by M. Mabie
My go-to was to always find her information, and then tell her what I thought. Some of those conversations in the evening on the patio were more stimulating than the ones I’d had with people who had college degrees. She had thoughtful questions and the more she figured out, the more questions she had.
We became friends, and there was a crackle between us that grew every day. I was learning her expressions and smiles and laughs, and she was showing me her sense of humor more and more. I hadn’t ever realized that I had one, so that was fun for both of us.
She had days that were more challenging than others, mostly when she’d stumble across an article about children being mistreated or when she was frustrated because she didn’t know things. Faithfully, she’d read her Bible looking for answers there too when she struggled, which I respected. But mostly, she was taking things in stride and doing better than I’d ever imagined.
Myra even suggested that if I wanted to make chairs and furniture that required cushions or upholstery that she was happy and eager to learn how. She was finding her way, little by little. Finding a voice and learning what she enjoyed on her own.
Honestly, with minimal help from me.
She was strong and smart, and her thirst for knowledge blossomed on its own.
I was still in bed, reading a new crime novel I’d ordered one night, and she’d been in the bathroom for long enough that I began to wonder if she felt poorly. I folded the dust cover into my book, so I wouldn’t lose my page and got up to check on her when the door to the bathroom opened.
She was wearing my sweats and one of my white sleeveless undershirts when she stepped out. I’d given up wearing them to bed not long ago, in exchange for sleeping shirtless and in mesh shorts which was all I had on. Her hair was in a loose braid off to the side in one of the new ways she’d been doing it, messy and neat at the same time.
My lungs sort of froze.
In a few short weeks, she’d changed. She was less and less the weary girl in a prairie dress that she’d been the first few times we’d met. She was becoming Myra, this complicated and sexy woman that I wanted.
Not because it was my holy obligation.
Not because I’d made a promise to be there for her.
Not because she was my kind of wife.
Because, and only because, she was her.
“I’m not complaining, but why are you wearing that?” For as long as she’d stayed with me she’d worn her nightgown to bed. Make no mistake, it drove me mad as well, but this was something else.
Her cheeks flushed, and her jaw wiggled with her smile rolling around her face.
“I read this article today that said men find it attractive when women wear their clothes. I thought I’d find out for myself.” Finding things out for herself was something I’d heard her say more than once that week.
“You sure are reading a lot more lately,” I stated, hoping she’d catch that I was teasing. We still had some miscommunications there from time to time.
“I have a lot of free time.”
I smiled when she replied in jest.
“So what do you think? Was the article right?”
I’d gotten on to her many times in those first few days about nodding instead of answering, but it was all I could do. My head slowly bobbed.
I only wanted her to try things. Experience them herself and then make up her mind about how she felt about them and learn what she preferred.
What was wrong with that?
But this moment cut through my attention, all my thoughts of the day—and our situation and the pressure and stress of if I was doing the right thing or not—and suddenly my focus was singular.
There was just her.
Flushed and smiling.
Her blue eyes, deeper than a wishing well, not looking away. Not hiding. Not cowering.
Her bare feet firmly planted; she didn’t shrink under my stare. No, she grew.
Myra had no idea how strong she was, or how much power she swung with a toss of her wheaten hair. Maybe my desire wasn’t an albatross, but a leash. She was guiding me home. With every slow, steady blink. The shuddering rise and fall of her shoulders. The determination set in her jaw.
I flew around the bed, and she asked, “Abe?” before my mouth claimed hers.
I forgot how to talk. I forgot how to keep my aching hands to themselves. Every reason I had not to kiss her washed away in the flood of that very second, and I forgetfully drowned.
I kissed her for the first time with my own free will. It wasn’t a kiss for strangers. It wasn’t a connection to be questioned or taken lightly. I’d been overcome. I couldn’t hold back, couldn’t resist.
It was a kiss brimming with the praise I wanted to show her. For her forward thinking. For her humility. For her individuality. For all her beauty and kindness, I kissed her.
