“He agreed to have a baby with me, but when I lost it, he looked so relieved. Then-” she pauses to hide her watery eyes and take a sip of coffee, “-then he said maybe it was for the best.”
I flinch.
“We made it a few more months after that, then I asked him to leave.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to go back to life as he knew it. He was happy and laughing. In his mind, we tried and it wasn’t meant to be. I couldn’t go back after that. It was my second miscarriage.” She looks up at me and I nod.
“Whoever thought the cold, heartless Olivia Kaspen would want to have children?” She smiles bitterly.
“I knew you would,” I say. “It was just a matter of time and healing.”
We finish our drinks in silence. When we stand up, I stop a few feet away from the trashcan with my coffee cup in my hand.
“Olivia?”
“Yeah?”
“If I make this shot, will you go out with me?” I hold my cup like it’s a basketball and look from her to the trashcan.
“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “Yeah, I will.”
I make the shot.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
This is the start of our life. This is our choice. We barely have our shit together. I terminated my contract in London, moved home and sold my condo. She sold hers too, and we moved into an apartment near both of our jobs. It’s not even a nice apartment — there is too much linoleum and our neighbors fight constantly. But, we don’t care. We just wanted to ditch the past and be together. We’ll figure it out. Might take some time. We don’t have a plan yet, we don’t even have furniture, but we are both okay with the surrender. We have little fights all the time. She hates that I don’t throw away my trash — water bottles, cookie bags, candy wrappers. She finds them all over the apartment and makes a big show of crinkling them up and throwing them in the trash. I hate the way she soaks the bathroom floor. The woman doesn’t dry herself. Goddamn if it’s nice to look at her soaking body as she walks from the bathroom to the bedroom, but use a f**king towel already. She always makes the bed. I always do the dishes. She drinks milk straight from the carton and that kind of pisses me off, but then she reminds me that she has to live with my snoring and I call it even. But, holy hell is she fun. How did I not know that we could laugh this much? Or sit in absolute silence and listen to music together? How did I live without this for so long? I watch her sit on one of our two chairs, one from her house, one from mine — her fingers clipping lightly across her keyboard. It still feels like I’m dreaming when I come home to her every night. I love this dream!
I lean over her neck as she works and kiss her on her sweet spot. She shivers. “Stop it, I’m trying to work.”
“I don’t really care, Duchess…”
I kiss her again, my hand sliding down the front of her shirt. Her breath catches. I can’t see her face, but I know her eyes are closed. I step around the front of her chair and I extend my hand to her. She looks at it for a long moment. The longest moment. Without looking away from me, she sets her computer down and stands up. We are still getting to know each other sexually. She’s a little timid, and I’m afraid of being too aggressive and chasing her away. But, here we are. I struck my match, she poured out her gasoline. We burn now. All the time.
I lead her to my bed, stopping at the foot to pull her against me. I kiss her for a long time. I kiss her until she’s leaning into me so much I have to hold her up.
“Do I make you feel weak?” I say this against her mouth.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You take away my control.”
I unzip the back of her dress and slip the sleeves from her shoulders. Every single sexual encounter with Olivia is a balancing act; part seduction, part psychoanalysis. I have to wrestle with her demons to get her legs to open. I love it and I hate it.
“Why do you always need to have control?”
“So, I don’t get hurt.”
I don’t make a big deal of anything she’s saying. I work at taking off her clothes. When I reach her bra, I pull down the cups instead of taking it off completely. I hold one of her br**sts with one hand. My other arm is wrapped around her waist so she can’t get away. Not that she would try. I think by now, I have her.
“Do you like feeling weak?”
If I look over her shoulder, I can see the entire rear of her in my dresser mirror. She is wearing a white lace panty.
I eye her legs as I wait for her answer. My heart is pounding; the rest of me is aching. I already know her answer. I know she likes to feel weak. It is a thrill for her to yield, though it costs her something every time she does. I want to eliminate the emotional fear and get her to the point where she just enjoys it.
“Yes.”
“I won’t leave you,” I say. “I won’t ever love another woman.”
I let go of her breast and let my hand trail between her legs. Pulling the material aside, I touch her. I’ve learned that leaving her underwear on until right before I take her helps the process. You have to strip this woman’s defenses away slowly.
