by Tif Marcelo
And by God, I rush to him. I think I push ten people out of the way. When I get to Mitchell, he’s looking at me like I’m the tooth fairy, incredulous and with a slightly goofy grin. “You stayed,” he says.
“You think I’d leave you? You’re my boyfriend for another week. You can’t get rid of me yet.” I take both his hands in mine, and we stand there for a second as I stare at our interlocked fingers, different shades of the same kind of person. His loyalty is like my own, his independence, his affection, his smart mouth . . . the things I value in myself, the resilience and the vulnerabilities, are the same I love in him.
Love?
No. What the hell? No. I’m caught up in the moment, looking into this man’s eyes, remembering the speech he gave, him in his uniform, which looks so damn good on him.
No—Mitchell is a good man. A great man, but that’s all.
I swear.
“Captain Dunford?” A voice on my right takes Mitchell’s attention away. We turn to Sergeant Murray, with a man next to her—her husband. “I don’t think we’ve met, ma’am. I’m Mercedes Murray, and this is my husband, Alex.” She looks at me expectantly and at our joined hands.
Mitchell answers smoothly. “This is Bryn Aquino, my girlfriend.”
I jump in. “Congratulations on your retirement. Thank you so much for your service. I’m so honored to have come.”
A gracious smile spreads across her face. “I have to admit, we’ve been watching you guys through the live stream for a while. We were hoping you’d be here. Could we take a selfie?”
Stunned, I answer, “Oh . . . okay.”
She slings her arm around her husband and me, and with her phone directed at us, barks, “Captain Dunford! Closer.”
Fingers curl around my waist, sending my heart to warp speed as Mitchell inches to my side, leaning his cheek down so half his face is in the image. A click later, Sergeant Murray and her husband are swept away to another set of visitors. And though we are surrounded by revelry, Mitchell and I continue to hold each other as if no one else is around us, his hands on my hips, mine on the lapel of his coat.
“That was a beautiful speech you gave, Captain Dunford.”
“Thanks. I was nervous.”
“The only thing that showed was your heart.”
He lifts my chin up. “Then why do you look so sad?”
“Not sad. Contemplative. There’s so much I don’t know about you.”
His eyes linger on my face, and his fingers leave my chin and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You know everything that’s most important.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Bryn. You know me best.”
34
MITCHELL
I can’t wait to get her alone.
While I make the final arrangements for a last-minute reservation for a top-floor Victorian apartment rental through Airbnb, Bryn drives us out of the Presidio and navigates through the Marina and down to Pacific Heights. After she parks in front of the blue apartment building, I draw her in for a searing, blistering kiss.
She stayed for the ceremony. She knew me better than I knew myself, understood my body and soul needed her. I realized then I need to show her that just as she put me first today, she has been first on my mind since I met her.
“Wow.” She’s breathless when we come up for air.
“There’s more of that when we get inside.”
She grins at my proposition, hands still on my chest. “Good.”
My body revs at her encouragement. “The owner of the place lives in the building, and I’m hoping we’ve sufficiently checked in. Because I want you alone, now.”
We rush to unload the car. The gate is already open, and we climb up the cement steps to the third floor and the open door. We’re greeted by a large window with a full view of the water. A chandelier reflects light from the cloudless sky. We’re high enough so no one can see through our windows, but low enough to feel the risk of it. Almost as exposed as we are on the live stream.
The keys and a welcome note are on the kitchen counter. “I guess we’re good. Just us, from here on out.”
And we are emboldened as soon as the front door clicks shut.
My hands fall on her shoulders, glide down to her elbows, fingers savoring the silk of her skin.
Bryn respectfully unbuttons my uniform jacket, one gold button at a time. I shrug it off, and she turns and drapes it on a chair. But before she turns back to me, I touch her shoulders again and kiss the sampaguita tattoo on her neck.
“Mitchell,” she whispers.
I finger the zipper at her neck. “This okay?” I mumble into her skin, soft and sweet smelling. Her scent is intoxicating, and knowing we’re alone together fills me with a hunger only she can satiate.
“Yes.”
The zipper slides down with ease, exposing the line of her back. She sucks in a breath as I run my fingers up to her shoulders, sliding the thin straps away. The dress falls in a heap on the floor. She turns around, her beauty unparalleled, mixed with innocence and sophistication. Black heels, black panties, black bra, and the look of a vixen.
She grins. “Now it’s time to even the score.” Her gaze travels up and down my body, then she waggles a finger at me to come closer.
Fuck. I’m fully loaded and cocked with that one teasing gesture.
Bryn tugs at my tie, roughly pulls it out of the collar. Her fingers work quickly down the buttons of my white shirt. But she stops short, eyeing the bulge in my pants. Cheeks reddening, she flashes her eyes at me as she peels my dress shirt off, pulls the undershirt out of my pants.
I help by snatching the shirt over my head as she splays her hands across my chest. “So nice . . .” she whispers. I think that’s my cue, so I reach out to her, but she steps away. “Nope. Not even.”
Then again, did I expect any less? “You’re killing me.”
