I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to pace around the hospital waiting. I didn’t want to listen to the excited, anticipatory half whispers from the other WAGs. I didn’t want to watch Johnny pass out cigars. I didn’t want to be where people were happy, their lives moving forward, sharing in love and joy.
What I wanted to do to wallow in self pity. I wanted to sit alone, in the dark and wish for things I couldn’t have. I wanted to close my eyes and think about the few, the brief stolen moments, those golden images I hold in my imagination like warm coals from a fire. I wanted to think about Rebecca.
As I lay there, alone, in the dark, on my bed, I decided that I hated her. I hated her for choosing him. I hated her for loving me and not letting me love her. I hated her letting him touch her, letting him hold her in his arms when I knew that she wanted to be in mine.
But even as much as I decided that I hated her, I knew I hated myself more. I hated myself for not having the guts to take what I wanted. I hated myself for sticking with the code. I hated myself for putting my friendship with him ahead of my heart. Mostly I hated myself for being weak enough to give into temptation in the first place.
There are so many women, younger, older, that offer themselves to us every day. It’s like being at a smorgasbord of ripe, juicy loveliness. Everywhere you look, their cherry coloured lips smiling, their glittering eyes promising carnal gifts that make your cock hard just to think about it. When I was a rookie, it was like being at a desert buffet and every night you took a different desert home and rolled around in the hot fudge and whipped cream and took a bite out of all of the strawberries and cherries until you hated the taste, until you couldn’t look at another desert, until all women looked like whores, all perfume smelled cheap and you looked forward to going to bed, alone.
I could have one now. I could go to a bar and there would be a few girls who would know who I am and I could bring one home and sink my cock balls deep into her. I could, but I know it wouldn’t make me feel better. It wouldn’t make me forget. Because those girls are like having a cookie from a bag you get at the grocery store, sort of crumbly and dry and they don’t satisfy. They’re nothing like the ones your mom makes that you get straight out of the oven, still maybe a little too hot to eat, but they’re so sweet and so gooey and melt in your mouth that you don’t care if maybe they burn you a little. That’s what Rebecca is to me, hot and sugary and so delicious that I don’t care if I burn my fingers and my tongue and….
The light in Max’s bedroom goes on. I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s only been an hour. I can’t believe that Mel has had the baby yet.
Rolling over, I sit up and look over. It’s just Rebecca, no Max in sight, but that doesn’t mean he’s not there except that I don’t hear his voice. I didn’t hear them arrive either, I realize as I watch her shuck her leather jacket onto the bench at the end of the bed. I didn’t hear the car. I didn’t hear him nattering away like a fish wife all the way into the house like I usually do.
Maybe she walked.
That would be so much like Max to just let her walk home alone, just so he can be there when the cigars are handed out.
I tell myself not to, to go back to my own bed and continue to do what she’s asked me to do; leave her alone. I tell myself to but instead I sit there on the edge of my bed and watch her, like I’ve been doing ever since I woke up alone in that trailer park. It’s like being on a diet but staring at a cake, wanting it so much you can practically taste it, but that’s all you do. You know you won’t let yourself eat it but you keep looking anyway.
She stands in front of the full length mirrors on the front of his closet. I remember when he had them put in, he was so proud of his choice, thinking about all the girls he was going to fuck while he watched himself in the mirror. It was only Sid and I that managed to talk him out of putting mirrors on the ceiling too, telling him that girls would think that was tacky, that they might leave and he’d end up jerking off looking at himself but that was it. I think Jordan still did it though.
She turns, looking at her profile, her hands sliding up over her stomach, pushing the soft black sweater up and up until it bunches beneath her breasts and then she tilts her head to one side and pushes her stomach out, to simulate being pregnant I guess. It can’t be because she thinks she ate too much, she hardly ate at all at Sid’s house.
I should just get rid of it, I know. Get rid of the evidence and there won’t be any questions. Get rid of the evidence and soon, before I start to think of it as something real, something I’m responsible for.
He’d probably even pay for it, if I asked. Except he wouldn’t, he’d probably try and talk me out if it, which is why I won’t tell him. I won’t tell anyone but I especially will never tell Kris. It would break his heart.
I can close my eyes and see his dark eyes light up and his lips turn up in a broad smile. He’d be so fucking happy. He’d beg me to leave Max and I would, I would, to be with him, except it would all turn into a fucking disaster. He’d just end up hating me. Maybe we’d end up hating each other. Either way, there’s no point in telling him. I just need to get rid of it and I need to do it before the idea of it fucks up my head any worse than it is now.
Besides, I’d be a terrible mother. Look at the example I’ve had. I wouldn’t do that to some poor innocent kid. At least not yet, not until I get my shit together and get my head on straight, actually finish some of the things I’ve been working on.
