Chapter 41: Connect the Dots

Ay yi yi, this is reaaaaaaaaaaaaally late and I apologize profusely.

Chapter 41: Connect the Dots


KPOV

The house was dark when I pulled into the driveway.  That wasn’t normally a good sign—it either meant Rob was sitting in the dark, or he was sleeping, and if he was sleeping this early, he probably wasn’t feeling well.  I’d called before Dakota and I had gone out for coffee, just to make sure he was all right, and he had seemed fine then, so I really hoped he hadn’t regressed to jealousy again.  So… that meant it was either going to be a really quiet night, or a really long night.  I sighed as I drove into the garage and hit the button on the wall on my way into the house, effectively shutting the world out.  

I made sure I was quiet coming in—if he was sleeping on the couch, I’d wake him if I came in any other way.  I didn’t call out to him either, waiting to see if he’d say something.  There was only silence.  

I sighed again and took my coat off, trying to navigate in the murky darkness.  I kicked my shoes off and peeked around the corner into the kitchen, a faint and flickering glow emanating from somewhere near the counter.  There was a single candle sitting there, large enough to cast enough light on the card that was standing next to it.  I smiled as I picked it up. The words follow the breadcrumbs in black ink were in Rob’s scrawled handwriting.  

I looked down, and there on the floor, were more candles.  Smaller, but obviously arranged in a path, leading me somewhere.  I peeked out of the kitchen and the candlelit trail looked like it spanned the entire house.  This must have taken him forever.  I walked out of the kitchen and into the hall, stopping when I encountered an object.  The object was really an envelope, pristine and white.  I picked up the envelope and opened the flap, another card, and a guitar pick inside.  My brow furrowed at that.  It was simple, black, no design.  I looked at the card, and in big black letters, the word Music was written.  I looked at the word for a minute wondering what the hell all of this was about and what this was supposed to mean.  I turned the card over and then stupidly realized he was explaining on the back of it.  

Kristen,

Music has always been a part of my life.  I literally cannot remember a time in my life where I didn’t feel its influence, the pull.  I’ve always been blown away by the power a single note can evoke, or how a string of them together can change everything.  A song can be a great metaphor for life: Its ups and downs, its tempo changes, the volume and pitch, the beat.  I feel like my song, the song of my life, didn’t really begin until I met you. Like my song was incredibly dull and unfulfilled until you were in it. And now two different melodies have merged to make a new piece of music.  

I looked ahead on the trail, tears streaming, and realized that the whole house was filled with this.  I almost didn’t want to continue—the enormity of what he was telling me was almost too much—I felt like I was so unworthy of this complete devotion.  The thought and effort this had to take… no one could say Rob did anything half-assed.  

Reluctantly almost, I went on, bending to look at the small object sitting atop the next envelope.  It was a small airplane, a child’s toy, but it looked incredibly like the one we’d been in, and this ceased to be a toy for us the minute it crashed.  I took a breath and opened the envelope.

Kristen,

Most people wouldn’t consider a plane crash a positive thing.  And while some of the experiences were less than desirable, I can’t say I’m not happy that it happened.  That’s weird, right?  That a plane crash could be anything other than horrible?  But nothing with you in it could ever be bad.  The crash brought us together the way I always wanted, so I’ll always be thankful for that.  

I picked up the tiny plane and put it in my pocket with the card, feeling the same way about the crash, but never really telling him that.  The candle trail led me to the couch next, and on it was a tiny piece of doll furniture, a mini version of our couch.  How he found all this shit, I had no idea, but I felt the need to sit down on the bigger version while I pulled the card out of that envelope.  I chuckled at the Couch on the front of the card.  

Kristen,

I’ve never loved a piece of furniture before, but we’re never getting rid of this couch.  Some of the best and worst times of my life to date have been spent right here.  But no matter if it was good or bad, you were there, a constant.  I want you to know that some days you were all that kept me going.  

I sat there on the couch for a few minutes, just trying to take everything in and still keep breathing normally, which was quite difficult when weeping uncontrollably.  Reading his thoughts about all of this was like experiencing it all over again.  And I was incredibly sad that so much of his time on the couch had been so uncomfortable.  But what he was telling me here was that he didn’t see any of it that way, and we’d come out the other side okay.  So, instead of looking back, he was looking forward.  

I got up with a smile, wiping at the tears, and continued on the path.  I giggled at what was lying under the next envelope.  There, under it, was a pair of pants—PAIR OF WHAT?!—and a shirt, obviously Rob-sized.  And obviously Rob-folded, too.  I squatted and opened the envelope.  

Kristen,

I’m frequently reminded how much you like my clothing… on you.  And I admit, I never understood the whole you-wearing-my-clothes thing until the first time I saw you in one of my shirts.  It was by far one of the sexiest things ever.  And as I’m also frequently reminded that I have laundry issues, I washed these first so there won’t be any complaints or worries.  (Ask me about the laundry fiasco later)  So, you are welcome to anything you like, clean or not, clothes or not—what’s mine is yours.

I smirked, holding up the shirt.  It was big, of course, but they always felt softer somehow, like Rob infused himself in the clothes and made them better than regular clothing.  

I moved on down the hall.

I burst out laughing this time when there was a large bag of Hot Cheetos sitting under this envelope.  I tried to think about how he could ever be romantic about Cheetos.  I was convinced this was the gag gift of the evening.  I was still giggling when I opened the envelope.  

Kristen,

I promise to never deny you anything you want (within reason), as long as it’s not detrimental, and in moderation (unless it’s sex).  So, if it’s three in the morning and you need anything, even Cheetos, I’ll happily go retrieve them for you.  Sometimes it’s the simple things, the infinitely small things, in life that make the difference.  I promise to make sure you always have all those things.  

Goddamn him, now I was crying over a fucking bag of processed cheese product.  I should have known him better than this by now—he was amazingly thoughtful—mostly because the dipshit never stopped thinking.  I sighed, wondering how someone looks at a bag of Cheetos and comes up with all of that.  He made me out to be more special than I really was.  

The trail led off into the bedroom, and my thoughts ran wild over what he might have in there.  He surprised me again, though, catching me off guard, and I was beginning to hope that he would always be able to do that.  

The path led to the bed. On the bedspread—where he could have taken advantage of any number of sexual instruments, where, if he wanted to, would have been the perfect place to insinuate the physical or sexual—was a battered copy of Twilight.  Not a dildo or anything else my mind conjured up on the way into the room.  Nope.  A book.  And that book, no less.  I picked up the envelope with it.  

Kristen,

The bedroom was a difficult choice.  My options were limitless, but this seemed most appropriate.  I rip on Edward and Bella (they have faults and the book is filled with the ridiculously cheesy), but they love each other; they’re completely devoted.  They share the best partnership, and ours started with them.  So, like the plane, I can’t look back on Twilight as anything but the point my life became something completely different.  The fame and success are fleeting, but meeting you, having you in my life… well, it became everything quite early.  This is the book I used for the movie, complete with Catherine’s highlighting of every time Edward smiled because I was too “broody.”  I smile every time I think of you.  You might get a kick out of some of the notes in the book, too.

