Man of My Dreams

by Faith Andrews

  My parents were more than accommodating—after the incident at the car, of course. Declan was able to connect with my parents in a way that should have taken years. He and my dad talked sports and fishing. Turns out they had more in common than I could have imagined. He’d even impressed my mom with his culinary knowledge. When he complimented her on her homemade apple cobbler, he mentioned how his specialty was peach and he even confessed his family’s secret ingredient.

  To my complete and utter shock, Declan had never brought a girl home. He’d dated, but not seriously, so meeting me was a big deal for his parents and his brother. I instantly clicked with his dad, Andrew. He was a handsome man, with kind eyes and a charming ability that made me think of the future—of him as my kid’s grandpa. His mom, Sheila, had me feeling like one of her own in no time. Just like in the movies, she dug out the baby pictures, bragging about how early Declan walked and about his little league accomplishments.

  His little brother, Connor, was a riot, a spitting image of his brother, only leaner and gawkier, but still adorable. I had no problem with him tagging along when Declan brought me around to meet his friends and show me where he grew up. He filled me in on the things Declan wasn’t so willing to admit, like which of his friends were dicky, and which ones were alright. His character assessments were dead-on and I liked that he liked me enough to give me fair warning.

  I could tell that Declan was happy to be home with his little brother and Connor was equally thrilled that Declan decided to come home for spring break, even if he did drag along his new girlfriend. Connor never made me feel like an intruder. In fact, I was one of the boys by the end of the visit. Connor even had me re-addicted to Mad Libs. His parting gift to me was a grocery bag full of new editions of the game. Instead of unpacking my suitcase when we got back on campus, I ransacked the bag, and pulled out Mad Libs: College Edition. Not something Declan is so happy about as I ignore him on my dorm room bed, tangling his hands in my hair.

  “I need a noun.”

  Declan animatedly rolls his eyes. “Enough with the Mad Libs, Mia. Didn’t you get your fill with Connor?”

  Obviously Declan is unaware of my addictive personality. He’s lucky his brother wasn’t into beer pong. Instead of asking Declan for nouns and adjectives, I would be lining up red cups on my desk, asking him to lob the little white ball.

  He flings the Mad Libs across the room and pins me down underneath him on the bed. “There is one particular noun that is in desperate need of your attention. Would you care to oblige?”

  I play along, acting as innocent as possible. “Person, place or thing?”

  “Thing. A very hard, excited, thing.”

  It’s no surprise that Declan wants to take advantage of my roommate’s absence. We didn’t have much alone time back home and I’m sure he’s itching for some physical contact the same way I am. My skin always craves his sensual touch. In the last six months, we’ve had plenty of alone time to cover all the bases. And boy did I love covering those bases. Fooling around with Declan always left me wondering two things: how the hell is he still a virgin and how much longer is he going to make me wait?

  One would never know that Declan isn’t all that experienced in the bedroom because every time he touches me I swear it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt in my entire young life. I’m not a virgin, but the guys I did let into my pants had nothing on Declan. With them it was more of a muted, enjoyable sensation. Not with Declan. Kissing him leaves me breathless and I’m certain his hands could perform magic. Declan the Extraordinary; the man with the magically dexterous fingers and sensationally powerful tongue. I bet he would love it if I told him that.

  In fact, he was thrilled when I revealed that he owned my first real orgasm. I thought I’d experienced some form of ecstasy before, but I was merely dabbling in pleasure with those other guys in comparison to the earth-shattering explosions Declan drew out of me. But each and every one of those delicious explosions left me wanting for more. And Declan isn’t ready for more yet. It’s not like he’s waiting for marriage or tied to religion; he’s told me that it has to feel right for him to take that step. At first I felt kind of insulted, but I came to realize that he is a rare breed—it’s actually refreshing. It’s nice to know that not all men are horny pigs willing to sleep with anything with a pulse. That some men actually wait for love. Plus the idea of being Declan’s first makes me giddy with anticipation.

