by Sarah Smith
The pleasure is building to an unfamiliar point. I can’t remember a single time when it’s ever felt this intense this quickly. The intensity of his heavy, even pace keeps my throat in a near-constant squeeze. I choke on a gasp.
“Don’t stop,” I groan. My head dips back when he hits a particularly deep spot.
For an untold number of minutes I’m on the cusp of exploding. I take in the close view of his bare shoulders and biceps, glistening with sweat.
“I want you every way I can have you,” he says.
The gentle tone combined with the tickle of his breath against my ear works wonders. I have to pull from my deepest inner reserves to keep my composure underneath him. I steady my breathing. My mission, if I choose to accept it, is to keep myself from losing it too soon. And, boy, will I ever try. That’s one for the record books. Never have I ever had to stop myself from reaching climax too quickly. I’ve always had to consciously remind myself to relax, let go, and on those rare occasions that I’m lucky and the stars align, it comes. Not tonight. Tonight my entire body is begging for release. I’m teetering on the edge, an inch from falling. I want to savor every morsel.
Just when I think I’ve gotten a hold of myself, he whispers into my ear how gorgeous I look, how my skin is the softest thing he’s ever touched, and how he wants to feel my body against his forever. My knees tremble, and my eyes roll to the back of my head. Ecstasy is seconds away, max.
I feel the start of the inevitable drop. I wrap my legs around his waist, claw my nails into the meaty part of his shoulders, and tilt my head back for a long overdue scream.
“Harder,” he moans. I obey, digging my fingers in his thick skin while squeezing my legs tighter. The distant, concentrated look in his eyes tells me he’s not far off either.
The moment it hits, I’m caught off guard. I thought I had longer. My body convulses, like I’ve been struck by lightning while enduring the frenzied g-force of a roller coaster. I have no control over myself. My body heaves and twists around him violently, and there’s nothing I can do but claw at his hair and back while screaming gibberish. When I finish, he groans, shudders, and then stops moving. He must have lost it right along with me.
I beam a pleasure-drunk grin at him. “That was . . . I don’t even . . . Fuck.”
He smiles back but says nothing. When he peels himself off of me, I stare at the ceiling. I can’t make out any colors or shapes. A fuzzy blur is all I see. I keep blinking until I regain focus. I’m completely stripped of my old self. I am no longer made of metal, tough and hard and unrelenting. I am goo. I am slush. I am a pile of sweaty skin, pumping blood, and vibrating bones. Tate has extracted everything tough about me and replaced it with mind-blowing pleasure. Faking in bed isn’t an option anymore. I’m physically unable to pretend. Everything from this moment on is real and true and painted in a blissful, postorgasmic glow.
As shaky as I am, I feel empowered. I can conquer the world. No matter the challenge, I will throw down. Air gliding. Applied mathematics. Three-dimensional origami. The intoxicating aftershocks pulsing throughout my body make it so. The bliss powering this afterglow is life changing. I can do all things after a night with Tate Rasmussen, bringer of elusive, incredible orgasms.
When I’m finally able to see again, I turn to him. His haphazard curls have been smoothed down, and his face is wiped dry. He must have gone to the bathroom to clean up.
“You’ve broken me,” I babble.
“It was totally and completely my pleasure.” He brushes a sweaty mass of hair from my face.
“We have to do this again.” My eyelids droop. Exhaustion is settling in, and I’m ready for a night of heavy sleep.
“Just name the time and place.”
With shaky hands, I tilt his face to mine. “No one has ever made me feel that good. And ‘good’ isn’t even the right word, but I can’t think of a better one right now because you’ve screwed the living daylights out of me.” I peck him on the lips just as he chuckles.
