He smiled at me and said, "Go home, get some rest, get a shower, and then come back."
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
He smiled. "A little bit of both."
Ryan returned home from the hospital a few days later, with his arm in a cast and his beautiful torso bandaged up. He also had some stitches on his temple that were covered in a bandage.
I took a leave of absence from work to take care of him and I found that I loved taking care of him. While he did not like to be lying down—he was normally all energy—he seemed to be channeling this energy into healing rather than anything else. So he got better at a faster rate than the timeline that the doctor told him that he could expect.
During this time, I found that I was healing as well.
I would never really recover completely from depression. There were too many scars, too much pain. There was always going to be a part of me that reacted to uncomfortable events in my life by shutting down, by numbing myself out, by avoiding my feelings.
But those times were starting to come less and less and I called that fact, "recovery." I also consciously tried feeling all of my feelings, both the pleasurable and the painful, and I survived. But I felt like more than a bare survivor; I felt like I was starting to thrive.
I found that I was not needing to see my therapist as much. I still saw her, but not multiple times a week as I did before I met Ryan. I still took antidepressants, but I could take a lower dose. My mood stayed mostly stable.
I also found that I was only rarely having nightmares about hospitals anymore—not about my time in the hospital, my time in the mental hospital, or Ryan's time in the hospital. I was generally having sweet dreams (and they normally featured him naked). After he got healthy, he was perfectly willing to reenact any part of them that I remembered.
It was many weeks before I could launch myself at him with any vigor.
But those parts came back too.
Ryan missed Thanksgiving because of the hospital, but he was well enough to make a big deal about Christmas. I learned that he usually went all-out for his sister on holidays, trying to make it a special day for her, given the absence of any other family in their lives. He bought two Christmas trees, put up lights everywhere so that it looked like a fairy had exploded, made sure we all went to Candy Cane Lane to look at the over-the-top Christmas lights, and even took us to a professional performance of the Nutcracker in Los Angeles, because he knew that Jennifer loved it. My guy liked holidays. Amusing, but also bittersweet, because I think he was trying to keep a connection to his parents by keeping up their traditions as the parent-figure for his sister.
He met my parents and got a stamp of approval that he didn't need to get, but I was glad to have anyway.
For Christmas, I gave him pictures, framed in silver, lots of them, of us, of him with his sister, Of the memories we were making. He put them next to his freshman yearbook, which now had a place of honor.
He gave me a Tiffany silver necklace with a diamond "S" on it for Sabrina, saying "you'll always be her mom." With this, if he wasn't there before, he cemented himself permanently in my heart. I wore it every day.
After the holidays, I visited my therapist.
"How are you feeling these days, Amelia?" asked Christian Gray.
I let out a deep breath.
"I am feeling so much better," I answered. "Truly. It's amazing. You know, when I was depressed, I didn't know it at first. It snuck up on me and I didn't realize that I was suffering. I was just numb. But then, after a while, with the treatment, with the medication, and with a whole lot of support, I started wanting to get out of bed every day. I started wanting to feel things. I wanted to smell the ocean, enjoy drinking good coffee, get mad, get angry, stand up for myself, and, for God's sake, feel sexy. It's a little embarrassing to admit, but I think that your advice to 'feel sexy' was the best advice that I could have ever received."
She smiled, a warm, gentle smile. And a little knowing.
I continued. "It matters how I feel about myself. It matters what I think about my body. And it matters that I feel comfortable in it, that I feel like it is okay to, I don't know, inhabit my body."
"That's absolutely right," she agreed. "This is progress. Well done."
"And you know, I think that the orgasms helped," I giggled.
"Of course they did," she laughed.
"Seriously," I went on. "I think they altered my brain chemistry. I think that the depression was an imbalance in there somehow, and getting in the good stuff, the pleasure, helped."
She nodded.
"Falling in love helped, too," I continued shyly.
"How is Ryan these days?" she asked.
"He's amazing," I answered. "He is a rock. I think that because of his past, because he lost his parents so young, and had to work through those issues, and take care of his sister, all the while being just eighteen or nineteen or twenty, meant that he grew up. Plus having to deal with having money all of a sudden and all of these people asking him for things. He is just solid. I couldn't have tethered my recovery to a better anchor."
She smiled.
"He also just accepts me as I am," I said quietly. "He doesn't try to change me. Sometimes he gets pissed at me, but he always tells me. He doesn't play games. He just loves me. And I love him."
She nodded. "I am happy to hear that your relationship is going well. How do you feel about your communication with him?"
"It's great. He knows all of my secrets. And I mean all of them. And he challenges me, he laughs with me. Half the time, I really can't believe he's real. He tells me what he's thinking, what he's doing with his business, what he thinks about the future."
"Do you ever fight?"
"Sure, we have. I got mad the other day and let him have it and he gave it right back. But I feel like we can work through it. I guess I just feel healthy."
"It sounds like it."
"So now at work, I'm still stressed about this case I'm working on," I continued, telling her about how Jake wanted me to do a case that I didn't think was good for my career, but would be good for his.
Having someone to talk things over with, was so unbelievably wonderful. My therapist was a key to my recovery: having the ability to unburden myself every week of my troubles, and being able to look at them from a distance, really mattered.