I couldn’t help myself, the minute that sentence was read, the book was open, and I was paging through looking for his handwriting.  The highlighting was quite hilarious because Catherine added little smiley faces and exclamation points in places, too.  Rob had writing in the margins and in the empty spaces on pages with only half text.  There were notes about the character, feelings, thoughts, and endless questions.  Questions upon questions.  Rob thought a lot about all this shit.  

I flipped through a few more pages and stopped when I saw my name at the beginning of chapter eight.  Above the chapter title was written: Met Kristen today.  She was nothing like I imagined.  She was better, if that’s possible.  She’s amazing, self-assured, and the raw talent just pours out of her.  She is the perfect Bella.  She’s incredibly strong, even though she’s so young.  The experience she has already, her personality, it’s intimidating.  I find her fascinating.

Yes, this was going to be an interesting read.  I had the hugest smile on my face when I left the bedroom, and pretty soon I was going to have to put some of this stuff down if he intended to keep presenting things.  The trail led to the master bath next, and sitting on the ledge of the tub was a small yellow rubber duckie.  I snorted and grabbed the envelope.  

Kristen,

I was never a bath person.  I found them tedious and pointless after the age of eight or nine.  Showers were so much more functional, efficient, timely… until we started taking them.  I think more people would take them if they had someone to take them with.  Our baths are like some sort of sacrament: the ritual, the silence and comfort and soft light, the weightless feeling of the water.  Those, like many of the couch times, were like sanctuary.  My own personal cleansing of the mind and spirit while there with you.  Not to mention… the duck holds so much more significance now after I got to puke in one…

I burst out laughing.  Only Rob could balance something so large with snarky British humor.  As I followed the trail out of the bathroom, I noticed the trajectory doubled back this way at some point.  There were really two paths next to one another in this area.  

This one led me to the dining room, the other led to the spare room after it seemed to be stemming from the den—so he must have taken the trail out to the deck.  There was an object in front of the closed door.  I had to force myself not to divert and tear into the box, but I followed the path like a good girl.  The door being closed was odd—we never used it, so it never needed to be closed—so there must have been something in there he didn’t want me to see yet.  Hell, maybe that’s where he was hiding since he hadn’t appeared so far.  

I moved down the hall, into the dining room, my hands and pockets full of the tokens he’d left all over.  There, on the dining room table, was a box of Band-Aids.  I thought I had this one figured out, but he surprised me again.  

Kristen,

By now you can probably figure out what I’m doing with all these things.  And while the Band-Aids represent the obvious, they mean something else to me, too.  Yes, they’re a physical representation of what you’ve done for me.  You’ve healed all sorts of wounds, some that you didn’t know were there, and some you’ve never seen or heard of.  You’ve healed me in more than just the physical sense.  But also, Band-Aids mend, they hold together.  Yes, you’ve mended and held me together, and I hope that I can always put you back together, too.  I’ll make mistakes, this I know, but I’ll always try to keep a Band-Aid close by to help mend things again.  So, if I screw up and you’re pissed at me beyond belief… and I hand you one… know I’m working on it and I’m sorry.  

I was wiping tears again, trying to navigate to the patio door through all the blurriness.  The trail led outside onto the deck, the door was closed, and I took a minute to just breathe and get my emotions under control again.  

I pulled open the door, and there he was leaning on the banister and looking off at the lights of the city below.  He turned when he heard the door, and I didn’t wait for him to say anything, I just dropped everything on the deck table and launched myself into his arms.  He caught me easily and breathed me in, his hand cupping my head, his other arm holding me to him snugly.  I cried some more, which I’m sure he anticipated, and he just held me in the warm night air.  He started swaying eventually and I realized there was music coming from somewhere.  I hadn’t even noticed that on the way out, but then, my focus was just on making him feel how much I was feeling right now—the love that was literally radiating off of me because of him.  

We danced for a while, slow, and I’m not sure it could even be classified as dancing as he was moving very little and I was just along for the ride.  

I wanted to speak, to say something to him, to tell him how much this meant to me, how much I loved him, how this was, by far, the most romantic and wonderful thing anyone had ever done for me, but every time I tried to open my mouth, no sound would come because nothing I said could ever be enough to encompass my gratitude or the gravity of what this really meant.

I pulled back eventually, reluctantly, and pulled his face to mine, kissing him desperately.  He was eager go oblige me, holding onto me like I would disappear if he let go.

How I was ever blessed to have him love me, I’ll never know.  I was about to say that, pulling back again to start, when he pulled another envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to me.  

I’m sure my expression was confused because there couldn’t be any more, could there?  He just smiled, though, and leaned against the banister again.

I opened the envelope—this one had no title like the others.  When I had it open, he moved, and before I started reading this one, I gasped when I turned to see where he’d gone. Music wasn’t the only thing I’d missed: There were candles everywhere, along the rails and framing the deck table; the table was set, there were two place settings and food—real food, cooked food—that he was putting out.  He stopped, sort of like a deer-in-headlights, when he saw me watching, and then smirked and looked embarrassed, nodding to the card again.  I think my jaw was permanently disjointed from the rest of my face.  It was just going to hang there open, forever.  I finally managed to snap it shut as he busily moved my items from the table to the vacant chair and kept putting food out, pouring drinks.

I blinked several times and then remembered I had something to read yet.

    Kristen,

I wrote all of this because I’m better at it than talking.  I don’t ramble as much because I can better express what I want to say without all the errant thoughts.  Plus, if I actually approached you and attempted to tell you half of what I just did, you’d roll your eyes a lot, tell me I was being silly, and laugh your ass off.  

I snorted and chuckled here because I so would have.  I looked up at him momentarily and he smiled back knowingly.

And telling you how I feel can’t be put into verbal words, because “I love you” is not enough; it doesn’t explain anything that I want to say or want you to know.  So, I tried this instead.

In the end, I can only promise to love you, promise to be there for you, promise to try to give back a small portion of what you have and are giving me.  All I really have to offer is myself, and I hope that can be enough.  

It occurred to me that, in the span of this entire evening, neither of us had actually said anything.  I didn’t have the words because that was not my strong suit either, and we both had a tendency to shoot down the other’s assessments of us—we were biased, how could we ever hope to find truth in an emotionally skewed opinion?  

But there was no denying this, and even though I’d been sobbing half the night, I couldn’t remember a time when the tears had been this happy.  And my voice was incredibly strong, which surprised me, when I said, “It’s always been enough.  You’ve always been enough, Rob.”  I moved over to him quickly, throwing my arms around his waist and hugging him tightly.  “I love you, and I don’t even know how to begin to thank you for all of this.”

“I love you, too,” he said quietly, squeezing me just as tightly.  “And that’s what I was doing here… thanking you.  So, get your own goddamn idea.”

I laughed into his shirt and pulled back to see him grinning at me.  We leaned and met at the same time, sharing a few kisses, just happy together.  

There was really nothing else to say.  

I cocked my head in the direction of the table. “You… cooked?”

He nodded. “Only had to call my mother six times.”

I chuckled.  

“And your mother only came over once when my mother called her and said, ‘The boy needs serious guidance.’”

I laughed loudly.

“And your mom might have helped me figure out why the washer was clunking, and why the dryer nearly burned the house down, but yes, I did this all myself.”