Nuzzling into the pillow, I close my eyes. Tate’s arm snakes around me, pulling my head into the crook between his shoulder and chest. Each breath I take tingles, his musky, evergreen scent filling my lungs. There is no better smell in the world, I think to myself as I doze.
twenty-eight
It’s a brand-new day when I wake, tangled in the paper-hued sheets of Tate’s bed. I lie on my side; he spoons me from behind, his tree-trunk arm resting over my waist. I peel open my eyes. Morning sunlight peeks through the tilted blinds over the only window in his bedroom. It warms the light cotton sheet draped over us. Yet another stiflingly hot and humid Midwest day, but I welcome it. The morning’s soft heat makes me feel cradled and secure. We’re captured in an impenetrable bubble where nothing can reach us.
I roll over, still half-asleep, and let my eyes adjust to the brightness. Peering around the room, I soak in the light and the comfort. Tate stirs and moans, then pulls me closer to his chest. I smile and close my eyes again. I want to wake up like this every day.
Behind my eyelids, I imagine what we must look like. In my dreams, we are a simple image: a man and a woman floating in the middle of a bed, wrapped in cotton sheets so thin you can almost see through them. The entire room is bathed in neutral hues, but it’s not boring. It’s soothing.
He’s pale as milk; she’s tan as caramel. Her jet-black hair spills across the pillows like ink. The mess of ebony tangles with his snowy white curls. Golden sunlight streams in from the window, dancing across every surface. The conflicting shades of dark and light come together under the warm glow of orange and yellow. It creates a balance. A harmony.
It’s similar to the glow I feel inside me. The longer I lie in bed, the clearer it becomes, the warmer I feel. I knew it was coming, but I wasn’t prepared for the jolt. For the all-consuming, chest-tightening surge that would overtake every fiber in my skin and bones. Hot blood pulses through my veins, carrying this new sensation to the farthest reaches of my body.
After one blink, one breath, and one pulse, it’s clear: I’m in love with Tate.
I don’t believe it at first. How can I love someone I’ve only just started to get to know? But I do know him. For eleven months, I’ve worked with him. I know his moods and his sounds. I can differentiate the sighs he makes. I know how he’s feeling depending on how deep and heavy his exhale is. I’ve committed to memory the number of lines that crowd his forehead whenever he frowns. I know his favorite lunch. I know the hurried way he drives, how hoodies and T-shirts are his favorite clothes to wear, the rhythm of his speech. He’s got a gold mine on me too. And now I know how he truly feels.
It’s a beautiful mess in my head, and I have to close my eyes to make sense of it all. Nearly a year’s worth of bickering, heated emotions—it’s all formed a unique foundation. That gut punch of negative feelings with every argument, every bout of silent treatment over the last several months was misdirected heat and affection. Like a haywire electrical current that caused damage until it was grounded. Now that it’s contained between us, I’m buzzing with love and joy.
Our imperfect past is filled with challenges, missteps, and complications, but look what it’s led to. The most passionate night of my life and the most eye-opening morning.
When I fix my gaze on his sleeping face, my body trembles with the realization. This new feeling expands. It’s faster than my thoughts or my heartbeat can keep up with. I hold my breath. Before I can inhale, he wakes.
“Good morning,” he says with a sleepy smile.
I nod with dramatic lemur eyes, unable to speak.
“What’s wrong?” His forehead resumes his trademark frown of concern. I bet I look terrified.
“Nothing. Just still processing everything.”
He holds me tighter. “Hopefully not regretting anything?”
I nuzzle my face to his chest. “Not at all,” I mumble into his skin.
/>
“You’re still my girlfriend, right?”
“If you’re still my boyfriend.”
“Good. Because I like this. Waking up, holding you. I want this. For as long as possible.” He cradles my head in his palm. I push up to peer at him.
“As long as possible?” I ask like I’m clarifying a joke. If he can make a statement like that, I wonder if he could love me.
“At the very least.”
“You want to snuggle me in your bed forever?”
He laughs, probably at my stunned tone. “Yes. I swear.”
“I don’t share, you know. If you say that to me, you don’t get to do this with any other woman.”
Gently, he grabs my chin and pulls me into a soft kiss. “I don’t have any interest in anyone else. Not now, not ever.”
