The side of his mouth hitched reluctantly, his eyes warming as they moved over my face. “True. You are.”
“I. Love. You. I love you, Matt. I’m in love with you. I’m desperate for you. I think about you all the time. Did you know I have a crush on your chin? I love your chin. And your brain gives me lady-boners. I’ve been walking around with a serious case of blue bean for months.”
He huffed a laugh, his eyes turning glassy as he again swallowed with effort.
“But,” I gathered his face between my hands, holding him with reverence, hoping he’d witness and accept the admiration and adoration in my eyes, “I refuse to have you question your value. In doing so, you insult me. If you want to be with me, you’re going to have to find a way to accept that you’re not just worthy of great love, and you don’t just deserve great love . . .” I pressed a kiss to his mouth, and then whispered against his lips, “You must demand it.”
I didn’t miss how he’d fisted his hands into the fabric of my dress as I spoke, or how his gaze grew agitated with anxiety, or how he leaned closer, hovering, anxious.
“So . . . ” he cleared his throat, visibly hesitating; I got the sense he was afraid to speak his next thought.
“Nothing you say is going to make me stop loving you.”
“What if I told you I was a Slytherin?”
“I would still love you.”
“What if I—”
“Matt. Say it. Ask it. Speak. Trust me, but also trust yourself. Trust you’re worth me fighting for.”
His eyes shone with emotion. “I want us to be together. I want to be with you, all the time, from now on.”
“Good. Me too.” I couldn’t have stopped my smile or my sudden happy tears even if I wanted to. I had to press my lips together—again—to fight the wobble of my chin.
“What if I don’t go to therapy?” he blurted, swallowing. “What if I don’t want to? Will you . . .” he tugged me closer using the fabric of my dress, “do I have a choice?”
“Yes. Of course. It has to be your choice. If you don’t want it, I can’t force you.”
“But you could.” Matt’s signature sincerity usually made my heart melt, but this time it broke my heart instead. His voice was thick, roughened with anguish and a hint of resentment. “If you told me I had to, in order for us to be together, I would.”
I was shaking my head before he’d finished, whispering because I didn’t trust my voice. “Please don’t. Don’t do that to me.” I lifted my chin to give him a kiss. “Don’t shift your responsibility to me. That’s not fair, and that’s not who you are.”
Matt studied me, his eyes moving between mine. Eventually, he nodded, releasing his fistfuls of my skirt and sliding his arms around me. As he pulled me to him and we embraced, I felt the tension drain from his body.
“Thank you,” he said, the words muffled as his mouth was pressed to my shoulder.
“For what?” I smoothed my hand up and down his back, needing this, needing to hold him. Loving that I could.
“For being you.” He placed a kiss on my neck, adding roughly, “For loving me.”
26
Falcon Heavy and the Dragon Space Capsule
The rocket and the capsule (respectively) that will be used to take the first two space tourists around the moon. Projected launch 2018.
Source: SpaceX
We didn’t make love in every room on Friday night. Instead we stripped naked and cuddled in my bed. I had so many questions. I wanted to know everything, what he’d been thinking over the last few months, when he’d realized he loved me.
But we didn’t talk. We held each other with touches meant to comfort rather than arouse.
However, on Saturday, we made love in every room. All day. I didn’t have many surfaces in my apartment, so each was christened a few times by Sunday morning and with wild, abandoned enthusiasm—which left me speechless. I hadn’t expected him to be so . . . so . . . talented at making me come. Every. Single. Time.
Marcus had been right. Matt was a boss in the bedroom. He was precise and verged on domineering, frequently making me wait until I begged for relief. But his bossiness was an aphrodisiac, as was his dirty talk. Both demolished my brain’s predisposition to worry. He told me how much I pleased him. And since he demanded control, I happily surrendered to his enthusiasm for worshiping my body.
But, again, we didn’t talk, not about anything substantive. And that was fine with me, because we used the time to settle into the idea of us as an us. It felt necessary, and I got the sense we were both protective of the newness, of the wonder of finally having admitted the truth to each other.
Early Monday morning, when he left me, Matt pledged to contact me in the afternoon about dinner and plans for the rest of the week. We hadn’t touched on the topic of therapy again after our talk on Friday, so I was surprised to receive a text mid-afternoon Monday.
Matt: I have an appointment this Wednesday with Thomas. Sandra recommended him.
I knew of Thomas. Sandra claimed he was a gifted adult psychotherapist and had spoken very highly of him many times. She even had the image of his face on two of her custom-printed T-shirts. Don’t ask.
I frowned at Matt’s message for several minutes, sorting through my feelings on this announcement—the surprise, then happiness, then apprehension—before messaging him back.
Marie: I hope you’re doing this for yourself.
Matt: I am doing this for myself, because myself wants to have more sex with yourself.
Despite the faulty reasoning of his text, I laughed. As I was typing to tell him he needed to revaluate his priorities, he texted again.
Matt: And I’m doing this because I suspect you are as wise as you are beautiful.
Matt: I want to deserve you.
My heart twisted and I pressed the phone to my chest, sighing. I could almost see him, the heartfelt intensity in his eyes.
Marie: You do deserve me. And I will keep reminding you until you believe me.
Matt: I look forward to being reminded.
Matt: Dinner tonight?
Matt: I’ll cook.
After I recovered from my shock, I quickly typed,
Marie: Matt? Cook? Does not compute!
Matt: I anticipate conducting a system-wide diagnostic on you tonight, AF 709.
AF 709?
. . . Hmm.
That sent me to Wikipedia, which had me looking at a picture of Julie Newmar playing the role of AF 709—Rhoda the Robot—a very, very sexy life-sized android in the short-lived TV show My Living Doll.
Ahh, the 1960s. So astonishingly sexist.
And yet, overflowing with splendid role-playing ideas.
“Is this a joke?”
“No.”
“Marie . . .” Matt shook his head, his mouth moving with no sound emerging, his expression one of extreme confusion and disbelief. “You friend-zoned me.”
He said friend-zoned like I’d reported him to the IRS for a tax audit.