He tickled me when I was still laughing at him, which of course just made me laugh harder, and I was deliriously happy.  Like, stars-in-your-eyes happy, happy as a motherfucking clam.  How are clams happy, anyway?  How do you know a clam is happy?  Do they wiggle?  Wave?  I didn’t really give a shit, I was too content.

We eventually settled down to eat and Rob told me all about nearly burning the potatoes and how my mother saved the chicken from becoming jerky.  He then launched into a Rob-soliloquy about the awe and wonder that is mothers’ cooking.  “Like… she had five different things going at once—I couldn’t keep one going right.  And she kept ordering me to turn shit, and stir shit, and smacking my hands.  I swear,” he said, his hand running through his hair, “it was brutal.”  It had grown out some since we’d cut it—his hair grew alarmingly fast.  

I chuckled and leaned over, my hand tracing where his had, and he leaned into my touch before turning his head to kiss the palm of my hand.  

“Thank you,” I said.

For once, he didn’t shrug or brush it off, instead, he smiled and nodded.  “You’re welcome.”

He was proud.  

“I’m proud of you,” I told him.

He blushed like usual and did the head-bob thing, but smiled appreciatively. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I echoed.  

We chatted through the meal and were just happy and grateful and in love.  Not a teenage romance, not goo-eyed and cute, but a real, responsible, adult relationship.  

When the meal wound down, he brought out dessert.  Vanilla pudding.  And it only dawned on me halfway through eating it, at which point I scared the shit out of him by grabbing onto his arm suddenly and screeching.  Poor boy’s spoon flew halfway across the deck as he looked up at me in alarm until I explained my outburst, then he blushed intensely.  “You’re incredibly thoughtful,” I said as we went back to eating the pudding, albeit with only one spoon.  

His eyebrows rose.

“I mean that,” I said sincerely, swirling my spoon around the dessert.  “I mean, not many people would put this much thought into everything, Rob.  They wouldn’t make pudding because it was the first thing you could actually keep down, they don’t think in those terms.”

He shrugged.  “I remember the little things.”

I nodded.  “I love that about you.”

He smiled.  

“You’re like that kid from The Matrix—‘there is no spoon,’” I said holding up my utensil.  

He laughed, “Thanks, I’m the bald, Buddhist kid.”

I smiled back and we finished the pudding, laughing about how much of it he ate that first week.  “I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to eat it again,” he admitted with a smirk.  “I thought, if I ever saw vanilla pudding again, it’d be too soon.  But the… I dunno if you’d call it an aroma, but the smell of it was oddly comforting.”

I laughed, “That’s good.”

We talked endlessly about everything, nothing, anything.  The night had flown past, and I had no concept of what time it really was.  Rob finally sat back in his chair.  “So… I lied.  There is one more part after me on the breadcrumb trail.  Alas, I am not the last breadcrumb.” He hung his head sadly.  

“Oh, you’re not?” I asked before remembering the way the path had another section that led to the spare room.  “Actually,” I said, “I thought you were behind the door in the spare room. I thought that’d be where you were hiding.”

He shook his head.  “No, that serves a different purpose.”  He got up and held his hand out for me to take.  I grabbed it and he blew out the candles still lit on the deck.  Then he pulled me to the other deck entrance from the den.  

“Your path continues that way.”  He gestured.  “Go ahead and start, I’ll be there just as soon as I put the food away and make sure the other candles are all out.”

I nodded and pulled him back when he started off in the other direction.  I smiled and kissed him and then he opened the door for me before disappearing in the other parts of the house.

The den was only part of the path—the last object was the box I’d seen by the door earlier.  I was excited for this box for some reason, I wasn’t sure why, maybe because it was last?  It wasn’t large, but when I picked it up, it was heavy.  I opened the flap and reached inside, whatever was encased inside was bubble-wrapped and obviously fragile.  

I carefully pulled back the wrap and nearly dropped the damn thing—it was a snow globe, and inside the swirling water was a mountain range, a forest, and one tiny broken plane.  I flipped it over, shaking it, and watched as the snow filtered around the tiny plane, dusting over it, around it.  I realized at the same time it was also a music box and wound the knob wondering what melody would be played.  I smiled broadly as “Beside You” echoed in that tinny music box way.  I took the card out.

There were only three words on the front of the card:  

I love you.

The back explained simply:

Always.

Rob was coming down the hall then, and as per usual, I was crying.  I suppose, if nothing else, exposure to a constantly weeping girl desensitized him to the panic that had originally set in when I burst into tears.  

“Do you like it?” he asked.

I scoffed, “Rob… of course… I... it must have been made… there aren’t—there aren’t words, Rob.”

He nodded, understanding.  “I think you just said them.”  He pointed.  “Open the door,” he told me quietly.

I looked at him wondering what else could be left.  “You know… no matter what all of this is... I mean… I… it’s wonderful, but I only ever need you.  You know that, right?  Just you.”

He nodded and shrugged.  “Doesn’t mean I can’t do it anyway.”

I smiled and nodded back, my hand dropping to the doorknob.  I turned it slowly, still looking at him.  I pushed the door open and stepped inside, my head swiveling into the room as I moved into it.  

He was getting really good at leaving me speechless.

I gasped in complete… there was no word for my expression.

There were candles everywhere in here, too, bigger so they’d last long enough for us to get here.  How long it must have taken just to light them all…

In the middle of the open space on the floor was a sleeping bag, a lantern near the head, and scattered around the sleeping bag and on the floor was a mixture of white rose petals and fake snow.  You could have pushed me over with a feather.  

“It’s much more comfortable than the real one…” Rob said, trailing off, then added, “I tried it.”

I turned to look at him, feeling like I was in the middle of a really surreal, out-of-body experience.  Everything was in slow motion.  He was leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest, his stance relaxed.  

Some guys bought flowers and candy, Rob orchestrated a candlelit trail with a soul-pouring of emotion and feeling, dinner, and a fucking reconstructed, makeshift airplane crash site.

He had a soft smile on his face, but he kept dropping his head down every few seconds like he was still somehow nervous or embarrassed or guilty.  None were emotions he should have had at the moment.  I forced my brain to engage after shelving the shock and basically launched myself at him.  He let out a short-burst chuckle of surprise and then caught me, holding me close and nuzzling into my neck.  He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly as my hand cupped the back of his head, there were still more happy tears trailing down my face.  I couldn’t fathom forming words, but he didn’t seem to need them, content to just hold me.  I have no idea how long we stayed there, but it was a good while, his embrace never wavering, and my hold never lessening.  

He inhaled again and said softly, “I thought about putting a plastic duck decoy next to the sleeping bag, but I thought that might be overdoing it.”

I snorted and pulled back, wiping uselessly at the faucet I’d turned into.  He was smiling at me, a truly happy—like, fucking deliriously happy—smile.  

“I did good, then, huh?” he asked.

I nearly choked up again, but I managed to nod, touching his cheek.  “It’s perfect. It’s all perfect, Rob.  Thank you.”

He was beaming, proud now, too, and he should have been, because this was seriously fucking awesome.  

He grabbed my hand.  “Come sit with me.”