“Tate—”
“I mean it, Emmie. I’ve wanted this for so long.”
I pull him into a deep kiss and close my eyes. It’s a heart-pounding comfort to know he feels this way about me. His words are a warm blanket over my body, soothing me.
“You’re all I want,” he says when we finish our minute-long kiss.
“Even when we argue? How we bicker—”
He bumps the tip of my nose with his. “We play and laugh too. Don’t forget that.”
I beam.
“There’s a depth to us that I’ve never felt with anyone else. Don’t you feel it?”
I nod. Our history, our flaws, our imperfect path to this perfect morning, it all works together to intrigue and satisfy.
“I don’t like simple,” he says. “And I don’t think you do either.”
He’s right. I need the layers, the varying degrees of us. That’s what gets me off. That’s how I fall in love.
“I want this too. More than you know,” I say in a hushed voice, wondering if he can tell how I truly feel.
When he beams at me, the shock leaves my body. I nuzzle back into his chest and he continues to hold me tightly. As I lie in his arms, I am elated and at peace. It’s not long before we fade back to sleep, wrapped in a cocoon of sunlight and cotton.
* * *
• • •
WHAT’S THIS?” I point to a dark stain on the front of the T-shirt I’m wearing.
Men’s T-shirts are my favorite weekend lounge wear, especially when my only other clothing option is a slinky black dress. The fact that the shirt smells like Tate, all spicy and foresty, is a plus.
Tate pops his head out from the hallway bathroom. A toothbrush sticks out from his mouth. “Hmm? Oh, that. I wore it when I changed the oil in my car a few weeks ago.”
I walk into the bathroom as he hunches over to spit in the sink. I hug him from behind, pressing my face into his shoulder. So far I’ve managed to keep my love revelation to myself. It’s mind blowing enough that Tate Rasmussen is my boyfriend and that I’m wearing his T-shirt the morning after the best sex of my life. I don’t need to spill my gushy feelings to complicate things.
“I like the stain. It makes the shirt look manlier,” I say. Focusing on the moment helps. Teasing him eases the knot of emotion in my chest.
“I suppose it needs all the help it can get.” He wipes his mouth with a hand towel. “It has Oscar the Grouch on the front of it, after all. My sister got it for me a couple Christmases ago. She said we have the same personalities.”
I let out a chuckle. “Maybe on the outside, but deep down, you’re a big softy like Elmo.”
He reaches behind to tickle me at the waist. I squeal.
“Are you cool with using my toothbrush? I might have an unopened one in a drawer somewhere.” He starts to reach for the nearest drawer, but I grab his hand to stop him. He spins around, encircling my waist with his arms.
“I’m more than happy to use your toothbrush.”
I tiptoe up to give him a press on the lips. He’s having none of it though and captures me in a filthy, tongue-heavy kiss.
“Don’t.” I push him back. “Your mouth is clean. Mine tastes like gross morning breath.” I cup my hand over my mouth, hoping he can’t smell anything.
“I love the way you taste,” he says against my hand. I shiver so hard my knees buckle, but I don’t fall. He’s got me firmly in his hold. I could lift both legs off the ground and stay perfectly in place.
I playfully pull away so I can brush my teeth and wash my face.
“Here.” He hands me my purse when I walk back into his bedroom. “Your phone was beeping.”
He ruffles my hair before planting a kiss at the top of my head. I grin like a goober until I see a handful of frantic email messages from my sister.
“Shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
“My sister. She’s been trying to get a hold of me all morning. Crap.”
I scan through the emails:
6:02 a.m.: You had a concussion AND surgery??!! What? You need to Skype me now!
6:31 a.m.: Wake up! I need to know that you’re okay! I need proof of life!
6:52 a.m.: Okay, you’re probably happily sleeping in . . . I know your coworker sent a message to me saying you’re fine now, but I still need to Skype you! For my peace of mind!!!
7:17 a.m.: Emmie! How are you not waking up to the endless dinging noises your phone must be making at my incessant emailing?!