  He nibbles my ear, creating tiny goosebumps across my skin. If only it stopped there, then the ache for more wouldn’t be so painful. But it never does. Those wispy prickles always wind up traveling further down south, forcing me to clench my legs together in hopes of controlling the urge to open up and beg.

  “Dec, we should stop. I know you’re not ready and those lips…” Those lips are teasing the tops of my breasts now, making me want to rip off my bra so they can be free and available for his mouth. “Oh my God, please. This isn’t fair.”

  Through panting breaths, Declan whispers in my ear, “What if I told you I was ready?”

  What? Did I just hear right? Should I consider this my cue to unbutton his jeans and grab the condom that has been waiting impatiently in my bedside table? Believe me, that’s what I want to do, but I’m scared he’s not thinking with the right head. “Dec, it’s just the heat of the moment. I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to do.”

  He sits up, straddling me, cupping my face in his warm hands. My heart rate accelerates and when I grab his wrists I feel that his racing pulse matches mine. “Mia, I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you. You have no idea how hard it’s been to control myself, but after waiting so long—I wanted to make sure I waited for the right reasons. Last week solidified everything I thought I was feeling for you. I know you’re going to be a part of my future and I’m ready to make love to you because I love you. I’m in love with you, Mia and I know we’re young, but I’m pretty sure I want you to be my first and my last.”

  What a rare breed indeed. I can’t imagine any other nineteen year old guy bearing his soul this way. How can he be so sure? Then again, I already know Declan is the only man I ever want to touch me for the rest of my life. Maybe this is what he’s been waiting for all these celibate years—the connection that the two of us can’t deny even if we wanted to.

  “Declan, I love you too, baby.” I remove one of his hands from my face, kissing it tenderly, but my intentions are all but tender at the moment. “Now make love to me because I can’t wait another second for you to be inside of me.”

  I expect him to be all thumbs, nervous and tense. But Declan’s got this covered; he doesn’t need any guidance from me. From the way his lips trace tiny, invigorating pecks from my shoulder to my collar bone, to the way his ample hands graze the waistline of my jeans. When he unbuttons my jeans this time there is a different type of want pooling within my depths. Knowing it will be fulfilled makes me needier than ever.

  My hands crave his butter-silk skin so I lift the hem of his t-shirt, slithering my hands underneath, caressing the ridges of his sculpted abdomen. He does me the favor of removing it completely, tossing it to the side...giving me only seconds to ogle over his perfect body.

  He lowers himself back on to me, crushing a denim-covered erection and his smooth bare chest on to my tingling, needy body. His kiss deepens, and when he breaks his hands and his lips free from my face, his eyes are dark with desperate longing and his hands travel to the collar of my blouse. Again, I’m surprised by his patience, because I could swear he’s ready to rip the shirt open. Instead, his skillful hands make an art form out of undoing each and every button.

  My eyes never leave his face. I need to see his reaction. I want to know what he’s feeling. Is this everything he’s been waiting for? All he’s imagined it would be? He must feel the weight of my stare because after taking in the sight of my pale pink bra, his eyes meet mine and I can see how happy he is. This is not just an I’m-getting-laid happy. This is an
I’ve-waited-my-whole-life-for-you happy. I know because I’m pretty sure I have the same exact look on my face.

  “God, you’re beautiful, Mia.” His voice is so sexy. I’ve never heard it this way. The hoarse, raspy declaration is the hugest turn on ever.

  “You’re not too bad yourself.” I don’t want to taint this with corny phrases we think we’re supposed to say, so I leave it at that and pull him closer again, allowing my tongue to do all the talking. I hope he understands what it’s saying right now.

  His hands are hooked into my belt loops now, shimmying my pants down my legs effortlessly. Yup, he understands. The jeans join his t-shirt on the floor, and now, besides our undergarments, the only item keeping us from becoming one is his pants

  I contemplate letting him remove them at his own accord, giving him a chance to make sure this is definitely what he wants, but damn it if I can take a second longer of the suspense. “Allow me?”

  “Mmmhhmmm,” he groans.

