed my hands against his chest, loathing having to put distance between us.

  “W–wait,” I gasped. “I’m not done.”

  He pursed his lips and reluctantly pulled away, looking at me through his hooded eyes.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said, biting my lip nervously as I forced myself to look into his eyes. “About how it’s so hard for us to spend time together. And short of either one of us quitting our jobs, which neither of us want to do, I was thinking about all the different ways we could remedy that.”

  Peter slowly inched back, pushing off the couch to sit upright. His eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes sharpened as he watched me warily.

  “Well, at first, I was just thinking about what present I could get you. And Teresa suggested… Well, she was suggesting about how we could come out and align schedules – Ah, I mean, that’s not important. You’ve shown me over and over again how serious you are about this – about us – and I wanted to show you that I am too,” I stammered, rambling nervously. “And if we were together all the time –”

  Peter abruptly stood up and walked away, practically running as he slipped around the corner and into the bedroom.

  My breath caught in my throat, and it felt like my heart rear–ended it in a fatal collision. I gulped painfully with a dry mouth, and my chest felt heavy with dread and regret. My eyes suddenly felt too hot and moist. Did I say something wrong? Was this moving too fast for him? Was I being presumptuous in thinking he wanted more?

  A few seconds later, Peter stormed back into the room.

  “Jesus, Michele,” he scowled.

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

  “I told Teresa not to give you any ideas,” he grumbled. “And I was going to wait until tomorrow, but since you started this, you can’t complain.”

  Peter strode over to me, took my hands, and gently pulled me to my feet. His arms wrapped around my waist as he pulled me into a firm embrace, tight against his body, and stared down into my eyes.

  “Michele Deveraux, you have tur
ned my life upside down and inside out. From the first moment I saw you and heard you sing, I knew there was no one else I wanted to spend my life with. You cast a siren’s spell on me, and I have been bewitched ever since. Every second I spend away from you feels like an eternity, and every second I am with you leaves me wanting more.”

  Keeping his eyes on mine and loosening his grip, Peter slid down, kneeling on one knee. He reached into his pocket and held out a small object on his palm. I gasped.

  A black velvet box.

  “And like I promised, if you’ll have me, I swear I’ll treasure you for the rest of my life.” He opened it to reveal a beautiful diamond ring. “I said all I wanted for my birthday was you. So make me the happiest man in the world.”

  My eyes brimmed with hot tears, and Peter smiled at me with his anxiously expectant eyes searching mine.

  It was his birthday, but as always, I was the one receiving the best present of all.

  epilogue

  All I Want Is You – U2

  Five years later

  Home sweet home

  “And after he got down on one knee and gave me the most romantic speech, he asked me to marry him, and I said –”

  “Mommy,” the little girl whined. “You tell this story all the time. I want a new one.”

  I huffed, “This is the best love story in the world, Michele. This is the story of how mommy and daddy made you.”

  Peter scooped up our daughter in his arms and chuckled, “Well, not quite, but we’re not going to tell her that story.”

  “What story?” Her ears perked up as her large brown eyes widened with curiosity.

  “That’s the prequel,” I sighed. “And nine months later…”

  “And nine months later, I became the happiest husband and father in the world,” Peter said, ducking down to give me a peck on the lips.

  “Ew,” baby Michele said, scrunching her nose.

  I took her in my arms and nuzzled her peachy cheek. It never ceased to amaze me how the life that Peter and I made together rested in this little child.