If I had to, I could probably convince Max it’s his. I didn’t think he was really into that whole happy families thing until this afternoon. Being with him, all afternoon, with those women and their happy fucking lives, and then he starts in on wanting a sprogue of his own…it’s a good god damn thing that woman’s water broke or he might have suggested some kind of sex party right there in the kitchen he was so turned on by the idea of making a baby, or having a baby or…or whatever.
Well maybe they’re ready, or think that they are, but I’m not. The whole idea makes me sick to my stomach. For one thing, I can’t imagine putting my body through that right now, being all big and uncomfortable like the backup goalie’s girlfriend, although she had a certain glow…
Turning sideways in front of the mirror I pull up my sweater and stick my stomach out, trying to imagine what I’d look like. It makes me laugh. I remember my sister being like that. The first time she thought it was fun but what did she know, she was just a stupid teenager then.
I wonder if she’d do it again, get herself tied down again, if she had the choice to be free. She got so old before she had to be. She missed so much and I’ve hardly done anything with my life yet. I feel like Max has just pushed aside a curtain, given me a glimpse of so many possibilities, shown me that there are things I can have if I just try and I don’t think I can give that up for anything or anyone.
It has to be hormones, I think as I slide my hands up over my bra. My nipples have been aching for a week. I looked that up online, that and my popping antacids like they’re Smarties are definitely signs that if I actually work up the courage to pee on a stick it’s going to tell me something I won’t like.
Sliding my hands into the lace cups of my bra, I wonder if it’s my imagination or if my breasts are actually heavier, fuller. I look at them in the mirror and gently run the pads of my thumbs over the dark pink areolas. Are they darker than they were a week ago? That’s another sign I remember reading.
Fuck they’re more sensitive, that’s for sure, even more than they can be right before my period. I draw a ragged breath as I roll the pebble hard points between my finger and thumb. It hurts, yes, but I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if he touched them, if he took them in his lips, bathed them with his tongue.
Pulling off my sweater and tossing it behind me, I close my eyes and imagine the soft brush of his hair against my skin as he bends to draw my nipple into his mouth. A shudder runs through my body and an answering vibration inside of me sends my other hand down to the fly of my jeans.
Unsnapping the button and peeling down the zipper, I slide my hand down, dipping my fingers into the anticipatory moistness that occurs every time I think about him. Pressing on the button and squeezing my nipple at the same time makes me gasp. Fuck! Everything is so sensitive. It feels like a breeze could blow across my clit and it would send me into paroxysms of pleasure.
With a groan I squeeze the base of my dick, tightening my fingers around it trying to delay the orgasm as I watch her slide onto his bed, draw he knees up and slide her fingers into her black lace panties. Licking my lips, I easily recall the taste of her skin, the feel of the hard bud of her nipple in my mouth and my dick gets even harder, throbbing in my hand. Her full lips open and I imagine I hear her cry out, though no sound reaches my ears.
“Me dis que tu veux que je l’intérieur de vous,” I hiss through clenched teeth as I watch her cup her full breasts, running the palms of her hands over the pink erect nubs of her nipples. I know how they feel pressed against the palms of my hands. I know the sounds she makes when my hand gently squeezes them. I imagine that sound and feel my cock pulse against the pressure of my palm. “Pas encore,” I whisper as I watch her slide her panties off and toss them aside, spreading her thighs farther apart.
Moaning, I stumble towards the window, wanting to be closer, hoping to catch the scent of her heated pussy on the late afternoon breeze. With one hand braced on the window sill, I slide my hand up the full length of rock hard pole, giving the angry red helmet of my cock a squeeze before sliding my hand back down to the base. I don’t want to cum too soon. I want to cum with her. If I can’t be inside of her, it’s the next best thing.
The problem is I don’t know if I can last that long, especially when I realize she’s watching herself.
She’s propped herself up on the pillows and she’s watching her reflection in the mirror as she slides her fingers slowly in and out of her pussy. I wonder what she’s thinking. Is she imagining that it’s someone else touching her there? Or is she imaging that she’s being watched, that the mirror is someone standing there, watching her play with herself?
Is she imaging me? Or is it Max; or maybe someone else entirely?
“Oh mon dieu ce soit moi,” I groan, moving my hand slowly up and down the length of my cock, thinking about the soft wet heat of her pussy and the way it fits so perfectly around my shaft, like a glove. I feel my balls tighten as I think about the way her pussy lips sucked at my dick, pulling it deeper, milking it as she came for me, her entire body glowing as her hips bucked against mine. “Ostie!” My cock throbs in my hand and my entire body sways forward, wanting to be inside of her, filling her, instead of bare to the cool breeze.
My gaze is riveted to her fingers as they work her pearl, moving in tight hard circles as her she bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes half closed. ‘Oui mon chéri’ I think towards her, sending her my thoughts, ‘venu pour moi’.