I pull up Skype on my phone. “I need to Skype my sister. She must have finally read the emails you sent her when I was in the hospital, and she’s freaking out.”
“Gotcha. I’ll be in the shower.” He grabs a towel and trots back into the bathroom, leaving the door open. “Join me when you’re off the phone,” he hollers.
I smirk to myself just as my sister answers.
“There you are!” she yells. “What the hell? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.” She’s bug eyed with worry.
“I’m sorry. I slept in and my phone was downstairs. Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
“Emmie, I was freaking out! I finally got the chance to check my email after weeks of jungle exploring and beach hopping, and I see two messages saying you had a concussion after falling at work, and you had your appendix removed. Are you okay? This is nuts.” She’s waving her arms around as she speaks. I recognize the drab hostel background behind her.
“It was, but I’m fine. Seriously. How was the hike in the jungle? What beaches did you go to?”
“Never mind the jungle and the beaches. You have a follow-up appointment with your doctor, right?” The bun at the top of her head wiggles along with the impatient movement of her hands.
“Yes, next week, but everything’s fine. I feel almost as strong as I did before. I’m only a tiny bit sore.”
“Thank God.” She throws her head back and exhales. When she looks back at the screen, she squints. “What are you wearing?”
“A T-shirt.” I bite my lip.
“It looks huge on you. Is it new?”
I shake my head and think of a lie. “Sort of. Borrowed it from a friend.”
She raises a suspicious eyebrow at me. “Where are you right now?”
“A friend’s house,” I say quickly. I suddenly wish we were speaking on the phone so she couldn’t see the embarrassing shade of red I suspect my face is turning.
“Really? The only friend you ever seem to visit these days is Kaitlin, and that’s not her house. All the walls in her place are pastel colored. The wall you’re in front of is taupe.”
My silence is incriminating. I quickly sink onto the bed, bouncing slightly. “It’s a new friend.”
“Is this new friend a guy?”
“Um, maybe.”
She claps and throws her head back before unleashing a fit of giggles. “Shit, I just busted your walk of shame, didn’t I? Oh my God, I have amazing timing!”
“Addy, it’s not like that.”
“Oh,
I’m sorry. Is he about to bring you breakfast in bed?”
“Knock it off, smart-ass. He’s in the shower.”
“Perfect! Now you can tell me all about him!” she says in a singsong voice as she claps her hands gleefully.
“I don’t want to get into it now.”
“At least tell me who he is. Oh, is it the sexy contractor you told me about?”
“Nope.” I pause for a much-needed exhale. “It’s Tate. My coworker.”
Addy rolls her eyes. “Come on. Be serious.”
“I’m dead serious,” I say with a straight face. “And it’s not a walk of shame. We’re . . . more than that. Way more.”
“No way.” Her jaw drops. “I thought you couldn’t stand him.”
The sharp ring of the doorbell saves me from having to explain further.
“Someone’s at the door. Gotta go!”
“Emmie, don’t you dare.”
“I’ll Skype you again later, okay?”
I end the call, thanking the universe for such a well-timed distraction. When the doorbell ringing persists, I groan. I guess I should make myself useful and answer it so Tate doesn’t have to jump out of the shower and do it. When I open the door, I nearly bite my tongue off.
twenty-nine
Natalie’s eyebrows shoot halfway up her forehead when she sees me.
“Emmie. Hello.”
I stammer a few incriminating “um” and “uh” sounds before I finally return a proper hello.
“What a surprise.” She lets out a good-natured laugh. “I wanted to drop by and check on Tate. I was worried when I saw you two leave last night.” There’s a glint in her eyes, and she’s fighting a grin as it crawls across her mouth. “But I’m guessing he’s all right.”
I cross my arms, hoping it somehow makes me look less indecent. It’s eleven a.m. Sunday morning, and I’m clad in Tate’s shirt and boxers with messy bed hair. It couldn’t be more obvious what we’ve been up to.
