I cover Gabe up like he did for me last night, and I go make some loaded baked potatoes. When he’s still asleep, I think of tidying the living room, but honestly? I’m sleepy, too. I had a long day at work, including a pregnant mom bring her two-year-old in for a check up and mention her baby wasn’t moving. I sent her straight to the hospital, where it turns out, she lost the baby.
I feel as tired as Gabe looked. It’s cold outside, and I hear rain hitting the roof above us. I want nothing more than to snuggle up behind him, press my back to his, the way we used to, years ago, and fall asleep. When he wakes up, he’ll probably leave like last night. And you know what? That’s okay. We don’t have to have sex every day. We’re not machines.
I tell myself, as I snuggle against him, that I don’t care if this is inappropriate. What’s appropriate, anyway? I’ve lived through thirty-three years. I feel like I should get to just say “fuck it” to appropriate. We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re not hurting anyone. And if it’s weird to snuggle up to your ex-husband, with whom you’re trying to make a baby, if it’s weird to just enjoy his weight and warmth behind you…maybe I need weird.
My whole life, I’ve tried to do things right. Make the “right” choices. Do the “right” thing. And now I wonder: What’s so wrong with doing what feels good?
I open my eyes sometime much later to a darkened room—and a warm pressure between my legs. A few more blinks, a few more lines of thought, and I realize…I’m pressed against the back of Gabe. I’ve got my leg between his legs. I’ve got my arm around his hips.
Oh God, it feels delicious—and I’m pretty sure I dreamed of sex, because right now, I feel so empty. It’s this clenchy, full-but-empty feeling…
I press myself against his ass and freeze when Gabe groans. His abs tighten underneath my palm.
I smile. “Hi…” I glide my palm over the ridge of his hip and stretch my fingers lower, where I find him long and stiff and gloriously bare.
I grip him just under his warm, smooth head and tweak under the rim rim, and Gabe rewards me with a soft grunt. I trail my fingertips down his thick rod and grip him at the bottom, pumping a few times before I need more. I urge him onto his back, where I can pump him with one hand and tease his balls with my other.
When my hand comes underneath them, fingers brushing lightly, he grits, “God…”
I rub my hand up his length as I tug. “Does it feel good?”
“Too good,” he groans. “Keep that up, I’m gonna come before I get inside.”
And so of course I want to keep it up. I wrap my fingers around his long, thick shaft, tracing the rim of his head, then stroking back down until I feel the puffy bulge below. Oh God, Gabe his the biggest balls: so full and heavy. My pussy clenches every time I feel them draw up underneath my touch.
I grip his shaft—as much of it as I can—and start to jack him off with firm, fast strokes. I move from right below the rim down to the base and then back up, caressing his head, where I feel tiny drop of moisture at the slit, and then back down, where I tug on his balls and Gabe’s arm comes over mine.
“Oh, fuck.” He shifts his hips, thrusting into my hand. I wrap my fingers around the top of his taut sac and give a gentle tug.
“I want to taste these…”
Instead of murmuring a “yes,” he pulls himself up, half-sitting, his eyes glazed over as he reaches for my shoulder.
“Mar…” He shifts his legs, but doesn’t move his cock as I continue jerking him off. “I need to be inside you.”
“Yeah?” I up my hand game.
Gabe nods, closing his eyes as his head drops back.
“Yeah…”
But I don’t want to end this just yet. I lean down, sucking his head into my mouth as his hands grip my shoulders.
“Marley…”
I can feel him shaking as he struggles not to shove into my throat. I take him deeper, deeper, swallowing to take as much as I can; it’s still not all of him. I wrap my hand around his base and stroke him while I struggle with his girth. I swallow once again and feel his head against the back of my throat. With my free hand, I grab his balls and rub my thumb between them, kneading as I deep-throat him, and Gabe starts panting like he’s running.
He wants to fuck my throat. I know he does. But he won’t, not until I get him started.
I start to take him in and out, and he lets out a desperate-sounding groan.
“Ahh, fuck.” He pushes in just slightly. “Marley…”
I can feel him trying not to move, can feel his hand on my head, shaking. I can feel the moment that he can’t control his need. He grabs my head, and for a second, thrusts into my throat. I choke. Then he’s pulling out, snatching me up, tossing me down on all fours. He jerks my panties off, then smacks me hard.
“Are you trying to hurt yourself?”
“I liked it, and you did, too.”
“I like this more,” he says, dipping two fingers into where I’m hot and sopping for him. “Nothing like this pussy…”
I clench around his fingers, and he drags them out. I feel delicious pressure as him as teases at my entrance…then pushes his tip inside.
“Oh God!” It’s not enough. I wiggle back against him, frantic. I’m so wet, he fills me in a breath, and then we’re both groaning. Our bodies shake as I take and he gives…oh God, he gives so good, my arms can barely hold me as he pounds me.
“This is mine—” his hand squeezes my ass— “and when I put a baby in you, it will still be mine.”
I can’t breathe to speak, can only grip the duvet while I cry his name, and Gabe fucks me with the fury of a lover scorned.
When we finish, he dresses without a word, murmuring a gruff, “goodnight, Marley” as he stalks out of my room.
12
Marley
I stare down at my phone, jumping when the metal cabinet in the wall beside me clicks—a lab tech on the other side of the bathroom wall grabbing pee cups for analysis.
Is it too early for pregnancy nausea? Because I feel like I might get sick in this work bathroom. I swallow as I read his message one more time.
‘Something came up. Can’t make it today. Sorry.’
I keep blinking down at it, as if that might change the words.
He can’t come.
He can’t come.
So what?
Something must have come up. Isn’t that what he said?
‘Something came up. Can’t make it today. Sorry.’
See—he’s sorry. It says so right there.
Someone knocks on the door. I jump again, and then stand up and flush the toilet for effect.
I turn on the sink and text: ‘That’s okay. Take care.’
*
In medical school, I learned a lot about trauma. Then I started treating real kids, and realized I didn’t know anything about anything. Last year for Christmas, one of my Chicago friends—a pediatric psychologist—gave me this nonfiction book called The Body Keeps The Score.