Just holding me.
I listen to his heartbeat and try to settle myself, try to calm my frantic heart.
And of course, Logan is tuned in to my plight. “Isabel, honey. You’re shaking like a leaf. What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Bzzzzzt,” he says, a sound like a buzzer. “Wrong answer. Try again.”
“It’s too much.”
“What is?”
“This.” I pat his chest. “Us. You holding me. I don’t know how to—it’s too good. I like it too much. I want it too much.”
“How can something be too good?”
“It just is. I don’t know.” I am so emotional, suddenly. Gripped by something so intense I cannot fathom its scope. I am near tears and can’t seem to stop them, even though the last thing I want is to cry after such a sensual, sexual, incredible experience.
But I sniffle, and I hate myself for it.
“Hey, hey.” He touches my chin, tilts my face up to look at him. “Is this good tears or bad tears?”
I can only shrug. “I don’t know. Not bad. That was so incredible, and now this.”
“Just let me hold you. It’s okay,” he breathes. “You can cry. It’s okay. Whatever you need, it’s okay. Just let me hold you.”
“I don’t know how.”
“You don’t know how to what?” His lips brush mine, not a kiss, but a reminder of a kiss, a promise of a kiss to come.
“To let you hold me. This is all so new for me.”
He knows exactly what I mean, and he doesn’t like it. But he doesn’t say anything. Just tightens his arm around me, kneads his fingers into the muscle of my buttock, caresses it, reaches down to clutch one of the globes, smooths his hand over both, as if he just can’t get enough of touching my bottom.
And then he reaches out to the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed, opens it, pulls out a long black remote, and turns on the TV. Searches through something called Netflix and finds a movie. The one he’s told me about, What About Bob?
Naked, emotional, being held like I’ve never experienced before, the taste of his essence still in my mouth, his hands on my backside, his chest under my ear, we watch a movie together.
It’s silly, funny, ridiculous, cheesy, and wonderful.
When it’s over, he scoots off the bed. “Stay here.”
He doesn’t explain what he’s doing, so I remain where I am. He returns with four bottles of beer in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other. He arranges the pillows behind our backs, and we sit up together, a thin sheet across our laps. He hands me a bottle of beer, sets the bag of chips in the space between my thigh and his, and brings up another movie.
P.S. I Love You, it’s called.
We drink our beer, and eat the greasy, unhealthy, and incredibly delicious chips.
And I cry.
Sob, actually.
So sweet, so sad, so romantic. I swoon, and push the bag of chips away and snuggle closer to Logan, and he wraps his arm around me again. This time, his palm finds my thigh, clutching it possessively, stroking now and then lower or higher, making me wonder in the back of my mind if he plans to touch me again, if he’ll steal his touch inward. I don’t quite tense, but I want to.
I’ve lost track of time, and I don’t care. I’m not tired at all. The sky is dark outside, and the world is quiet.
That’s not true, though; the world isn’t quiet, because there is no world. There is only this bubble of purity and perfectness and wonder, this bed, this man. Our skin, my scent on him, his smell on me. His taste in my mouth, a lingering memory of kisses shared. There is only this, and this is all I ever want. I beg the universe to let this last forever.
He fetches us each one more beer, and a carton of strawberries, which we eat by pinching the green leaves and biting beneath them.
I’m dizzy, a little drunk, and wildly happy.
He turns on The Day After Tomorrow, an apocalypse-scenario movie, and I like this one, too. It’s easy to watch, easy to relax into and not think about anything.
Except the man cradling me in his strong arms.
I’ve slunk lower in the bed, so my head is on his chest, my beer finished, and I don’t want any more. I just want to be here, watching movies with Logan, holding him and being held. My arm is across his hips. His fingers trace circles on my back, dare to my hip, dance over my bottom, slide up my spine, and steal lower again.
I find my hand skating over his stomach, under the flat sheet covering us. Seeking skin.