by Ella James
With a funny look my way, he stretches out—and I climb atop his back, straddling his hips, and start to stroke his back through his shirt.
Gabe groans softly as I drag my thumbs over some pressure points in his midback.
“I don’t remember this.” His voice is muffled in my pillow.
I grin. “I took a massage class in Chicago. Just for fun.”
I rub a few key spots a little more, then move up to the area around his shoulder-blades. As soon as I start rubbing there, I feel him flinch. His body tenses under mine, and he lets out another moan.
“Most people carry tension here…”
He grunts, and I let myself have at the sore muscles around his shoulderblades, and then move up, toward his neck and shoulders.
“Jesus…”
“Someone’s really tense…or slept wrong.”
“Offh.”
I giggle, and his hips flex under mine. “I can feel your heat against my back,” he rasps against my pillow. I rub against him, and he groans. “Fuck. Making me hard…”
I trail a hand back down his flank, then nudge up under him. Gabe shifts over on his side, and I move to lie down and face him. He looks sleepy, smiling as I stroke his abs and drag my hand down toward the bulge that’s straining his fly.
“Oh, fuck.”
“What a dirty mouth you have, Mr. McKellan…”
I unbutton his pants, unzip them, and coax his hard cock out of his briefs, into my hands. “I think I have one, too.”
I suck him into my mouth—because I want to. Because I want to feel his hips shift as I take him deeper, feel him flex his lower back when his balls start to draw up. I like his fingers in my hair, his precum on my tongue, the way his cock swells even more right at the end, before he comes. I think I even like the way my eyes water as I breathe around his hard girth.
What I like the best, though?
After he comes, I wrap an arm around his hips, feeling unsure, as I do it, if it’s too much. Too intimate for what we’re doing. Too familiar.
He doesn’t move, though, for a while—and then I notice that his abs are moving rhythmically below my cheek. And I glance up, and find his eyes are shut.
Oh goodness.
You know that Instagram account hotdudesreading? There should be one called hotguyssleeping. There is nothing like a big, bulky, sleeping hot guy. One in your bed? Better than Christmas.
I cover Gabe up like he did for me last night, and I go make some loaded baked potatoes. When he’s still asleep, I think of tidying the living room, but honestly? I’m sleepy, too. I had a long day at work, including a pregnant mom bring her two-year-old in for a check up and mention her baby wasn’t moving. I sent her straight to the hospital, where it turns out, she lost the baby.
I feel as tired as Gabe looked. It’s cold outside, and I hear rain hitting the roof above us. I want nothing more than to snuggle up behind him, press my back to his, the way we used to, years ago, and fall asleep. When he wakes up, he’ll probably leave like last night. And you know what? That’s okay. We don’t have to have sex every day. We’re not machines.
I tell myself, as I snuggle against him, that I don’t care if this is inappropriate. What’s appropriate, anyway? I’ve lived through thirty-three years. I feel like I should get to just say “fuck it” to appropriate. We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re not hurting anyone. And if it’s weird to snuggle up to your ex-husband, with whom you’re trying to make a baby, if it’s weird to just enjoy his weight and warmth behind you…maybe I need weird.
My whole life, I’ve tried to do things right. Make the “right” choices. Do the “right” thing. And now I wonder: What’s so wrong with doing what feels good?
I open my eyes sometime much later to a darkened room—and a warm pressure between my legs. A few more blinks, a few more lines of thought, and I realize…I’m pressed against the back of Gabe. I’ve got my leg between his legs. I’ve got my arm around his hips.
Oh God, it feels delicious—and I’m pretty sure I dreamed of sex, because right now, I feel so empty. It’s this clenchy, full-but-empty feeling…
I press myself against his ass and freeze when Gabe groans. His abs tighten underneath my palm.
I smile. “Hi…” I glide my palm over the ridge of his hip and stretch my fingers lower, where I find him long and stiff and gloriously bare.