Ryan was a major source of my recovery too. My Sun God. My gorgeous, loving, beautiful man.
But the real part of my recovery was me. I was the one who was enough. I was the one who was no longer fucked up inside—or at least not as fucked up as I was before. We're all fucked up inside to some degree. But you could get past it. You could feel good about yourself, and feel all of the feelings, the good and the bad, and let it be.
Having friends, a partner, a professional, and others to help made it all worthwhile. I couldn't wait to see what the next adventure would be.
Two months later.
I was driving down Highway 101 with Ryan in my convertible. The top was down and the wind was blowing through our hair. Even though it was late January, it was unseasonably warm. California, my friends. These days, I found myself not caring if my hair was mussed. I wanted to feel the air, smell the ocean, and taste its salt, even in the daylight.
We were headed back from a dinner in Santa Barbara and going to Ryan's house for the night.
Oh, and I must brag about something. At dinner, I was accosted by yet another fucking blonde bitch warning me off of Ryan. I know, ridiculous, right? But this time, I was sober and prepared to launch a counter-attack. Before she finished the "I can't believe you're with Ryan Fielding" speech, I interrupted her, gave her The Hand, and said, "I don't know who you are or why you think you can judge him or me. You can't. He is the most sincere person I have ever met. He's proved it over and over again to me. He doesn't have to do it to you."
And with that, I flounced away, pleased with myself for finally sticking up for myself and for what I knew to be true about Ryan.
So we drove to his house, listening to Marie's Wild Child CD, which I still needed to return to her, the last part of that last song, "The Tale of You and Me" came on, the part where it changed tempo from the dark lyrics to the message of hope, and everyone sang together that it really was going to be alright—we'd make it so.
Full Circle
Six Months Later
HE WAS THRUSTING into me from behind, his sweat dripping on my back, veins straining in his brawny forearms that clutched my pale, naked hips.
I was so fucking into this, I could hardly breathe. But I let out a moan and it was a real, honest-to-fuck moan. I couldn't keep my reactions away from Ryan, and I never needed to fake anything with him. And because he was always completely focused, completely into fucking me thoroughly, and enjoying my reaction, he always knew when to push it, and when to take it easy on me.
I guess today was a day to push it, because the next thing I knew, he surprised me by pulling his cock out, and smacked me hard on my ass.
I gasped.
Ryan had never spanked me before. I had never been spanked before, by anyone.
But fuck me, I liked it. What a surprise. It was just a little bite, then he thrust into me again, hitting the exact right spot on the front of my pussy, which really wanted to let go and visit the land of orgasm. I was ready to climax. But no, then he pulled out, again, and smacked me on the other side of my ass.
Fuck.
Thrust. Withdraw. Smack. Thrust. Withdraw. Smack.
I was wet and it was wild.
He kept up this crazy rhythm of pummeling me with his cock and spanking me on different parts of my ass. With every thrust, with every spank, my breasts jolted forward, my pussy clenched, and oh, my, he was wearing me out.
So, my Sun God was back and in full form.
And he was hotter than ever.
I guess I had come full circle. Before, I was worried about getting an orgasm, any orgasm, even a little one. Now, my guy had coaxed out of me so many reliable orgasms, and fuck me, multiple most of the time, that he was now experimenting with drawing it out, making me wait, denying me orgasms. Such delicious torture.
Bastard.
Good thing that I loved him.
And my body loved this. I loved the way our bodies moved together. I loved his combination of hard and gentle. I loved his attention to me. I loved the connection of our bodies, and the sensations that I felt in my body, in my brain, and in my heart.
I couldn't wait for the flood of the good shit in my brain that comes when you come. Since that day in the storage room in Southwinds, I had been counting on consistent, and awesome, sex as part of my recovery from depression. It really worked.
But right now?
"Ryan, you bastard, let me come now or I'll do it myself," I yell-whispered at him.
"Whatever you say," he muttered in my ear, and he thrust in and stayed there, not moving, bringing two hands (two!) to stimulate my clit, and the combination of him rubbing my wet clit and pressing his long, exquisite cock into my g-spot meant virtually instant orgasm for me.
Yay!
My body took over, shaking involuntarily, as he rode it out of me, my torso shuddering, impaled on his cock. And then my shaking and shuddering apparently set off his orgasm, as he groaned and bit my neck, pressing his cock up super high into my pussy as he came in a rush of warm spurts.
And then he collapsed, pushing me down onto the bed, so that I collapsed too, and he covered me completely with his big, warm, tan body. He propped himself up with his elbows so he wasn't squishing me too badly, and sucked my ear.
Then he pulled out, rolled to his back, rolled me under his arm, and let out a breath. I snuggled into his nook, biting the muscle over his armpit. I had a particular fondness for this piece of manmeat on him.
There's another word, manmeat.
Focus.
But fuck, that part of him was so good-looking, with a muscle stretching from his arm to his shoulder, that I had to nibble it. He had told me that it was strangely erotic for him when I nibbled there. Therefore, I did it, and often.
So.
To update.
We were on vacation in his beach house in Hawaii, in an area north of the Kona airport.