I let myself be led over to the sleeping bag, just so overwhelmed with everything.  I was seriously fucking emotional here—like a pipe that had a continuous leak before it suddenly ruptured and torrents of water poured out endlessly.  The waterworks really needed to stop, but he just kept saying shit, writing shit, showing me shit.  It was seriously too much, he didn’t need to do this.  I knew he appreciated me, was grateful for what I’d helped with, and I never questioned that he loved me, so… Christ, this was really unnecessary.  

I realized two things suddenly: One, we were somehow sitting now, and two, I’d just blurted all that out.  I, apparently, had the equivalent of verbal incontinence when I was overly emotional.  He was watching me with an amused, crooked smirk.  I tried to recoup, like I’d meant to do that shit, but he knew anyway.  

“Really, Rob, this is too much.  You didn’t need to do this.  What I did… it’s really not worth all of this.  It’s unwarranted.”  I gestured around the room.

We were sitting cross-legged on the sleeping bag, facing each other, and he’d looked down while I got that last bit out.  He was tracing the seam of the sleeping bag, his face had fallen slightly and that wasn’t my intent.  I didn’t want him to feel bad—like I somehow didn’t think this was the single most amazing thing in the world anyone had ever done for me—I was just so not good with this shit.  I started, “It’s all amazing, Rob.  It is, really. The amount of time and thought and emotion…” I gestured helplessly.  “I just… it’s not… I’m not…”

“Don’t say it.  You’re worth it,” he cut me off.

I let out a sigh.  

“You’re worth it,” he repeated harshly, definitively.  He seemed kinda pissed.  He schooled his features.  “You don’t see yourself very clearly, you know.”

I nodded, my head bobbing back and forth.  “You don’t, either,” I accused.

His mouth quirked slightly into a smile.  “It’s different, isn’t it, when you’re inside looking out?”

“Yeah.”  I nodded in agreement.

He nodded back.  “We must see something, though, right?”

I cocked my head.  “Meaning?”

“Meaning you must have thought I was worthwhile if you stuck around this long.”

I reached for him.  “Of course.  You’re completely worthwhile.  You’re it, Rob.”

He smiled.  “Right, so even if I don’t agree with you, I acknowledge that you have some sort of attachment to my supposed wonderfulness.”

He smirked, and I laughed, “Yeah.”

“So, I’m the same with you, maybe that’s why we’re together.  So we can remind each other that we mean something great, even if it’s only to each other.”

Fucking emotion-inducing asshole.  I could only nod.  

He leaned forward and started swiping his thumbs over my cheeks, wiping the tears as they fell.  Then he pulled me forward, urging me to lie down with him on the sleeping bag.  I went eagerly, snuggling into his side and reveling in his arms around me.  I tried to let all the emotional shit just float away and just be warm and content in the moment.  That worked with moderate success—only a few tears leaked out.  His fingers stroked up and down my back, just the tips caressing and lulling.  If he wasn’t more careful, he’d put me to sleep, and I sensed there was something else on his mind than just sleeping in a recreated crash site.  

We lay there for a while, his steady, slow breathing calming me, and honestly, I was starting to doze.  I was so firmly entrenched in the ardent emotionalism, for like, literally the entire night, that it was quite exhausting.  I was emotionally drained, in a good way, but just… tapped.  And he was so comfy and snug, and I felt so safe that it was almost like The Bubble was back.  In a lot of ways we never lost it anyway, we simply existed inside its walls all the time.  But this felt more like it had before—like it was literally just the two of us encased in this giant ball of security because it was a product of our partnership, in whatever sense that might have been.  

He chuckled suddenly and I figured he must have caught me dozing.

“Comfy?” he asked quietly.

I nodded, yawning, “Very.”

“You can sleep if you want,” he said in the same quiet tone.

I shook my head, which was kind of pointless since it basically just made me nuzzle various parts of my head into his chest.  “No, I’m good for now.  You’re warm and snuggly, and it was making me tired.”

He was smirking.  “Did you just call me snuggly?”

I nodded.  “You are.  You’re very snuggly.  I love it.”

“Mmm, good.”

We were silent for a while and I was close to dozing off again when he said, “Can I ask you something?”

I yawned again.  “Sure.”

“If you could have picked it… what would you have wanted our first time to be?”
I took a deep breath and thought a minute.  “I don’t think that’s something that can be picked, actually,” I finally said.

“But if you could have,” he pressed, “what would you have wanted?”

My mouth twisted while I considered that.  “Honestly?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t change anything, Rob.”

He chuckled, “That’s not what I asked you.”

“I know, but… like… I don’t think I can answer it.  Most first times aren’t planned events, they just happen.  Ours just happened to be in a plane with this rather strange set of circumstances, but… that’s our story.  I wouldn’t change it.  I like our story.”

He hummed thoughtfully.  “I like our story, too.  I just…” he trailed off before letting out a breath.

“You just what?” I asked picking my head up and looking at him.

He shrugged, meeting my eyes.  “I just wouldn’t have chosen that.  That’s not what I wanted our first time to be like.  That’s not what it was supposed to be.”

I quirked a brow.  “What was it supposed to be?”

He chuckled, “I dunno… just… not that.  Not that it meant anything less to me, I just… I wasn’t sure at the time what that really meant.  And I wasn’t really, fully invested, or… coherent,” he laughed.  

I snorted, “Yeah, I kind of basically raped you.”

He let out a huge guffaw.  “That’s not what I’d call it, no.  I was completely willing.  I was just… not able to participate the way I would have wanted to.”

I nodded.  “Sure, I get that.”

“You really wouldn’t change anything?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

I considered him a minute.  “Well, I could have done with less ‘Threat to Life May Be Immediate.’”

He snorted, “Right.  But nothing else?  You didn’t want anything else?  Anything more?”

I let out a quick breath, taking a minute to really think it over.  “Did I want something more from you,” I said, reiterating his question.  “No.  Honestly, no.  I wanted whatever I could give you.  It wasn’t about me.  Or I hadn’t thought so at the time.  I mean, you got me off, and I had a hard time just disconnecting from what my head was telling me and what my heart was.  But… for the most part, I hope I was thinking more about you and less about myself.”  My eyebrows pulled down.  “That would have been really shitty if I was thinking more, or only, about me.  I just reacted, ya know?  I knew you needed something else, something more, that what I was doing wasn’t enough, and so… that thought just kind of flew in there, and I went with it.”  

I looked up at him, my hand moving to caress his cheek, “I mean it, though.  I wouldn’t change anything.  That’s us.  That’s how it happened, and I’m happy with that.  I’m happy with that memory.”

“Mmm,” he hummed again.

“Are you?” I asked, curious now. “Are you happy with that memory?”

He sighed, kissing my forehead.  “Of course I’m happy with that memory.  It’s the best one of the plane I’ve got, Kristen.”  He sighed, looking back up at the ceiling, “I guess I just wanted more for you.  I wanted you to have something more, something else, whatever you would have imagined it to be like.”

He was so adorably sweet.

“Thank you,” I said sincerely, “I really… I do appreciate it, that you want that for me, but I wouldn’t change any part of us, ya know?”

He looked down again, nodding.  I moved up, kissing him quickly, chastely almost, before deepening the kiss and letting my tongue slip in his mouth to tangle with his own.  I loved kissing him.  He was always passionate enough about it to just have, like, epically long make-out sessions.  Like, he never got bored.  Which was awesome.  Eventually one, or both, of us would make things progress, but he never hurried, he was never overly eager to just stop kissing.  And it never really stopped once we actually started sex either—we were both very oral, apparently.  