  I undo his button fly and inch his pants past the generous bulge confined by his Calvin Klein boxer briefs. He pulls them down the rest of the way and when his body caresses mine—the first time our skin has ever been melded this way—I let out a whimpering moan and inhale a deep breath.

  My hands reach into his underwear, gripping his muscular behind and pulling him closer. The friction is positively divine. My thighs accommodate him as his knee nudges them apart slowly and without hesitation I slide the Calvins off and tighten my grip around his solid flesh. He sucks in a long breath and takes this as his cue to rid me of my own panties. The lace tickles my legs as he carefully removes them, but instead of giggling, I moan as the friction reminds me of the reason I’m being stripped so delicately.

  He lingers over me, his jaw clenched, everything about his naked body against mine taut, rigid and ready. Before I give up all sense of sanity, I whisper in his ear, “The condom.”

  He stretches over me, opening my drawer and producing a shiny foil packet. Hello there, Mr. Trojan. Your time has finally come. He rips it open with his teeth, making me laugh at his eagerness, and then rolls the latex down over himself.

  This is it! In this one tender moment, before he enters me, I look into his eyes, so grateful that we waited and didn’t jump into this the night he sang about wanting me. I wanted him then too, but this? This want, fueled by love, is so much more than just sex.

  He guides himself inside me with his hand. He isn’t trembling; he knows what he’s doing. He breaches me, inching in slowly at first and when he is finally submerged we let out matching groans. “Oh my God, Mia. I never knew it could feel this good.”

  “Me either, baby. It’s heaven.”

  His breathing intensifies as he rocks his hips, gently at first, his thrusts slow and careful, savoring the joining of our bodies. My hands grip his tense biceps, his forehead presses down against mine. Every nerve ending in my body sings, in awe of the way Declan shows his love for me.

  “I love you, Declan. I never want to stop loving you.”

  And I don’t. In fact, I love him another three times that night. And as we lay there together, tangled in each other’s warm embrace, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I will never make love to another man again for as long as I live.

  “I’m so sorry, baby. You have no idea how sorry I am.” His pathetic tears stream down his face, through the spaces between his fingers that cover the shame in his eyes.

  I want to answer him, but I can’t. The words clog my throat, prompting me to reach up and feel for the invisible lump they’ve created. I want to tell him how badly I hurt. How angry I am. But worst of all I want to tell him how much I miss him. How much I miss us being a family.

  I close my eyes, trying to fight back tears of my own. He takes the opportunity to sneak in and kiss me. I try to resist, but his tongue is too persuasive, too delicious, and I can’t lie to myself—I’ve missed this. The urgency of his kiss begs for mercy on his behalf. And with each passing second of our tangled heat, I find myself slipping closer and closer to forgiveness.

  Without warning, he guides me down beneath him. My eyes are still closed, enjoying our reunion. I’m not sure why I’m so willing when my head is telling me not to give in so easily. But it’s been a month since I kicked him out and damn it if my stone cold façade isn’t weakening under his powerful charm.

  “I missed you too, Declan. I missed you so much, but—I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”

  The warmth of his body vanishes, and I’m left trembling.

  “Declan?” He spits out. Abruptly he retracts, jolting back, revealing a very confused, very not-Declan face. That would be because he’s not Declan. He’s Noah.

  The phone rings, awakening me from this dream. Nightmare, really. I’m drenched in sweat and tears, struggling for breath. I force my eyes open, ridding them of the confusion, thankful that it was just another illusion. These cruel nightmares where Noah stars as the cheating bastard have replaced the preferred sex dreams of the past. The phone rings once more and I lift it from the receiver, checking the caller ID. Grace.

  “Hello? What’s the matter?” I answer, grumbling.

  “Nothing. Why does something have to be the matter for me to call you?”

  “Because it’s not even eight o’clock and I was still sleeping,” I growl as I sit up, reassessing my surroundings.

  “Well, get up! We have plans today and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  I’m already thinking of an excuse to get her off my back. The pity party has lasted way too long and what I need is for life to just go back to normal. Fat chance of that happening. “We have no plans, Grace. I have mounds of laundry to do and if I don’t take down the Christmas decorations soon, I may just leave them up ‘til next year. Sorry to bust your bubble, hun.”