I grip him just under his warm, smooth head and tweak under the rim rim, and Gabe rewards me with a soft grunt. I trail my fingertips down his thick rod and grip him at the bottom, pumping a few times before I need more. I urge him onto his back, where I can pump him with one hand and tease his balls with my other.
When my hand comes underneath them, fingers brushing lightly, he grits, “God…”
I rub my hand up his length as I tug. “Does it feel good?”
“Too good,” he groans. “Keep that up, I’m gonna come before I get inside.”
And so of course I want to keep it up. I wrap my fingers around his long, thick shaft, tracing the rim of his head, then stroking back down until I feel the puffy bulge below. Oh God, Gabe his the biggest balls: so full and heavy. My pussy clenches every time I feel them draw up underneath my touch.
I grip his shaft—as much of it as I can—and start to jack him off with firm, fast strokes. I move from right below the rim down to the base and then back up, caressing his head, where I feel tiny drop of moisture at the slit, and then back down, where I tug on his balls and Gabe’s arm comes over mine.
“Oh, fuck.” He shifts his hips, thrusting into my hand. I wrap my fingers around the top of his taut sac and give a gentle tug.
“I want to taste these…”
Instead of murmuring a “yes,” he pulls himself up, half-sitting, his eyes glazed over as he reaches for my shoulder.
“Mar…” He shifts his legs, but doesn’t move his cock as I continue jerking him off. “I need to be inside you.”
“Yeah?” I up my hand game.
Gabe nods, closing his eyes as his head drops back.
“Yeah…”
But I don’t want to end this just yet. I lean down, sucking his head into my mouth as his hands grip my shoulders.
“Marley…”
I can feel him shaking as he struggles not to shove into my throat. I take him deeper, deeper, swallowing to take as much as I can; it’s still not all of him. I wrap my hand around his base and stroke him while I struggle with his girth. I swallow once again and feel his head against the back of my throat. With my free hand, I grab his balls and rub my thumb between them, kneading as I deep-throat him, and Gabe starts panting like he’s running.
He wants to fuck my throat. I know he does. But he won’t, not until I get him started.
I start to take him in and out, and he lets out a desperate-sounding groan.
“Ahh, fuck.” He pushes in just slightly. “Marley…”
I can feel him trying not to move, can feel his hand on my head, shaking. I can feel the moment that he can’t control his need. He grabs my head, and for a second, thrusts into my throat. I choke. Then he’s pulling out, snatching me up, tossing me down on all fours. He jerks my panties off, then smacks me hard.
“Are you trying to hurt yourself?”
“I liked it, and you did, too.”
“I like this more,” he says, dipping two fingers into where I’m hot and sopping for him. “Nothing like this pussy…”
I clench around his fingers, and he drags them out. I feel delicious pressure as him as teases at my entrance…then pushes his tip inside.
“Oh God!” It’s not enough. I wiggle back against him, frantic. I’m so wet, he fills me in a breath, and then we’re both groaning. Our bodies shake as I take and he gives…oh God, he gives so good, my arms can barely hold me as he pounds me.
“This is mine—” his hand squeezes my ass— “and when I put a baby in you, it will still be mine.”
I can’t breathe to speak, can only grip the duvet while I cry his name,
and Gabe fucks me with the fury of a lover scorned.
When we finish, he dresses without a word, murmuring a gruff, “goodnight, Marley” as he stalks out of my room.
12
Marley
I stare down at my phone, jumping when the metal cabinet in the wall beside me clicks—a lab tech on the other side of the bathroom wall grabbing pee cups for analysis.
Is it too early for pregnancy nausea? Because I feel like I might get sick in this work bathroom. I swallow as I read his message one more time.
‘Something came up. Can’t make it today. Sorry.’
I keep blinking down at it, as if that might change the words.
He can’t come.
He can’t come.
So what?
Something must have come up. Isn’t that what he said?
‘Something came up. Can’t make it today. Sorry.’