“Good.” Her hands land on my belt buckle. She unhooks it with precision and pulls it off, raising the belt high in the air.
It drops with a thud.
That’s all it takes for me to lose control. Two steps and I pull her into my arms, her breasts against my chest, mouth against mine in a heated kiss.
Bryn walks us backward through the flat’s only hallway, into an open bedroom, until the backs of her legs hit the bed, and we both climb into it, desperate and groping. She inches up, away from me, and I crawl toward her, to the headboard, in between her opened legs, meeting her lips at the finish line. My pants and underwear are jerked off, freeing my erection into her hand. I moan into her mouth as she takes control. We kiss in a cycle that matches her rhythm, from sweet to teasing, to heavy and biting. We kiss with the familiarity of knowing each other inside and out: our quirks, our vices, our triggers. She brings me to the brink, and it’s a miraculous feat for me to stop, to refuse. But I do. I fall away from her.
“You’re not being fair.” My breathing is heavy. “I want control, too.” I dip my face under her chin, down her neck, to her collarbone. I take my time there as I follow the line downward, toward the crest of her breasts. The bra clasp is within easy reach—in front—and with one flick it comes apart. I press her breasts together so I can lick one nipple and then the other and back, bringing her moans to the octave I’ve been dying to hear again.
“I want you,” she whispers.
With this definitive request, the blood in my veins surges south. But I’m not ready yet, not until I can show her I’m hers for as long as she wants me. My fingers travel down her abdomen, below her navel, to her panties. The fabric is slick and thin, hot and wet from her. She hisses when I push it down, when I touch her and circle her sex with a finger. I groan at the pleasure on her face, at the knowledge it’s me doing this to her.
I trail my tongue down to follow the path of my fingers. She giggles in anticipation; her body wiggles, but
with my hands on her hips, I keep her still. Then I please her, taste her as she grips the sheets, as she bucks against my mouth, until her voice is ragged and breathless.
“Mitchell, if you don’t come here right now, I’m going to scream.”
It’s all the permission I need, and my body is blasted with what feels like ten cups of caffeine. But I take my time, kiss her on the way up and savor how the curves of her body move under me. When I reach her lips, she clutches me against her as if in thanks.
Little does she know I’m the one who’s grateful. I’m the one who’s counting every moment that led me to this one, even my worst memories, my mistakes, my sorrows, because without them, I wouldn’t be here, with her. Without the darkest days, the best would never be appreciated and savored.
I rest on my elbows and nibble on her chin. “You ready for me?”
She catches my lower lip in her teeth and angles her body so my erection is right where she wants me, where I want her. “Are you ready for me?”
It’s the standard response from Bryn, a quick comeback, but it wakes my conscience, because fuck yes, I am. I’m ready for her and whatever she gives me today, and for the rest of my life.
“Why aren’t you kissing me? What’s wrong?” Bryn’s breathing as hard as I am, her chest rising and falling from the expectation of pleasure.
The voice that leaves me is ragged. “I don’t want to do this unless . . .”
“What?” Her face twists in confusion.
“I can’t pretend this is all a game, something temporary, a means to an end.”
“You’re not . . . you’re not temporary.”
“Then why the change? Why did you really stay at the ceremony, and why are you with me now?”
She shakes her head. “I . . . I don’t know!”
“Bryn.” I let up, but she pulls me down.
She sighs, her resolve breaking. “I gave myself—I gave you—the criteria of forever because I thought it would protect me. What’s harder than forever, right? But it dawned on me while you were up there giving your speech that forever’s never guaranteed. What is guaranteed is now. I would be a fool if I didn’t show you how you make me feel. Because with you, it’s real. And that’s all I need.”
“Finally. Fucking finally.” I kiss her once. Hard. I put all of my weight into this kiss, and with it my intentions for her become clear. Why I took her father’s words to heart, why I can’t let any of our conversations go. Why I told her my greatest disappointments and fears. My question is in caps, in bold. “Do you love me?”
Stunned, she stutters, “Wh-what?”
“Do you love me, Bryn? Because I love you.”
35
BRYN
Did I hear Mitchell right? Because I think he said he loves me.
“You love me,” I say, rather than ask. From the whirlwind speed of getting to this apartment, to the storm surge of need that had me naked in his arms minutes after we walked through the door, and now, hearing these words I’ve never heard from a man, I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me.
“I do.” His Adam’s apple bobs once. “I think I’ve always known it.”
“In spite of everything?”
“Because of everything.”
I shut my eyes, and a shudder rocks my chest. The strength of his conviction is radiating through his voice. He sounds so sure. So much so it threatens to shatter any shred of doubt in my own heart.
But those three reciprocating words escape me now. He spilled coffee on my shirt a short two months ago, and love . . . love is a big deal. Saying those three words means a whole other kind of commitment, doesn’t it? It means he’s mine and I’m his, and while that doesn’t scare me, the thought of losing him someday after I’ve admitted to loving him?
It’s my biggest fear.
It almost seems easier not to admit it at all.