This time was no different.  We’d shifted slightly and we were both lying on our sides, our hands roaming over fabric and angles and curves.  He pulled away and rested his forehead against mine.  My hands were framing his face, our breath mingling and our breathing erratic.  He was studying my eyes like there was some deep mystery he was going to solve there.  I smiled at him, questioning why we were stopping but not asking verbally.

“Can I show you?”

I quirked my head.  “Show me what, baby?”

“I want to show you what it would have been like.”

My breath left me and I could only nod back in answer.  What I really wanted to say was that he didn’t have to.  That whatever he’d shown me already was more than enough.  That the possibility of what I could have had years ago might just possibly push me over into pure insanity and cause me to curse the time I wasted when he was just there, patiently waiting.  Instead, I decided that I had him now, and that was all that really mattered.  The fact that he was willing, that he wanted to still give me this second first time, just…

“Show me,” I whispered.

~ ~ ~

RPOV

You fucking bet I’ll show you.  

Well, that was my first thought anyway.  I’d spent an extravagantly long time thinking about this.  Actually, it was quite ridiculous how long I’d spent thinking about this moment.  About what I would have wanted for her, for us, if we hadn’t had our first sexual encounter in the middle of a crashed airplane.  I’d invented about a thousand different scenarios, some completely ridiculous and implausible, others not unique or distinct enough for what this meant to me, for what I wanted to give her.  

I always came back to this.  If I could have, and I wasn’t completely terrified of traveling by air again, I would have staged it in a more familiar environment. Or maybe not, considering it was fucking cold there, but the point is, I always came back to the same idea: That nothing should change except the circumstance in which we found ourselves.  Because had I been able, and had she been willing without the plane crash, I would have done things completely differently, obviously.  

I wonder sometimes what would have happened if we hadn’t crashed.  It’s preposterous and probably pretty bizarre for someone to say that they were happy a plane crashed, or that they were overjoyed with the prospects of what that crash made possible, but I couldn’t help myself.  How could I not be thankful that it brought us together?  That it brought me her?  

I rolled her on her back, going with her until I was lying to the side of her, my mouth never leaving hers again after she gave my plan the go-ahead.  Her hands were in my hair, pulling me closer, touching my face, and mine mirrored hers, my chest putting slight pressure on her breast.  She moaned into my mouth, and it was pretty fucking awesome to get that response from kissing alone.

I shifted to move between her legs, and the minute I started, she parted them with no hesitation, like she’d just been waiting for me to move there, like it was the place I was supposed to be.  I settled myself between those gorgeous, agile, limber legs and resumed kissing her, groaning into her mouth when those same sinuous legs hooked over my thighs, her heels digging into my jeans.  

I slowed the kissing but ground my hips into her, her back arching up into me and her head falling back, her hands moved to hold onto my neck, fingers interlocking like that would keep her tethered to me.  As if I’d let her go.  I backed up, propping myself on my elbows and her arms extended with me, eyes fluttering open and looking up at me in question.  

The pure, unadulterated joy that was bouncing around in my chest was just itching to spew forth in some insane form of giggles—I couldn’t help it, it’s just the way that shit manifested sometimes—but it was so inappropriate here, so I just smiled down at her.  She smiled back, looking up at me hazily and licking her lips.  

Well, that just set me off then.  My body dropped to hers again as my hips dug in, my mouth fusing to hers and my hands threading into her silky hair.  Plundered would be a really good word for what I was doing to her mouth.  Like her mouth was a village to be pillaged and I was looting the shit out of it.  Her hair smelled like a delicious combination of vanilla and coconut and I was pretty sure her damn shampoo would make me hard now every goddamn time I smelled it.  Her mouth was swollen when I pulled back and she looked… shit… she looked ravaged already and we hadn’t even started really.  Her hair was a mess, my fault; her face was flushed, my fault; her hair was all over the pillow, my fault; and her hips were rolling up into me, pretty sure that was my fault, too.  

I dove in for one more kiss before charting other waters, my mouth moving down her face, nuzzling and kissing her neck, biting her earlobe, which brought hands to my neck again, and her breasts pushed up into my chest.  I kissed lower, moving down to the neckline of her shirt, and slowly undid the top button of her blouse, open-mouth kissing and licking any spot that became visible with every new button.  The shirt was purple.  Dark purple.  I’m sure it had an actual color name, but as my dick was doing a lot of thinking here, I couldn’t come up with what the fuck it’d actually be called.  And since it was going to be off of her soon, I didn’t think it really mattered.  

When I reached the last button, I looked up at her, her eyes slightly glassy, her pupils dilated, and her chest heaving.  It was almost enough right there to move the fabric with her breathing alone, but I was happy to help it along, parting the two pieces of fabric and reveling at the expanse of creamy flesh that greeted me.  

I forced my gaze up to her face and she was smiling softly, her fingertips brushing along the fabric of my shirt, just skirting it, not touching me while I just appreciated the first present I was unwrapping.  She was like that—a gift.  Like a personal gift that was just as eager to be opened as I was to open it.  

I smiled softly and let my mouth worship her some more, making sure no part of her was untouched or not caressed.  My hands moved to her bra, massaging her breasts through the material, while my mouth made her shiver in the slightly cool air.  Her chest arched, offering me her breasts, and I made one last swipe from her hips up to her sternum, stopping to lavish attention on her navel before I urged her to sit up.  I peeled off the shirt quickly, the bra was off the next second, and I had her pressed back into the sleeping bag the next.  I could be quite efficient when I had a mission.  

Whichever breast I was not attached to orally was being manipulated by a hand, so I made her squeal and arch and groan and a whole shitload of other sounds that didn’t have accurate descriptions while nipping and biting and tweaking her nipples.  I should have recorded the appetizing stream of delectable auditory noises she was making, reverberating in my head and around the room like the best harmony I’d heard in years, a constant beat in my head, like she was throbbing with need.  

That made two of us.

My dick was pressing so hard against the fly of my jeans I thought it might just break the damn zipper.  She kept mixing shit together—whimpers and moans, sharp intakes of breath, and choppy, breathy releases of air—it was seriously fucking with my need to take things slow.  And I admit, I was probably a little overzealous with her breasts.  I loved her breasts, though—pert and soft, but silky, small but reactive, and just… they begged for my mouth to be on them any time they were within a ten-foot radius of me.  They were a lot like her, actually, a perfect metaphor for herself.  Perfect.  

So, yes, the breasts… well… tended to?  That’s a fair phrase I think.  They were well-tended to by the time I decided to move on, my hands still kneading as I kissed my way down her body again.  Her hands had been a variety of places throughout my tending, in my hair, and gripping onto any part of me she could reach.  

As I reached her hips, I tipped my head up, moving one of her hands to her breast and smirking, encouraging her to take over for me while I explored other parts of her body.  I was torn, actually, between continuing and keeping up the pleasure for her, and watching her play with her own nipple.  I’d watched her enough times to know what she liked, so it wasn’t like I needed to observe for observational purposes or whatever—seriously—dick-thinking, words are just not coming at the same speed.  But just watching her pleasure herself, fuck, I’d probably be halfway through an orgasm in about two minutes.  Probably less.

