We were half naked on the stairs, where he made me walk in front of him. We were lying on the floor, half in and half out of the bedroom. We were on the window seat, highlighted against the bay window.
We were hanging off the edge of the blow-up bed when a particularly powerful thrust made the bed blow up and poof to bits all around us.
And when I rose above him, sliding him inside deep and thick and heavy and oh so deep, my orgasm rocketed through me, bursting behind my eyelids and tingling through my skin, and every single part of me cried out as he grinned from underneath me, saying, “There’s my sweet girl.”
I exploded again and again, our bodies soaked with sweat and gleaming as I rode him hard and fast, his voice now bellowing his own release. I slumped down across him, panting heavily. He lifted his face to mine, kissed me deeply, and before he coaxed my head back down into the nook, he looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Don’t ever shut me out again like that, you hear me?”
He knew.
I kissed him back. “I promise.”
He was still wearing the tool belt.
? ? ?
An hour later we were in the kitchen, heating up yet another microwave dinner. The avocado appliances had been removed, but the new ones not yet delivered. So every meal was prepared in the microwave, then usually eaten on a tarp-covered box.
“Potpie or Salisbury steak?”
“Salisbury steak? Is this 1979?” I asked as he held up two boxes.
“Don’t mock the steak, this is the best! My mom used to make these the nights I had soccer practice. Dad complained, but he secretly loved these frozen dinners,” he said, plugging in the microwave. It moved daily.
“Potpie for me, then. I don’t want to come between you and your steak,” I replied, pouring a glass of wine into a plastic cup. I watched him as he moved around the kitchen, thinking how much more freely he mentioned his mom and dad and his childhood these days. That reunion had really changed things. He’d finally created a Facebook account, and was in touch with the apostles almost daily.
Though I’d released a lot of tension upstairs only a short while ago, I could feel it beginning to creep back in.
“So, something a little epic happened at work today,” I offered, examining my toes.
“A little epic?” He laughed, peeling back the plastic and popping in our dinners. I dug through our silverware drawer (read, the plastic bag) for forks.
“Well, a lot epic. Did you know Jillian and Benjamin bought a house in Amsterdam?” I eyed him carefully.
“They did? That’s great. He mentioned something about that, but I didn’t know for sure.”
“Benjamin mentioned something as huge as buying a house in mother-flipping Amsterdam, and you didn’t tell me?” I asked, incredulous.
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem is Jillian is ‘semiretiring,’?” I snapped, air quoting so angrily I almost got a finger cramp. “And she offered to make me a partner.”
“Whoa, what does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet. We just talked about it for the first time today and I don’t know all the details.” I filled him in on the details I did know: the six months she’d be gone, what I’d likely be doing in her absence.
We settled across from each other with our dinners.
“Well, it’s obviously a tremendous opportunity for you. Congratulations,” he said.
I couldn’t figure out what he wasn’t saying.
“Thanks?” I said, making it a question.
“It’s a huge deal. I’m proud of you,” he answered, stabbing at his Salisbury steak. He didn’t look up at me.
“What’s on your mind, Simon?”
“It’s just—you’ve been working so hard. And so much. I thought things were going to slow down a bit for you now.”
He only said everything I’d been thinking, but it bothered me to hear someone else say it. I balled up my napkin in my fist. “I can’t turn down a huge opportunity like this. No one gets a chance like this at my age. And I love my job—how could I ever say no?” I chewed my potpie angrily. “And as far as us not seeing each other, that’s kind of how we’ve always been, right? We’re used to that. I mean, we used to be used to that—you used to be gone more often than you weren’t,” I said pointedly.
“I’m home now, though,” he said back, just as pointedly.
I wanted to scream, “But no one asked you to do that!” And then I was horrified that I’d even think such a thought. Who the hell complains about that when a boyfriend’s as incredible as Simon? Case in point: the tool belt and the multiple orgasms I just enjoyed not thirty minutes ago.
But I said nothing about that. No, I went right ahead and opened up another jar of pickles. “Plus the money is going to be incredible.”
“We’ve got plenty of mon—”
“You’ve got plenty of money—not me. There’s a difference.” I pointed my fork at him. “Speaking of which, we need to talk about the car situation out there, while you don’t have your hands in my panties.”
“What’s wrong with the car? Don’t you like it?” he asked, truly not getting it.
“I love the car. How could I not? But you can’t just buy me a car.”