Her head tilts back and her other hand leaves her breast and slides down over her stomach and down, down between her thighs until one then two fingers dive into her slick pussy and she cries out, a wordless sound of anguish mixed with pleasure. I grab a tissue from my bed stand, prepared to shoot my load as she cums, my hand working my knob vigorously, beads of perspiration breaking out on my face as I get close.
“Oh god yes! Yes Kristopher! Oh god Kris, fuck me!”
I freeze, my hand stopping mid stroke, my fingers digging into the window sill as she calls out my name, her voice carried on the wind like a song.
My hips lift off of the bed and I scream out his name, imagining his thick cock buried deep inside of me, his lips fastened around one of my aching nipples, his thick fingers working my clit, making me cum for him. My entire body is like the string of a bow, pulled taught, quivering and humming with energy and then suddenly released, my body falling back onto the bed, spineless, boneless, quaking like jelly released from a mold.
“Oh Kris,” I whisper, my eyes squeezed shut against the sudden feeling of loss that materializes every time the fantasy is over. “I love you,” I whisper to his vanishing specter.
“Et je t’aime ma chérie.”
“No, no you shouldn’t.” It’s the same every time I fantasize about him. It’s so real that I can hear his voice, smell the warm musk of his skin, feel his tender touch and every time I have to dismiss him, force away the sweet memories so I can go back to trying to make something with Max.
“But I do mon coeur.” I shake my head and brush at the tears that escape and roll down my cheeks. It’s so hard. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t even understand it. How can I love someone so much that I hardly even know? “Avec tout mon coeur.”
“No, no you can’t,” I whisper, rolling myself into a ball, and then my eyes pop open when I find myself pressed against a warm body. “No…no you can’t be here,” I hiss, pushing at him, shaking my head even as his strong arms lock around me, holding me to him.
“You called me,” he whispers, kissing away my tears and then kissing my lips, his mouth moving gently over mine until, with a whimper of defeat, I kiss him back. His tongue moves softly against mine and he groans into his mouth as he tucks my body beneath his. “I want you amoureux. I want to be with you,” he whispers against my mouth as his hands skim over my heated skin, making me gasp as my sensitive flesh shivers under his touch.
“Yes, yes now,” I gasp as his fingers slide into the slick wetness between my thighs, as he gently begins to massage my tender clit, the look in his eyes telling me he knows he can bring me just like this, that he won’t have to do more but that he will, and that he can’t wait.
“Tell me,” he whispers, his handsome face hovering just above mine, his eyes the colour of hot chocolate searching mine. “Tell me you want me. Tell me you love me.”
“No,” I whine, turning my face away and shutting my eyes tight. I won’t say it. My body presses down against his hand, wanting him, showing him how much I want him, but I won’t say it out loud.
“I...I love you,” she sobs and looks so despondent that I think I’ve done the wrong thing, that I’ve made her say it, but then she reaches one trembling hand out and I lay my cheek in her hand and she presses her lips up to mine in a long, soft kiss that makes my heart swell. I may have made her say it, but she feels it too and that’s all that I need.
Scrambling out of my jeans, I finally free my throbbing shaft and guide it gently into her hot, wet tunnel. I want to bury it, all at once, but I don’t because even though I’m sure I won’t last long, I don’t want to cum all at once. I want to enjoy the feeling of her wrapped around me, I want to feel myself buried deep inside of her and I want to hear her scream my name when I make her drop over the edge before I do.
“No more denials,” I tell her as I hold her close, feeling her muscles tighten around my shaft. “We’re meant to be together ma chérie. You know it,” I whisper into her ear before kissing my way down her neck and up again. “You break my heart,” I tell her, stroking her hair back from her face. Her lips press up to mine and I can feel her pouring her heart into that kiss.
We hold onto one another like we’re holding onto a life raft and neither of us is willing to let go. Our bodies melt together and we move in unison, parting and coming together in soft, slow movements. I want to make it last and it feels like a dream, like it could go on and on and on. I feel like I could stay inside of her, stay in her arms forever but I feel her body tighten and her fingernails dig into my shoulders and I can’t hold back any longer.
Burying myself deep inside of her I let go, emptying myself into her and for the first time in my life tears follow on the wave of the orgasm. I’ve seen women do it, and as I gaze down at the woman I love, tears spill down her cheeks, but it’s never happened to me. Pressing my forehead to hers’ I tell her everything that I feel and this time, I don’t see her trying to fight back, fight me.
“I love you,” she whispers against my mouth.
“Je t’adore, je t’aime Rebecca,” I whisper back, kissing her softly, tasting her tears mingled with mine.
“Well I’m so fucking glad everyone’s so fucking in love,” Max’s voice rips into our momentary Eden, “but I think you’ve got some fucking explaining to do.”