See—he’s sorry. It says so right there.
Someone knocks on the door. I jump again, and then stand up and flush the toilet for effect.
I turn on the sink and text: ‘That’s okay. Take care.’
In medical school, I learned a lot about trauma. Then I started treating real kids, and realized I didn’t know anything about anything. Last year for Christmas, one of my Chicago friends—a pediatric psychologist—gave me this nonfiction book called The Body Keeps The Score.
Really great book about how the brain and body work, and how experiences shape us. And when I read it, I realized I had issues over my dad’s death. I mean, of course. Of course I would. He got pancreatic cancer when I was five, and he was gone before I turned six. Looking back on it, I could even see when maybe I would have decided to be a pediatrician. Dad died in December, and that spring of my kindergarten year, I had a lot of tummy trouble. I remember I went to the doctor lots of times.
I close my eyes and rest my head against my bath pillow, and let my mind drift. Retrospectively, I can see one of the reasons I went for Corey was his age. The feeling I got when I was near him, like I was safe and protected. Daddy Issues are a thing—they really are. And, so what, right? So I’m a normal person.
But I try to think about these things now. If I find myself really upset, having to jerk my car onto a side street and hop out and put my hands on the warm car hood to avoid having a panic attack…I try to think of why.
So here I am in my bath, my foot curled around a fizzing bath bomb, my phone on a table in the den, so I won’t keep on checking it.
I think about my future baby, about Gabe, about our past. I think of whether I can do this if there’s any chance he’s going to be hot and cold, and on and off. I tell myself that while I’m in the bath, I’ll consider not pursuing this plan thing any further.
And by the time I get out, I’ve decided I’m okay. I’m doing me, and I can choose to not be thrown off by Gabe.
I go to bed holding that thought, and hold it when my brother calls at six the next morning letting me know mom is sick; she called him in a panic because she couldn’t breathe, and he was with her all night—but now he needs to go to work. I hold it while I call in to the clinic, while I go take care of mom, and take her to the internal medicine doctor and the pharmacy. I’m still holding onto the notion as I look down at my sneakered feet and decide maybe I’ll run back home. Just to get some endorphins. Later, I can run back over here to check on mom, and get my car.
I take off on foot, and as I run, I think of Gabe. Today’s the day I think I’m ovulating, so I really need him in bed.
I run past the cemetery gates, and I feel the first small crack in my armor. What if this doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t want it? What if I get pregnant, and he then decides he doesn’t want it?
Messy.
Sticky.
Feelings.
It’s not helping that the sky is so damn gray.
But you can do this, I tell myself. He’s going to text today. Why would he set this up and then just disappear? That’s your Daddy Issues talking. No one’s going to disappear.
I feel a little better, and run harder toward home. There’s another jogger in my path, so I pull to the right side of the sidewalk. He runs by, head down, beanie on. But I can feel his eyes flick over me for half a second. He jogs by—and then I smell the air behind him.
Gabe.
I stop and gape as he runs by, without a word.
Gabe
I knock hard on her door a few minutes after she goes in it. I’m still dripping sweat. When Marley answers, still in leggings and a damp t-shirt, I scoop her up and carry her to bed.
I’m setting her down when I feel her shove me.
I frown down at her.
“No!” She jumps up, marching toward the den with her hand pointing toward the door. “I don’t want to do this! Thanks but no.”
I blink a few times at her livid face before my stomach starts to churn. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t, that’s why. I decided that I don’t.” She jerks the door open. “Thank you for considering it.”
But I can’t move. “That’s it? It’s over?”
“What is, Gabe? What was there to be over? We barely even started this.”
Inside my head, something is building. I drag a deep breath in. “Why is it over?”
“Because I change my mind!”
I thought this shit was worth it, but I changed my mind! You won’t even let me near you! This whole thing is pointless!
“Why?” I manage, folding my arms over my chest. When she doesn’t answer, just shoots fury at me through her eyes, I think back and— “Was it the text?”