  Truth is, I’ve been moping around like a miserable robot for the last five weeks and I’m starting to get used to the depressed Mia. I have no use for Grace’s pep talks and no amount of pampering and bull-shitting will make me feel better about the fact that my husband is a cheating, lying son-of-a-bitch.

  “Cut the self-wallowing shit, Mia. I made arrangements for all the kids. Your parents are taking them and we’re getting you the hell out of that house and those dirty sweatpants and you will talk to me if I have to suck all the words out of your mouth with a goddamn vacuum hose!”

  Nice. I knew it was only a matter of time before she resorted to violence. “Grace, I’m just not in the mood. Can’t you understand that?”

  “I get it. I really do. I know you’re devastated, but you can’t keep ignoring everyone. You know he came here again last night, Mia. He’s just as miserable as you.”

  Okay, now I’m furious. I don’t care if he’s friends with Eric, but Grace is mine. How dare he try to get to her. “Oh, so now you’re on his side? Grace, I don’t need this shit. Especially not from you.”

  “Of course I’m not on his side. Are you out of your mind? Don’t answer that...I know you are. I flipped out on him again. Eric had to stop me from taking a swing. But that’s not the point, Mia. The two of you need to talk. If not for each other, for the girls.”

  That’s got to be the millionth time I’ve heard that from Grace, my parents, my in-laws, my goddamn treacherous subconscious. I don’t want to work this out for the kids. If we’re going to work this out it has to be for us. Because I don’t think I can live with the guilt of knowing that my husband is only with me out of some obligation to our kids. I want my husband to be with me because he loves me and can’t live without me. But, obviously that’s not the case, or he wouldn’t have done what he did. I’m sure he wasn’t thinking about how much he loves me, or his two little girls, when he was screwing that whore.

  “I’m not ready to talk to him yet, Grace. I can’t look at him without feeling like the walls are caving in.” I hear the girls rustling through the baby monitor. I can’t cry again now. I don’t need them asking more questions. Forcing back the tears, I brush her
off with, “The girls are getting up. I have to go.”

  “Get them dressed and tell them they’re spending the day with cousin Brandon, Nana and Papa. You need this. It’s okay if you’re not ready to talk to him, but you can’t shun me away too. Let me be here for you, please! It’s all I can do!”

  Great! Now she’s crying. “Okay, okay. Should I come get you on my way from my parents?”

  She’s sniffling now, finishing up her effective demonstration of tears. “No! You think I’m dumb enough to leave matters in your hands? I’ll be there in half hour to get the girls. You take a shower, put on some make-up, and I’ll be back to get you.”

  “Yes, boss. And Grace?”

  “What now?”

  “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  An hour later, the doorbell rings and instead of feeling dread for the plans that have been forced upon me, I’m looking forward to escaping these halls that are overdue to be undecked. My newly loose fitting jeans swish as I rush to answer the door, smoothing down an overlooked wrinkle in my cashmere sweater.

  When I turn the doorknob and swing open the heavy mahogany door, I contemplate slamming it shut as my jaw drops to my chest. Freaking Grace! I’m going to kill her.

  “Don’t be mad at her, Mia. This was the only way.”

  I can’t believe Grace and Declan were in cahoots...against me! He looks breathtaking, standing at the threshold, our threshold, wearing slim-fit, tan corduroys, and a spruce green pullover that exaggerates the gorgeous hue of his eyes. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Why does he have to look so good? He should look as distraught and unkempt as I’ve been; sick with worry, suffering from our time apart and the outcome of our marriage.

  He offers me a steaming cup of something from Starbucks, and by the sugary aroma alone, I know it’s my favorite; a caramel macchiato, extra caramel sauce.

  I snatch the steaming cup from his hand, not to accept his peace offering, but because I need something to pick me up if I’m going to be face to face with him. “Did you really think Starbucks was going to win me back?”