So, with some effort, I forced myself to refocus, reminding myself that this wasn’t about me right now.  It was about showing her.  So, while she was happily manipulating those wonderful breasts, probably biting her lip while she was moaning—that’s what it fucking sounded like anyway—her hips were undulating, like she was just waiting for me to get there.  And I didn’t want to keep her waiting longer than necessary.  I made short work of the pants she was wearing—the underwear, too—again, slightly impatient.  But she didn’t seem to mind, and it wasn’t like I needed to go slow for any reason.  I just needed them off.  She needed them off.  We needed them off.  

And once they were off and she was lying there naked in front of me, I just let out a choked breath and marveled for a minute at all the flesh that was just there before me, all… mine.  Fuck.  

She let out a sigh and my eyes tore up to hers, lingering on her breasts for a minute.  “You’re amazing,” I blurted, not really intending to, but hey, it just came out.  She smiled and blushed, which was pretty amazing in itself given that her whole body had this pink flush to it.  

It was beautiful.  She was beautiful.  

“You’re beautiful.”  

Atta boy.  

She let out a gasp-y breath, tears collecting.  I shook my head.  “I’m sorry.”

She shook hers back at me wildly.  “Don’t be.  It’s just… all overwhelming tonight.  I don’t know what to do with it all, ya know?  I’m just…” She swallowed and a tear slipped out.  I moved quickly, swiping at it and lying next to her for a minute.  She pulled me to her mouth and we kissed softly, a series of languid motions.  I didn’t need her to tell me why she was emotional.  She made me feel that way every day.  She broke the kiss and put her forehead against mine before she pulled my head down and kissed my forehead, too.  “Thank you,” she whispered as she let my head come back up.  “I love you.”

I smiled gently.  “I love you, too.”

She nodded and the tears were mostly gone, so I figured that meant I could start again, following the same path down, making sure I didn’t leave anything missed again.  She chuckled at me this time and I smirked up.  What?  It’s not like I was going to let an opportunity slip.  

When I reached her hips this time, there was nothing to stop me from going lower.  I shifted so I was lying down, my thumbs following the groove between her hips and her thighs, one on each leg, tracing it until I reached the material of the sleeping bag.  I deliberately missed every really sensitive part, but that didn’t stop her thighs from tightening and her hands going right back to her fucking breasts.  Damn it.  I traced the grooves again in spite, not that it fucking changed anything, and then concentrated on my plan.  

The plan, of course, had been a work in progress.  Probably for months.  Years maybe.  There was just something so fucking… I mean, this was such a… fuck.  What the fuck was I really supposed to say here?  She’s laid out for me, completely naked, her pussy’s literally inches away from me, she’s completely drenched, like literally leaking all over the goddamn sleeping bag, and everything’s swollen and pink and flaring, and the fucking heat coming off of her was basically perceptible—like heat waves or some shit.  And like, my whole, entire, world is totally reduced to this utterly intimate part of her, and… I have literally no idea where the fuck I was going with that sentence.  My brain just shut off.  Or maybe a different brain took over.  

I didn’t want to make her wait.  I didn’t want to tease her.  I didn’t want her to beg me for anything, or ask me for anything, I just wanted to give her whatever she wanted, what I knew she needed.  So my thumbs parted her and my mouth attached to her clit, and my lips and chin were instantly covered in her wetness, and you couldn’t find a happier man in the whole entire universe.  Her hips bucked and she let out the throatiest fucking groan and came right there.  Her body was jerking and I’d only sucked her clit.  I hadn’t even gotten around to putting my fingers in her and she was already coming apart.  

She was beautiful normally; she was exquisite when she was coming.  The flush on her body reached epic heights, her hair was all over, and the sounds were enough to make me come.  Literally, if I made a recording, I could fucking orgasm from just listening to her and never touch myself.  

I didn’t let her come down.  When the first orgasm was on the downswing, and I could tell her clit was in that overly sensitive state, I backed off with my mouth but slipped three fingers inside her.  Her muscles were still contracting and she gasped at having something to clench on, her eyes darting down to me, a somewhat surprised look on her face.  I had the decency to not smirk and curled my fingers instead, feeling inside her and pressing against her front wall, my other hand on top of her pubic bone pressing down, pressing against each other.  Steady pressure on the outside, up and down and towards me on the inside, and it took maybe all of twenty seconds and she was coming apart again, screaming my name and gripping at the sleeping bag, her head thrown back and her limbs convulsive, and she’s so responsive, and there’s always so much wetness.  I just… there’s no fucking way to explain what that feels like—what it feels like to know that I make her that way.  That it’s me who’s creating the reaction.  

Serious brain meltdown.  

My brain was complete goo just watching her body jerk like she’s a marionette, like a puppet with its strings tied to me.  I slowed my fingers inside her, just giving her something to clench on, and rubbed gently.  Fucking hell.  I was seriously gonna lose it and come in my stupid, restrictive, binding jeans.  I tried thinking about nonsexual things, but everything I came up with just led me back to sex.  How could it not?  My fingers were inside her, my other hand was rubbing her abdomen, and she was still shaking, less pronounced but electric, like tremors, and I was witnessing it all.  Hell, I could feel it all.  I could feel it inside of her.  I could feel it outside.  I could see it, taste it, smell it, hear it.  

Shit.  

It was like my own private porn show, only, ya know, more romantic and shit, and less staged, and there was no horrible dialogue, and fuck, I loved her.  

Christ.  

I rested my head on her thigh, my fingers still inside her, my breathing shot, and holy fuck, I mean, I felt like I’d come and I hadn’t, but… Jesus, the intensity, I felt tired for her.  And me.  Her chest was heaving and I was pretty sure there were tears there again, but I was kind of too tired to move at the moment.  Her hands were still shaky and she started reaching for me, and I struggled to meet her even halfway.  I removed my fingers gently, my whole entire hand up to the fucking wrist just coated in her wetness, and I chuckled lowly when she grabbed onto the first thing she came in contact with.  She hauled me up her body by the ears, and honestly, I had no idea if she wanted me to hold her or get inside her, and I realized that no matter what she wanted, I didn’t care.  I’d be happy with either.  

God, I was such a pussy when it came to her.  I mean, not really, but here?  Now?  It didn’t even matter.  I would have done anything for her.  I would have normally, too, but just… this was so completely amplified.  

When I got about halfway there, she took her hands off of my ears and they grabbed the hem of my t-shirt.  She was naked and had just come twice and I hadn’t taken an article of clothing off.  She left me to deal with getting my shirt off as I could feel her fingers at my jeans while I was getting the shirt over my head.  By the time I had it off, she had me unbuttoned and unzipped and was anxiously trying to force my jeans and boxer-briefs off.  I think I’d drained about an ocean’s worth of pre-come just in anticipation and from watching her.  

She reached for me then, her hands held out like an embrace, like she wanted to just hug the life out of me, and I went willingly, happy with whatever she wanted from me.  So, I was more anticipating the holding and cuddling and less anticipating her grabbing my dick the second I buried my nose in her neck.  I backed up slightly, groaning because I’d been hard for about eighteen hours, or something equally ridiculous, and if I didn’t get inside her soon, and she kept touching me, she was going to have a nice mess to clean up all over her stomach.  I don’t think she really would have minded, honestly, but from the look she shot me—somewhere between wanton lust and desperation—she preferred inside her.  

