Page 75 of The Write Choice

“I’m yours,” I say, my voice rough. “And you’re mine.” Her eyes darken as I dip my fingers in some purple paint, drawing a line over her jaw and down her neck. I circle her nipple, and she looks down at the trail of it, laughing breathily.

I kiss her jaw on the other side, then lean to whisper in her ear. “You were beautiful painting like that. So peaceful. So happy.” I punctuate each sentence with another kiss. She sighs, her hand finding my cock and pumping a few times. But it feels impatient, and I can’t wait either. I pull her to the floor with me. I lay on my back, and position her above me, my hands gripping those hips that haunt my dreams nightly.

Katie rests her hands on my chest as she leans forward, her round breasts dangling above me. As she lowers herself onto me, I cup one of her breasts, the paint smearing. She feels so fucking good. She’s so warm and tight, and she takes all of me inside her almost immediately. It’s better than two people who were made for each other. It’s two people who have mapped each other’s bodies over the years, knowing exactly where the treasure is, and the best route to get there.

I press a finger to her clit, and she moans. Her thighs flex as she raises and lowers herself rhythmically on my cock. I watch myself as I thrust in time with her, letting her control the depth. She takes all of me every time.

“Look at you.” I tighten my grip on her hip, pressing my fingers into her flesh. She leans back so she can sit up, letting me get the view she knows I like. “You’re fucking perfect.” She skates her hands over her curves, up on top of her breasts, and into her hair. She lifts it off her shoulders so I can see her neck.

I can’t stand not kissing the long column of her throat, so I hold her hips down to keep myself inside her as I sit up. I press my hands to her back, bringing her closer to me, and she obliges, circling her hips and driving me wild. The friction between us lands right where she needs it, and she picks up speed. Breathy moans escape her, and I know she’s close.

“Yes, Cat. That’s it,” I gently encourage her. “Fuck, you feel so good.” It’s just enough to send her over the edge. She clenches around me, her thighs slick with sweat and paint and arousal. With a few more thrusts, I’m following her, burying my cock in her warm body and my face in the crook of her neck.

After we wring every last ounce of pleasure from each other, I lay back on the floor. Katie curls up next to me, her head on my shoulder and her hand on my chest. She delicately traces the letters there. I kiss her forehead. I know we’re going to have to move soon. The floor is cold, and we’re both covered in paint. But I want to soak up this moment for a minute.

A low rumble works its way up her throat as I absentmindedly draw circles on her upper arm.

“You were right,” I say quietly. “I didn’t know you very well when we got married.”

She turns her head so her chin is resting on my chest and her eyes meet mine. “Careful. Hearing I’m right is a major turn on.”

I chuckle, moving my light circles to her upper back. “The thing is,” I say slowly, “that I love you more with every piece I learn about you.”

She studies me for a long moment before turning her head and nestling into my shoulder again. She doesn’t say anything, but I feel her smile against my skin. And her smile is all I need.

Chapter 22

Katie

Everyone is at school or work and the house is quiet when I click the red Join Call button on my tablet. While I wait, I run through all the things that have happened since the last time I spoke with my therapist. It’s probably too much to cover in the short time we have together, and I can’t decide where to start or what’s important. My mind feels like a snow globe after a child shook it up, all the thoughts glittering in their freefall through my brain. They’re all pretty, and they all look important, but they’re a mess.

Before long, Nora’s face fills the screen. She smiles warmly, the dark skin around her eyes crinkling. “Good morning, Katie. How are you doing today?”

“Fine, I think?” I don’t mean to ask it as a question, but it comes out that way, anyway. I grab a paperclip that’s laying on the desk and start twisting and untwisting it between my fingers.

“You think? What’s going on?”

I take a deep breath, eyes trained on the paperclip in my hands. “Everything feels like it’s going really well,” I say with more certainty than I feel.

“But?” Nothing gets by Nora. I should have known better.

I force myself to look at the screen where Nora waits patiently for me to answer. She’s wearing a loose-knit ochre sweater that compliments her warm skin and giant, dangling gold earrings. I wonder how she wears those all day without ripping them out of her earlobes.

She probably isn’t in a constant state of overstimulation like I am, that’s how.

I sigh, stretching my neck to the right, then the left. “On the outside, things seem great. Brandon and I had a few talks about the important stuff. Mostly why he’s been staying at work so late and how I’ve been feeling about it.” I pick at a thread on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “He kind of bared his soul to me, but I wasn’t able to give him much. I still feel like a mess.”

“What feels messy to you?” She asks it without judgment, and I try to apply the same lens to my own thoughts. I try to look at them for a moment as if I’m not anxious or disgusted by them.

“I believe him when he says he’s going to come home on time. I believe he wants to be a bigger part of the kids’ lives and mine. I always believe him, though, so…” I shrug.

Nora chuckles. “There must have been something different about it this time to make you say it.”

“There was. He seemed so upset with himself. Like all he wants is to be better for us. But as he was saying it, I kind of realized…” This is the part that’s going to be hard to admit. I swallow, then push through. “I realized I wasn’t really asking him to come home for the kids. I mean, that’s part of it, of course, but I was asking for me. Somewhere along the line, I lost everything. I have no family to speak of. All my friends were either work or drinking buddies; some of them both. Trying to paint with two small kids ended up being arts and crafts time for everyone rather than something I did for myself, so I just… stopped.” I finally look back to the screen.

“You didn’t have your coping mechanism anymore, either,” she suggests.

“Yeah. Everything changed so fast. And I was happy. I really was. But with the kids in school and Brandon still working late nights, I guess I was left looking at myself and wondering who the hell I was anymore.”