Page 6 of Unplanned
Who do I make time for first?
My mother will only keep calling, but she’s not the one who pays me.
I send her to voicemail and text her to say that, unfortunately, I’ll have to work late tonight.
She’ll probably be relieved about that. My input only seems to be nominal. And what do I care about who sits by whom at the reception?
Really, I have nothing to complain about. An overbearing mother? My decent paying job? A tiny but nice apartment? A man who adores me?
At most, I could use maybe an hour more of sleep at night. Or seven.
And maybe a checkup at the doctor to find out why I’ve been so fatigued and achy lately.
But other than that? No complaints. My life is good.
It’s too perfect, when you really think about it.
Three
Nico
“More, Nico!”
I’m in so deep already.
Becca pushes back harder, as if I can somehow give her more by sheer force of will.
As it is, I’m buried to the hilt.
I’m the luckiest man alive that I get to do this every day with my lifelong sweetheart. My best friend.
Being with her like this has always been the comforting bookends to my long, back-breaking days.
I reach around and rub one of her nipples.
This move always makes her even wetter.
“Nico!”
I push in, pull out, push in, pulling and rubbing at that nipple, driving her mad. At the same time, I paint soft kisses over her spine and shoulder blades. She likes the softness and the hardness together. She likes me to play with her, to pull her out of her head and bring her back to me, to the bed, to our room, to our little cocoon. She needs reminders sometimes.
Our plan was to taper off from sex in the weeks leading up to the wedding. But this is better.
It’s better for her to let it out.
Becca looks back at me over her shoulder, all out of breath and flushed and looking even more desirable than she did before this all started tonight.
When Becca had burst through the door, kicking off her heels and unbuttoning her blazer, her bun completely having fallen out, I knew it was on.
I knew she needed to fuck away all the anxiety and frustration of the day.
I live for the moments where I’m all she needs. I stay ready for her.
“Take off your shirt,” she’d said as she tossed aside her work things and her handbag and began tugging at the zipper on the side of her skirt. “Did you shower yet? No, I don’t care…come here.”
Of course, I’d showered as soon as I got home hours ago, washing away the sweat and the reek of tar and exhaust. As if I could stand to wait five minutes for a shower. But it’s adorable that Becca wouldn’t care either way.
The way she wrenched at her skirt, I knew what she wanted right away. I’d settled her down by crouching and folding her over my shoulder, carrying her off to our room. I didn’t need the skirt to come off to do what she wanted.