I let her position me, holding my weight off of her until I started to sink in, and then I buried my nose in her neck again, inhaling the Kristen-vanilla-coconut and just getting completely drunk on the mixture of her and her shampoo and her sex all around me.  I pressed my nose in deeper, like a fucking carnal alcoholic for her, and groaned probably completely pathetically as I drove inside her.  She was still impossibly tight, her walls enclosing around me like a fucking compressor, and the soft silkiness of her caressing around my dick like a vice in an inferno.  

My cock was pulsing—I could feel everything, so fucking hypersensitive that I swore I could feel her heartbeat around me.  Her hands were on my back, scraping and kneading and hugging like she had so many emotions surging through her that she didn’t know which to manifest first.  Her hips kept shifting to meet me and I realized that I’d been moving like the entire fucking time and hadn’t really noticed.  I wanted to be gentle with her, and I mean, I wasn’t rough, but she was scrambling at my body, so I really didn’t think soft and slow was gonna work for this one.  

I finally managed to pull myself away from her neck, and I pushed myself up, hovering over her, driving my cock into her over and over.  She met me thrust for thrust, her legs wrapped around me, her hands darting out to rub over my nipples, and jesusfuckingchrist, CHEATING.  

I groaned and my eyes closed of their own volition, and my hips did the same fucking thing—shoving forward of their own volition—and I could hear her keening and urging and…

…I was pretty sure I had an aneurysm.  

…or it could have very well been a stroke, too.  

Because when I finally actually fucking, like, knew where the hell I was, I was all nestled against her chest, one of her hands was on my back, her other was stroking through my hair, and I felt like I couldn’t move even if the fucking house was on fire.

I think my brain and all its faculties, as well as all limb-response, drained out of my dick with the orgasm.  I was a brainless, functionless mass of sexual depravity.  And a damn happy one at that.  

Though, as tired as I was, and as tired as I’m sure she was, I wasn’t finished.

That one had been sort of just the edge-eradicator.  I hadn’t wanted our first time to be fast or hard.  I wanted her to feel loved, like she was the most important person in the world, because she was to me, and that I cared enough to treat her like she deserved to be treated.  

So, I extricated myself from her hold gently and pushed myself up.  I hadn’t left her, and my cock was still gratefully half-hard, hardening more by the moment.  She smiled when I jerked my hips up, just a small stroke, but enough that if she really wanted to be done, she’d know to tell me to stop.  

She snorted at me when I started moving again.

I smirked.  "That... kinda wasn't what I had planned.  Not really what I wanted to show you," I said, kind of... not embarrassed, but just... it wasn't what I'd wanted. 

She smiled.  "I think you showed me plenty, Rob."

Her voice was so wrecked. 

"Not enough," I whispered.  "Never enough."

Her breath hitched and she said nothing else, her hands pushing up into my chest, her eyelids dropping as I pushed inside again experimentally.  She arched and moaned, and every time I thought she couldn’t get any sexier, she’d prove me wrong.  Because I let my head drop slightly, which basically meant I could watch myself move inside her, and fucking hell, watching her thigh muscles tighten while feeling them do the same around me, and watching my cock get lost inside her over and over while she lifted her hips to meet me every time, feeling her clenching on me, it was like sinking into burning, tight, velvety satin on every stroke, and having the visual to go along with the feeling was...  God.  

I peeled my eyes away from where we were joined and focused on her face, the flush spread over her chest, her breasts, and up to her face again.  Her nipples were hard and jutting outward, begging for my mouth to suckle them, and her body arched into me when I did that, too.  Her hands were sweaty and scrambling all over my back, and they felt so tiny.  She really was tiny.  

I was covering her completely, keeping my body weight off of her fully with my elbows, but I just… I wanted her closer.  I curled both arms under her, fanning out my fingers and lifting her to me as I started to shift up to my knees.  She went without hesitation, her arms moving around my neck to hold on, while I moved one hand to brace her neck as her hair spread out like some sort of feathery plume behind her.  I anchored her to me and shifted my legs underneath my body to sit cross-legged without leaving her.  She was breathing heavily, her arms locked around my neck as we adjusted, her legs firmly wrapped around my waist.  She was clinging to me like I had wanted to be clinging to her—maybe the need to be closer was mutual, too.

Her face had been buried in my neck, her arms moving to hug my back, and… shit, holding her like this, holding her to my chest and feeling her heartbeat and her harsh, warm breathing, her breasts trapped between us, her tiny form literally cradled in my arms, I don’t think I’d ever felt as protective of her.  I’d do anything to keep her safe, to keep her right there, protected.  I’d die for her.  And I suppose that’s an odd thing to be thinking about, but not really—when else would be more appropriate?  My entire world was right there in my arms, and keeping it there, I’d fight until there was nothing left if it meant she was safe.  I’m not sure exactly why this need to just hold onto her hit me right then, but she seemed content and happy at my suddenly protective nature, and maybe all those months of her protecting me, maybe this was her acknowledging it was nice to feel sheltered, too.  That she was just as happy as I was that it was always reciprocal.  

She pulled back then, her hands on my face, and kissed me.  She didn’t have a lot of leverage from this position because she wasn’t uncurling her legs from my waist, and that was fine with me.  We couldn’t get any closer than this position—there was no part of her that wasn’t in contact with me in some way.  Her hands started moving to my hair, alternating there and back to my face, running her thumbs over my cheekbones and slipping her tongue in my mouth.  Granted, I didn’t have a lot of leverage either, but that wasn’t really my intent with this anyway.  I hadn’t meant for her to buck herself all over me, and I wasn’t in a hurry to move either.  So we wound up sitting for a long time, just sweeping our lips together and letting tongues mingle while noses brushed and foreheads touched and breathing synchronized.  

When I actually started to move again, it was slow and nominal, enough that I could nudge inside her and press a little deeper, but never more than a gentle rocking motion.  
And shit, this was almost better than actual vigorous fucking.  Because the way my skin was humming now, so completely enthralled and swathed in her, like it was charged with her essence, like there was absolutely nothing at all between us, was so much better.  

We stayed like that for a long time; just pleasingly connected, and the heat and warmth between us was unbelievable—the two were completely different.  The heat was intense, raw, physical, with our shared body heat mingling and causing more dampness over my hair, the back of my neck.  I could feel the added moisture all over her body, too—the dampness that was permeating her own hair, the way her chest was sliding against mine more fluidly with the gentle rocking.  The warmth was something less physical, something more internal, a burning in my chest.  Like my heart was reacting to her, like it just might burn itself out with all the intense love and adoration I felt towards her.  Like this burning inside me was what was keeping me alive, and if it stopped, I’d burn out with it—empty and lacking the fire necessary to keep going.  

I pulled her impossibly closer and held her tighter, my face buried in her neck.  She tightened her grip on me responsively, her hand running over the back of my head.  

“Baby, you ok?” she asked in a whisper.

Sometimes I hated that she knew me so well.  That she could instinctively tell when there was a shift in my emotions without seeing or hearing me at all, like she was just that attuned to everything about me, something intrinsic and soulful.  