She locked-up in my arms as they wrapped around her waist. Her lips remained tight, pressed against mine and that just wouldn’t do. Something was wrong.
I eased up and quickly retreated a few inches from her lips to find out why.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have asked to borrow your clothes.”
For shame, she thought I was angry. And if I were less greedy, I would have let her go. But I wasn’t, therefore I explained. “I’m not mad. Far from it.”
“You can do what you wish, but please be gentle with me.” She shivered. “Please don’t come at me with anger on your mind. Not our first time.”
Then I felt like a monster. A selfish heathen, only taking what he wanted.
Falling back, I sat on the bed and pulled at the front my hair before pushing it back. For probably the first time in her life she’d chosen to do something bold and daring, and I’d all but boyishly attacked her. Not out of rage for my damn clothes, but out of admiration.
I owed her a hypocrite’s apology.
With my hands to myself, on my lap, I looked up at her.
“I would never hurt you. Or force you to do anything. Ever.” Her knowledge about true consent was limited, and, along with my chivalry, I’d overlooked that. “I only wanted to kiss you. Even so, I should’ve asked first. I’m sorry I rushed you.”
Relaxing, she met my eye. “I don’t have much experience with kissing. I’ve only done it once with you.”
“You’ve only kissed me?”
She shrugged. “When I married Jacob, he kissed me very fast on my mouth. I don’t really remember it, it happened so quick. It was almost like a kiss he’d give a tiny baby on their head. But when you kissed me at our banding ... I remember that very well.”
I’d never asked her about Jacob, it wasn’t my business. Now, it felt necessary. “That was the only time? You were married to him for over a month.”
“Thirty-six days.”
“And your wedding night? Surely you ...”
“No. Nothing. Not ever.” A stray lock of hair fell around her face, limp like her arms at her sides. “But I’ve been here twenty-two days, and we haven’t touched at all either.”
A lump grew in my throat. She was so lovely and honest and brave. “Is that why you looked up the article?”
I’d wanted her for a long time, but I’d blamed it on residual misogyny that had been bred into my very fiber. Thinking Myra’s submissive behavior and pleasing nature brought it out in me, which I wasn’t proud of. That’s why I’d stayed away.
Was staying away denying her more?
Had I not told her, time and time again, she was free to want whatever she wanted?
She was definitely entitled to her sexuality and her needs, but I wasn’t sure how I fit into that—in a moral way.
It wasn’t just about me.
In a biblical way, I was her husband. Biblical was basically all she knew. She’d had expectations of marriage. I’d need to think more about it, but for now, I only wanted to reassure her that she hadn’t—probably ever—done anything wrong.
“You’re in charge of your body here. Do you know that?�
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“But—”
I raised my voice over hers. “No buts. Do you want us to touch more? To kiss more?”
“Yes.”
Human contact was something that I was still working on, over a decade after leaving Lancaster. There was so much stigma attached to hugging and touching and playing and having any sort of adolescent affection or flirting. It had all been labeled evil, and we’d been sexualized at such a young age. Made to feel like our bodies were dirty, debased, and something to be ashamed of unless used for their purpose. Unless the church had given permission.
Although I was desperate to touch her in many undefinable ways, she needed to start with the basics.
I offered her my palm, unsure but willing to give her what she wanted. Slowly, at a pace she set. I grinned when she bent to retrieve the other on her own.
Giving a little, getting a lot.
Her fingers grazed over my skin, stopping to rub the rough patches. I waited as she delicately studied them before she lay her hands flat against mine. She slid them back and forth, her fingers running over my skin was calming.
I had to admit I was anxious, hoping I wasn’t making a mistake, but excited all the same.
When she was satisfied, she wandered up my forearm. Her eyes darted to mine to check that she wasn’t doing something wrong, and I nodded allowing whatever she wanted. Like before, she touched, this time tracing my veins, pressing them and watching them bounce back.