I take Mitchell’s face in my hands. Kiss him gently on the mouth, while the rest of my body takes over, showing him what I’m unable to convey with words. We’re enveloped by bedsheets and pillows as he moves from him being on top, to us on our side, where we pleasure each other with our hands, never taking our eyes off each other. Our moans and grunts fill the bedroom, and I hold on until I can’t any longer.
“Please.” My plea is serious and sincere. “I want you.”
He leaves me for a moment, then returns. I hear the sound of a crinkling wrapper; my view darkens as his shadow falls over me. Mitchell is contemplative, searching my face, all of his weight on his elbows. He brushes the hair off my cheeks. He takes my hand, kisses the palm, then brings it down to his erection, so ready for me.
My choice, always.
I open myself to him, and despite my urge to beg him to take me quickly, to feel the rush of adrenaline, I guide him in. “Slowly,” I say.
This time we won’t be rushed.
Mitchell understands. His heart thumps against my chest like a bass drum, counting time with my own. My insides coil as he inches forward, and my thighs shake at my own restraint when he enters me, body, soul, and heart.
The pleasure is so overwhelming, heart-stopping, that I have to hold on to his shoulders to keep myself from combusting.
“You feel so good.” His eyes are on mine, a deep ocean of blue and green and gold, of comfort and security, of excitement and mysteriousness. “I’m going to make love to you now.”
I nod, feeling his length enter me with a force that fills me to the hilt with pleasure and joy. I mewl and wiggle my body against his, accommodating him.
“Okay?”
I’m breathless, drunk. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
His lips pull up at the corners. Lifting his hips, he thrusts against me, slow. Painfully slow, bringing me to the edge of a cliff, inching me forward. I can feel the wind in my face, hear the rushing waters below. I want it now, the climax, the finish, but no—I don’t want this to stop, not ever.
The pull in my belly teases me, wants me to make the decision. I’m biting my lip to keep myself from screaming, but my breathing has escalated and I’m moaning, begging for relief.
“Fuck, you’re amazing.” Mitchell’s breathing turns into groans, propelling my pace. He lifts my hands behind my head, and it’s the final act that shatters the rest of the gilded cage around my heart.
He loves me.
He’s mine.
Forever.
“Oh yes . . . I’m coming.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own—it’s gravelly and pleading. His pace quickens, our voices muffling when he kisses me, full and hard. He’s come to the edge with me, hand in mine. I won’t jump off this cliff alone.
I raise my body against his, crying out with each and every thrust. Knowing he’s close, I clutch him around his neck, which sends him into his own climax. His body shudders against mine as he rocks into me, eventually slowing.
He relaxes into my arms, and the full weight of him over me grounds me for the first time in my life. There’s no regret, no anger or remorse inside me. Just the expanse of possibility, of being with this man, every day and night.
Is this what this is? Love? Have I just denied myself it all these days?
“Bryn?”
“Yeah?”
“Look at me. Open your eyes.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
A pause. The bed moves as his body shifts, and still I don’t open my eyes. Because I didn’t plan for this. Something this important should have had me practicing in front of a mirror. Everything he said to me was so beautiful and eloquent, and how can I top that?
The bed shifts again, and I can tell he’s moved too far. Panic floods all of my instincts, taking over my hesitancy.
“No, wait.” I sit up, voice shattering my thoughts.
Mitchell heads to the bat
hroom, disposes of the condom, and washes his hands, but takes his time.
“Come back to bed,” I say.
Finally, he returns and sits on the edge of the mattress. He keeps his back to me. “Bryn, if you can’t be sure now . . .”
I wrap my arms around him, rest my cheek on his warm back. “Are you going to let me speak?”
He nods solemnly.
Getting out of the bed and coming around to his front, I straddle him, resting my hands on his shoulders. Though he doesn’t look at me, his hands fall on my thighs and he readjusts himself on the bed. I raise his chin to me.
“You’re right. I hate losing,” I tell him. To his questioning face I continue, “You said once I hated losing, and I totally denied it. But I’m admitting it now. And it’s not because I’m always in the mood to fight, or I consider it a triumph to have the last word. It’s because conceding to someone feels a lot like giving a part of myself. And it’s scary.”
My words escape like a rush of water, and when they’re out of me, I feel my body slouch into itself. When he opens his mouth to speak, I touch a finger against his lips. I have to keep going or I’ll lose my nerve. Resting my forehead on his, I take a deep breath to give him my next truth, but fail. His arms pull tighter against the bottom half of my body. “Bryn—”
“Shh.” I shake my head and peer up at him.
Tears well in my eyes, and images of my mother’s smile encourage me to keep going. “For a long time after my mother died, it felt like I had a lot less of myself, of love, to give. I tried to hold on to the rest of me because I couldn’t imagine losing any more. But then I met you, and you brought everything out of me, the good and bad, and I realize now that I did have enough. I was giving myself to you all this time. So yes, I love you, Mitchell. I think I always knew, too.”
Tears fall from my eyes, and this time they’re good ones. Happy ones I’ve kept to myself. He holds my naked body against his, kissing me deeply, hungrily, returning the sentiment. It takes but those three words to open the floodgates, and all of our memories together are that much sweeter and more precious.