I didn’t answer; how could I?  How could I explain that if I didn’t have her, my world would cease to exist—that it felt like that?  That was a hell of a lot of responsibility to put on her.  And it was unfair, because it was something I didn’t want to ask for, not matter how much I wanted to.  It was a selfish thing, just me being vulnerable and exposed because I had no real reason to ask in the first place, no reason to believe that it would change.  

She pulled back and I avoided her gaze for a minute, but she forced my face up to meet hers.  She studied me for a moment, and again, it was one of those times that I didn’t want us to be able to read each other so well.  Her eyes were slightly hazy, but still vibrant, though the pupils were completely blown, desire and lust and love all rushing out at me.  

“I’m not going anywhere,” she breathed across my face.  

The air left me completely and she gave it right back to me when she kissed me after making sure I heard her.  How… I hadn’t said anything, had I?  I… No, I was sure I hadn’t.  I moved quickly, shifting us back to the sleeping bag, needing to… needing to put all that aside and just finish this with her.   

I let my weight drop onto her then and she only groaned in response, pulling me to her like she enjoyed the pressure.  She smiled up at me, touching my face, pulling my head down to meet her mouth.  The kissing was sloppy, messy.  Half the time we didn’t really connect fully at all because we were both moving against each other.  And it wasn’t like we really gave a shit either—sometimes it was more just giving your mouth something to occupy its time with.  Gentle lip caresses or kisses that missed the mark completely said just as much to me, were just as meaningful.  

I could feel her stomach muscles clenching as I moved over her, my body sliding over the damp softness of her skin, my chest stroking over the mounds of her breasts as she arched her pebbled nipples up to rub against me.  I loved how soft she was, how delicate she always seemed to me in this state.  I let my head move to the side of her face, her cheek pressing into mine.  We were panting in each other’s ears in some sort of backwards unison—when I exhaled, she inhaled, like the air was only moving between us, shared.  

I was riding such a fine line here because this wasn’t just any random passionate fuck session—I wanted to be gentle with her, or as gentle as she’d let me be.  And that warred with this all-consuming need to make her mine, and sometimes I needed to relegate that almost desperate feeling I had and just remind myself that I didn’t need it to be rough to make her mine.  It wasn’t like she complained during the times it was rougher, she gave just as good as she got, and sometimes, I think just the rougher rutting was good for both of us.  She’d fucked me over thoroughly loads of times—marks, hickeys, visual representations of her love, her claim—but this wasn’t about ownership or claim; I knew she was mine.  

Deep down, I think I always knew that.  And I wanted her to know that without me marking her.  

So I was gentle with my thrusting, but insistent, deep, long strokes, the pace somewhat faster than before, my weight pinning her and her body pushing at me in every way possible, surrounding me.  That was an odd thing we could manage, that I could be completely smothering her tiny form and she could still be capable of completely enveloping me in herself.  It was just one of those things between us.  

I wanted to wait for her, and I could tell that, thankfully, I wouldn’t be waiting long.  Her legs were starting to tremble around me, and I made sure my strokes forced me to rub against her clit.  Her hands had been roaming but were now clutching and pulling me closer, like it was even possible anymore to be closer than we were.  If it had been, I would have been a permanent part of her a long time ago.  Hell, maybe I was.  I let my hands wander up to her hair and face, backing up just enough so our mouths could fuse together again when we came.  

I don’t think I’d ever get enough of watching her come, the way it was a full-body experience: The way her whole body just clamped down on me, reducing my entire world to a series of muscle spasms, her legs flexing and cinching around me, her arms clutching at my neck and shoulders, wrapping herself around me, the way her eyes would slam shut when the first shudders hit and she’d force them open to watch me come.  I could get lost in so many parts of her.  

I pushed inside a few more times before letting go—her name was a whisper that she swallowed up with her mouth.  Our eyes locked as I felt the rush of my release surge inside her, her inner muscles greedily and hungrily fluttering around my cock.  Her hands shifted from my back to grip my ass, holding me to her, and fuck, I loved when she did that.  It was one of those needy desperation things that I’d do, and in an odd way, made me feel like she needed me half as much as I needed her.  Slowly, she shifted her hips and legs to hold me instead, her hands moving to my face and pulling me down to her mouth while I rested inside her, feeling the last tremors of my orgasm ebb and fall off.    

We kissed slowly as she came down, her legs loosening their hold on me, her body spent and sated.  I pushed myself up tiredly, rocking gently in her, and completely caught up in the fact that her muscles hadn’t let go yet, like they were rebelling against my exit, and fuck if that didn’t make me want to start all over again—if I thought I wouldn’t pass out in the middle of it.  

I smiled, shivering while looking down at her, and I honestly don’t think it had anything to do with the temperature in the room or the sheen of sweat covering my body.  The way she looked at me sometimes just completely swallowed up my breath.  There was so much love and concern in her eyes, like I was all that mattered.  More often than not, she was all that mattered to me.  But when she looked at me like this, it was like things were even again, like it was mutual, and the feelings that forced on me were so overwhelming, the best kind of overwhelming, but daunting, too.  We both had so much wrapped up in each other, it was scary sometimes, and I knew myself, I knew I’d fuck up sometimes, but when I’d see this, it made me think it’d still be ok, that she’d still love me just the same.  

“You cold?” she asked, bringing her hand up to run through my hair.

“No,” I said shaking my head gently.

She smiled and nodded, understanding I think.  

“You wanna lie with me in the sleeping bag?” she asked after a beat.

“Absolutely,” I said quickly.

She smiled and I reluctantly drew back, pulling out of her.  Honestly, that was the one part of sex I hated.  I hated moving away from her, moving away from the feeling of her around me.  If it were at all feasible, I wouldn’t have ever left the warm sanctuary of her body.  She sighed, too, and I shot a glance at her—I think she felt similarly.  It was colder when I wasn’t inside of her.  We both moved quickly, wanting to be close again.  She curled into me while I pulled the flap back up, zipping it around us and preserving our little cocoon for longer.

I realized it had started raining while we were making love.  The rain was soft but insistent, and I smiled because it always reminded me of thousands of marbles rolling on the rooftop, or the noise that the bag of Skittles makes when some kid accidentally upends the entire thing in the movie theatre and they all roll down the theatre floor.  

A low rumble of thunder made her snuggle into me, and the flash before it illuminated her for a second in an almost ethereal light.  Her breathing had slowed, soft and gentle puffs of air floated over my chest.  She was so amazing.  And so amazingly mine.  

More amazingly mine. 






Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7a  Chapter 7b  Chapter 8  Chapter 9a  Chapter 9b  Chapter 10  Chapter 11  Chapter 12  Chapter 13  Chapter 14  Chapter 15  Chapter 16  Chapter 17a  Chapter 17b  Chapter 18a  Chapter 18b  Chapter 19a  Chapter 19b  Chapter 19c  Chapter 20  Chapter 21  Chapter 22  Chapter 23  Chapter 24  Chapter 25  Chapter 26  Chapter 27  Chapter 28  Chapter 29  Chapter 30  Chapter 31  Chapter 32  Chapter 33  Chapter 34  Chapter 35  Chapter 36  Chapter 37  Chapter 38  Chapter 39  Chapter 40  Chapter 41  Chapter 42