From there she slid to my biceps and gave them a squeeze. Her eyes widened feeling the firmness she found.
“You’re strong.”
“So are you.”
She almost smiled. Her head fell to the side, and her long braid fell over her off her shoulder and swung between us. She roved from my shoulders to my neck, and then to my beard and ran it through her fingers, examining its texture.
I tipped my head back more. Offering. She framed my face, smoothed her thumbs over my brows, and my eyes fell shut.
I’d never been touched like that. Studied.
It gave me valuable time to think. She was a young, beautiful woman. Full of rejection and ideas about what was Godly and pure. I had my own opinions, but to her, I was her husband, and it was possible she needed things from me. Physical things.
Down the bridge of my nose, her finger outlined my features, stopping for a second when she got to my mouth, causing me to open my eyes.
Her blinking had slowed. Her chest rose and fell, slow and deep. When her index finger slowly swiped across my bottom lip, I fought back the urge to pucker my lips and kiss it.
I’d wanted to kiss her many times, but there in my room, at the edge the bed we shared, staring up at her, I wanted something else more.
I wanted her to kiss me. To take what she wanted. To unapologetically have something of her choice, her volition.
“You can kiss me.” The words sounded unusual in my low voice. She didn’t need my permission, but transparency was key, and I wanted her to understand consent. Real consent. That meant giving mine to her out loud, leading by example. If she thought what we were doing was wrong or it was too much, she could stop, but I wanted to encourage her to live in the moment and choose for herself without doubt.
Again, her palms cupped my cheeks, and even though it had felt like we’d been close, the time waiting for her to inch her lips closer to mine was infinite. Her eyes sparkled as they danced from my lips and back to my gaze.
She was divine. Angelic.
And just before our mouths met, something changed inside me. No longer was the moment only something teachable. I was just living in it.
The woman kissed me, and my eyes closed again. A peck, but she didn’t retreat. The second time she pressed her mouth to mine her lips were wetter as if she licked them. They closed around my top lip, and although I very much enjoyed the feeling of her leading, I had a strong urge to kiss her back, and ever so lightly I move my bottom lip against hers.
She exhaled against my mouth.
My hands tensed, and I needed to touch her, but this time I wanted her blessing.
No. More than that.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
“Yes.” I heard the truth in her thin, breathy voice. She was nervous, but that was natural and real, and there was nothing wrong with feeling the weight of the moment.
The first thing my hands connected with were the backs of her legs, for no other reason than they were closest. Through the baggy jersey pants, I felt two slender thighs tremble underhand. The fabric was between me and her skin, but that was okay. I only wanted her to get familiar with being touched and had learned my lesson about going too fast when I kissed only a few minutes before.
She led, but I couldn’t let her wander out there alone or too far. I was, however, determined for her to have a positive experience.
Touching her felt good, not forbidden. Much of the noise in my head about right and wrong had muted, and all I heard were the notes her body silently gave me. When I moved, even a fraction, her breath would hitch, and her hands shook against my skin. Our faces were close, and where my eyes were now open watching her for cues, Myra’s blue eyes had fallen shut.
When she relaxed more, that’s when I moved higher. The tops of her legs, and when I smoothed my palms over her backside, her knees buckled, but I caught her by the hips and eased her to sit on my lap. One hand on her back, I used my right hand to explore.
Knee to thigh.
She swallowed audibly.
At the hem of her shirt, I chose to stay above the cotton, but I felt her side and went north over her ribs and paused. My thumb was closest to her breast, and it rubbed back and forth.
She faced me and brought her mouth to mine again. This kiss was needier, and her breathing was quick and shallow. And just as I was getting used to her kissing me, she took it upon herself to move my hand to her chest.
Involuntarily, I cupped her and her back arched into it causing her face to part with mine, but my lips wanted more, and they found her neck.
