Page 65 of Love Always

“You feel that?” I straddle him and with one hand, use his cock to rub myself. He’s up on his elbows, watching me, watching us and then I slide him inside me, fast. I keep my eyes open. I want to see him feel me.

He’s still propped up and as I slide down on him, his lips part and his head falls back. His stomach quivers and then I pull up and sink back down again.

His head rises and he looks at me again and then says in a whisper, “I want to fill you up. I want to feel every part of you.” Wrapping his arms around me he then pulls us down so we’re on our sides facing each other.

He slides an arm under my head, tracing my shoulder blades with his fingernails. He smells so fucking good and then slowly, he begins to churn his hips, with his other hand between my legs, his thumb on my clit.

With a guttural intake of breath, he pulls me impossibly closer and plies my lips open, both pairs of lips. Just as his cock stretches and fills me up, his mouth grinds against mine and his tongue turns with the same rhythm as his thrusts.

He strokes my clit until it’s so swollen every nerve is raw and then he grabs my ass hard, from behind, the other hand sliding to my breast where his touch is impossibly tender. He rolls a nipple between his fingers and I moan and then it comes, I come, just as he sinks deep into me and my sex clutches his shaft, holding him, releasing him, holding him again, over and over. His entire body tenses and he curves toward me, pulling away and then grabbing my arm and pinning it behind me as he comes, his lips first pressing against my collarbones, then my shoulder.

His body convulses with each spasm, hard, and then he grips me in that final moment, when I am nerveless and limp, and he is still shuddering. I kiss his temples, his eyelids, his cheeks, stroke his hair as if trying to soothe him from a fever. His lips are dry, so I kiss that soft mouth again. He moans into me.

I can’t believe I have waited so long for this.

Suddenly, fear wicks at my soul. I never knew what was missing my whole life.

And now I do.

΅

By the time I walk up the stairs with Cory, Mateus is fully dressed, with pants on, leg adjusted, shirt tucked, belt sexily back in place. I teased him before I left to meet the bus.

Pointing to the mug of tea on the table I said, “It’s cold.”

He stood and grabbed me for one more quick, light, kiss, and then I finger combed my hair, opened the door and descended the stairs to retrieve Cory. I could still feel Mateus inside me.

Now, Cory sits with a glass of milk and two brown butter chocolate chip cookies Chloe made. His curly blond hair uncharacteristically weaves around as he eyes Mateus.

“Why he here, Momma?”

I shut my eyes remembering Mateus’s body, the spray of freckles on his shoulder, the small scar on his chest. How his body felt against mine. I crave him already. There’s a tug in my crotch.

“I’m going to be around a lot because Finn asked me to be your mom’s friend.”

Cory chews on this with a nibble of cookie chaser, and then announces: “That’s good, because friends are good.”

Mateus smiles and pulls up a chair to sit opposite him. “Friends are good. Friends look out for each other.”

“Daddies are good too,” he says suddenly and shifts his gaze from Mateus to me. Mateus pulls back and starts to smile again and then must see my face. Cory does not know how to be strategic. He is not angling for Mateus to be his father. He heard this from someone.

“Daddies are good,” I say.

“And I have a daddy. You said I didn’t, Momma. Why did you say that?” He’s not angry or hurt. He is asking for information, but the questions make my heart roll deep in my chest.

Mateus says nothing.

“Cory. I need you to answer a question.” He stops chewing and holds up a finger while he takes a swallow of milk and wipes his mouth with the paper towel I gave him. Cory needs to be reminded what a question is sometimes, and I’ve found it easier just to tell him something is a question. He still can’t hear the inflection or anticipate the speaker wants an answer from him. It’s taken me a year to figure this out.

“Did a man tell you he was your daddy?”

He nods his head very slowly and then starts picking at his second cookie. “Yes,” he says, and then goes on. “He said I have a daddy and that daddies are good.”

Mateus doesn’t move a muscle, except to reach under the table to take my hand. Normally I would pull way, go it alone, not allow myself to let another person into my issues with Cory, but this seems so normal, so intimate, so right. He squeezes my hand and I keep mine tucked in his.

“Well, daddies are good.”

“And I do have a daddy, because he said he was my daddy. He told the cafeteria teacher.”