She blinks, and I can tell. “It was the text.”
“It wasn’t only that. I changed my mind. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I can’t be just a fuck to you. Not even just a fuck. Some kind of side fuck. I’m not a side fuck!” Her chest is heaving.
“No,” I murmur. I step closer to her. “I never said you were, Marley.”
“You didn’t have to. I can tell what you think.”
“What?”
“Oh, c’mon! I’m not stupid. What came up? Other than you wanted a time out—which you’re entitled to, it’s just that I can’t take it.”
Fuck. I suck a slow breath back, then go all in. “I had to renegotiate a contract.”
She arches an eyebrow, now folding her own arms.
“For my book,” I tell her slowly.
“Is that unusual?” Her shoulders slump.
I shake my head, then shrug. “For me it is. It means a deal I made is given back—sort of—and then we have to make another one.”
“I am not going to make a snide comment about the busy businessman. That would be immature.” The corner of her mouth twitches, and despite everything, I give her a small smile back.
“I couldn’t write the book.”
“No?”
I shake my head. And then my eyes are on the rug, the pretty rug, because I can’t look at her face, not while my eyes are burning.
“The whole thing was based around this girl turning into a shape-shifter. A little girl.” I shut my eyes and take a long, slow breath. So when I open my eyes, I can look at her and say, “I couldn’t write the girl.”
My words are whispered. Maybe I’m a pussy, but they feel like knives in my chest, even when I’m barely speaking them.
I see Marley blanch. I see her get it. And I tell myself I did the right thing, giving this to her.
“Oh, Gabe.”
Even though I don’t want her sorrow. I don’t want her pity. I don’t know if I can take her sympathy or empathy or warmth.
The way she’s looking at me right now makes me want to run. Again. For the third fucking time today.
Except then her face crumbles. She puts her hands over her eyes and shakes her head. “I’m such an asshole.”
“What? No…”
“Yes. I’m insecure, and I’m an asshole.” She looks at me with damp eyes, shaking her head, almost angrily. “It’s because I’m
scared…that I’m forgettable.” The word is broken. “That’s what every girl fears most, don’t let anybody tell you different. I don’t want to be that girl that doesn’t matter, the one that’s not worth it.”
She holds up a hand. “Don’t say a word to that. I run my mouth when I’m embarrassed, as you likely know. I’m not seeking reassurance. I’m neurotic, sort of. My dad died and my mom said to her friend on the phone maybe he didn’t want to stay. I realized later she probably meant because he was working two really hard jobs, and we were so damn poor, but at the time I thought of me, and I was five. It seemed like my fault.”
She sighs. “I’m sorry.”
I inch a little closer to her—close enough to grab her hands. “We’re friends now, right? Sort of?”
She looks down at the space between us, nodding after a moment. “So, whatever.” I twine my fingers between hers, and lift them up, and twirl her like we’re dancing. “Want to fuck?”
She laughs, and her face lights up in a mix of shock and delight. “How did you know?”
I lift a shoulder. “Just some crazy plan I had. To plant my seed inside some baby mama.”
“Did you call me a baby mama?” She’s giggling.
“Nothing wrong with a baby mama.”
“Does that make you a baby daddy?”
“If we make a baby. Do you want to make a baby?” She nods slowly, and I pick her up, and take her to her room, and fuck her—two times, slowly first, and fast and hard the second time.
And afterward, I throw the duvet over her and go get her some cider.
She sits up slightly to drink it. “Always cider.”
“Do you want some coffee next time?”
She grins. “I don’t know. Cider is good. Where did you get this cider?” She takes a long sip, getting whipped cream on her nose.
“I ordered it. From New York. From an apple farm I like up there.”
“Wow—really? You’ve been to this apple farm?”
I nod, smirking, because she looks so fucking cute with her hair messy and her glasses pushed down slightly on her nose.