“Ah,” she signed. There was no wondering if she could feel the effect she had on me because against her hip I was straining against my shorts and without thinking, I pulled her closer to me to gain the friction and pressure I craved.
Images of her straddling me, of me pulling her borrowed shirt over her head and kissing her nipples, and of pressing her into my mattress assaulted me, but I held on to my control—by the grace of God.
Because it wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t about reaching a climax, not that night.
All I wanted for her was to feel and welcome intimacy. If I could get her to experience that, without the burden of performance and worry of anything else, that would be a real start. A true beginning.
We hadn’t been allowed to explore in our youth, and that night was about making up for that. Not skipping ahead. Not speeding through the baby steps, but living them and gaining what we could from those simpler pleasures.
I wasn’t sure how she knew to do it, but she rocked her hip against my erection, and I moaned.
Hearing that sound, her heavy eyes met mine and smiled like she’d won a prize and then she kissed me again. This time, my tongue greeted her and ever so slightly hers slipped over mine. When she got used to it, she became bolder and curious and traced my bottom lip.
There was beauty in her inexperience, in the slow way she went about discovering me. Timid, yes. But so damn sweet. So good.
41
Myra
I didn’t know what I wanted or how to get it, but at the same time, I was utterly satisfied.
He tasted clean with a hint of the cherry vanilla tobacco he sometimes smoked in the shed. I smelled it in his hair too. And his skin was warm and tight almost everywhere. Smooth and delicate in some places and rough and manly in others.
That was something I hadn’t expected. The sensations.
All my senses were awakened. All of them pleased.
Eventually, we made our way up the bed to our
sides, facing each other. Kissing and touching. His hands never went under my clothes, but he wasn’t wearing much so I got to feel more of him than he did me.
I wanted more because it felt so good. But when I started to lift my shirt, offering him more, he stilled my hand and told me no.
“We can’t. Not tonight. Just this.” That was okay too because this was Heaven alone, but there was a greedy feeling inside me that didn’t want to wait. I never imagined men could be so tender and patient. I’d heard my brother’s wife’s mention how often they’d simply went along with what their husbands needed. That they’d prefer to get it over with before bed.
I didn’t feel like that at all. I’d rather be tired than stop.
Everything Abe and I did felt precious and divine. In the scriptures I’d read about men and women and the acts of marriage, I’d never guessed that passion would feel—for me—like it did. Almost like I’d read verses without context.
Lately, almost everything I knew felt like that. Out of context. Skewed and twisted.
“You can have whatever you want.”
That earned me another one of those moaning sounds beside my ear where he was kissing, which I liked. I liked it all.
He turned his face behind me and growled even louder into the pillow we shared.
“You’re killing me.”
That didn’t make much sense. If he wanted me, I was his. But he seemed frustrated, and I didn’t understand why.
I’d become comfortable asking him things I wanted to know, and this was no exception. “Don’t you want to?”
He adjusted so that we could talk and see each other better. He liked having conversations directly, and I was getting used to that too.
“I do, Myra. I really do.” His eyes lit up, and he looked playful.
I smiled, not wanting to seem bratty or argumentative. “Then please tell me why we can’t.”
He ran his hand over his beard and straightened some of the whiskers that had fluffed up from our kissing. I helped and smoothed a few down too.
“Thank you.” He kissed my fingers. I felt a lot of joy when he showed me affection. He cleared his throat, which told me I was about to hear him explain something at length. “According to the state, we are married.” Our marriage certificate had come in the mail just that week, and I smiled thinking of how official it looked. “But our marriage isn’t how I believe things should be done. I don’t agree with how it’s viewed in Lancaster. I believe two people should be allowed to touch and kiss and see if they’re compatible during courting—or dating. I think that it’s part of knowing when you find someone who is right for you. Attraction. To me, sex isn’t just for making babies, and it doesn’t have to be immoral when you’re doing it for the right reasons.”