Yeah, I was suffering. Not at all.
After some discussion, a few months ago, we both got tested, both came out clean, so there had been no condoms for us for quite a while. I had been on the pill anyway, and it felt unbelievable to have him in me, no latex, just him. Apparently he agreed, by the filthy, contented words that came out of his mouth as he slid in. But now I was the one to clean up afterward, not him. Oh well. It felt good.
We spent a lot of time with each other. We both had clothes at both houses, and traded off where we would spend the night. It depended on our schedules, but it seemed to work, at least for now.
We had coordinated taking a vacation together at Ryan's house north of Kona, because of course he had a beach house in Hawaii. It was not as big as his beach house in Ventura, but it was plenty comfortable, with three bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a porch that wrapped almost the whole way around the house. The furniture was pale and beachy and tough and could handle sand and surf. It was ocean-front, a white sand beach, with black lava rock surrounding it on the sides. When I took my first step in the water, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the water temperature was so warm and comfortable, matching the warmth of the air. Ryan's view included palm trees dotting the landscape, scented plumeria flowers, and hibiscus everywhere. It was paradise.
That evening, after we cleaned up and I put on a tank top and a sarong, Ryan grilled a pizza for me on his outdoor grill.
A few things to note about this.
First, and most important, Ryan grilled shirtless. He wore red surfer trunks, tied in the front with white string, which hung down low on his hips, so hello happy trail and hello hip bones. This, plus shirtless Ryan equaled V-sighting. Not to mention the whole cornucopia of torso muscles. And have I gone into details about his back? My God.
Do you know how distracting it was for Ryan to cook for you shirtless, outside, in paradise in Hawaii? I may or may not have distracted him on his porch, out in the open, although his house was secluded, on my knees, because he deserved it. He may or may not have needed a sign of my appreciation of the floor show. This may or may not have delayed dinner a bit, but neither of us minded.
Second, Ryan was grilling pizza. I didn't know you could grill pizza. Pizza previously had been in the realm of good pizza and bad pizza, but either way it came out of an oven. But now? I don't know how my surfer learned these things, but he grilled the homemade dough first on both sides, and then added cheese and fresh toppings, grilled it a little longer so that the cheese melted, and served it. So, while I knew that such a thing as bad pizza existed, it didn't exist for me anymore.
Just like bad sex. It didn't exist for me anymore.
Accio orgasm!
And in the months that we had been together, I started paying attention to what Ryan did and how he acted and I realized that I was totally off base for believing anything anyone said about him being insincere or cheating. He just wasn't. We talked about it again, and the deal was that before me, he just wasn't seriously dating anyone, and they all really wanted him to be seriously dating them because he was amazing. (He didn't say this last part, I just filled in the blanks.)
But he was devoted to me, and I was devoted to him. He made my heart beat faster, and he accepted me, just as I was, with my insecurities and faults and flaws and messed up parts. He also made me feel like I was beautiful, like I was smart, and like I was funny. He laughed at me and then looked at me like he was going to devour me.
And sometimes he did.
The next day, south of Kailua-Kona, Hawaii
"Hold out your hand."
Ryan placed a green coffee berry in my hand. He kept one for himself and started to tear into it, then showed me the detritus in his hand.
"See, this? Th
is pale thing is the coffee bean. They dry them here, and then ship them to me where I roast them for Southwinds."
We were exploring one of the small coffee farms above the highway that Ryan contracted with to supply him with coffee for Southwinds. I learned that they started picking coffee first at the lower elevations, and then moved their way up the hills. I also received a lecture about the entire process of growing and harvesting coffee beans, which was fascinating. To think that I was so addicted to this stuff, and it came from little farms, just like this one. He was in his element, chattering to the farmers, asking questions about growing conditions and farming issues, and holding my hand the entire time.
Later
"Fuck yeah, baby, that's it. That's it. It's coming. It's coming. Okay, now paddle, paddle, paddle."
I lay on a surfboard in the warm Hawaiian water, wearing a long-sleeve, rash guard shirt, and bikini bottoms, lying on my belly, my toes sticking into the water, my arms paddling as fast as I could.
Suddenly, I felt it. The wave picked me up and, with a surge of ocean energy, propelled me forward.
I was surfing! I was catching a wave!
Okay, but now I needed to stand up.
I awkwardly scrambled to my feet, and sort of made it up, staying standing for a few seconds, before I fell off backwards into the clear ocean.
Sputtering, I came up, but I was stoked. I had caught a wave!
The leash around my ankle holding the surfboard tugged me, and I reached down and grabbed it, pulling the board to me.
Ryan caught the next wave, expertly stopped by me, hopped off his board, and helped me up.
"You did it, Movie Star. Fucking awesome. Want to do it again?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely," I said.
Last day of our vacation
We walked hand in hand along the shore, and then stopped, our toes in the warm water, watching the sky change from blue to purple to pink to bright fuchsia with red and orange and yellow mixed in. I wore a dark purple bikini top, and a purple print sarong, with a white hibiscus flower in my dark hair, Ryan wore green Hawaiian print trunks and no shirt because I forbade him from wearing one.
The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) Page 18