She falls back on the bed, and I slide on top of her. She unclasps her own bra and throws it to her left.
“Wanna try something new?”
She nods.
I make her straddle me, and then turn her around so she’s facing away. She can see herself in the mirror this way. I’m curious to see if she’ll watch.
She leans forward, putting her hands flat on the bed between my knees, and begins to roll her hips in a circular movement. It’s times like these that I am unsure of who is really made weak by whom. This woman was made for sex. She’s so inhibited, but when she lets go, I am given the most sensual ride of my life. Both of her hands are flat on my chest. She rocks back and forth as she rides me. She throws her head back and her hair is so long it sweeps my knees. I have never seen anything more erotic and beautiful in my life. When her head rolls forward, her hair cascades into her face. I wrap it around my hand and pull her to kiss me. While I’m playing with her tongue, I flip her over. She protests and I nip her on the shoulder, which seems to shut her up. I am behind her and I have her on her knees, but instead of bending her over, I run my hands down her arms and grab her wrists, guiding her hands to the frame of the bed so she’s half upright.
I flinch.
“We made it a few more months after that, then I asked him to leave.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to go back to life as he knew it. He was happy and laughing. In his mind, we tried and it wasn’t meant to be. I couldn’t go back after that. It was my second miscarriage.” She looks up at me and I nod.
“Whoever thought the cold, heartless Olivia Kaspen would want to have children?” She smiles bitterly.
“I knew you would,” I say. “It was just a matter of time and healing.”
We finish our drinks in silence. When we stand up, I stop a few feet away from the trashcan with my coffee cup in my hand.
“Olivia?”
“Yeah?”
“If I make this shot, will you go out with me?” I hold my cup like it’s a basketball and look from her to the trashcan.
“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “Yeah, I will.”
I make the shot.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
This is the start of our life. This is our choice. We barely have our shit together. I terminated my contract in London, moved home and sold my condo. She sold hers too, and we moved into an apartment near both of our jobs. It’s not even a nice apartment — there is too much linoleum and our neighbors fight constantly. But, we don’t care. We just wanted to ditch the past and be together. We’ll figure it out. Might take some time. We don’t have a plan yet, we don’t even have furniture, but we are both okay with the surrender. We have little fights all the time. She hates that I don’t throw away my trash — water bottles, cookie bags, candy wrappers. She finds them all over the apartment and makes a big show of crinkling them up and throwing them in the trash. I hate the way she soaks the bathroom floor. The woman doesn’t dry herself. Goddamn if it’s nice to look at her soaking body as she walks from the bathroom to the bedroom, but use a f**king towel already. She always makes the bed. I always do the dishes. She drinks milk straight from the carton and that kind of pisses me off, but then she reminds me that she has to live with my snoring and I call it even. But, holy hell is she fun. How did I not know that we could laugh this much? Or sit in absolute silence and listen to music together? How did I live without this for so long? I watch her sit on one of our two chairs, one from her house, one from mine — her fingers clipping lightly across her keyboard. It still feels like I’m dreaming when I come home to her every night. I love this dream!
I lean over her neck as she works and kiss her on her sweet spot. She shivers. “Stop it, I’m trying to work.”
“I don’t really care, Duchess…”
I kiss her again, my hand sliding down the front of her shirt. Her breath catches. I can’t see her face, but I know her eyes are closed. I step around the front of her chair and I extend my hand to her. She looks at it for a long moment. The longest moment. Without looking away from me, she sets her computer down and stands up. We are still getting to know each other sexually. She’s a little timid, and I’m afraid of being too aggressive and chasing her away. But, here we are. I struck my match, she poured out her gasoline. We burn now. All the time.
I lead her to my bed, stopping at the foot to pull her against me. I kiss her for a long time. I kiss her until she’s leaning into me so much I have to hold her up.
“Do I make you feel weak?” I say this against her mouth.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You take away my control.”
I unzip the back of her dress and slip the sleeves from her shoulders. Every single sexual encounter with Olivia is a balancing act; part seduction, part psychoanalysis. I have to wrestle with her demons to get her legs to open. I love it and I hate it.
“Why do you always need to have control?”
“So, I don’t get hurt.”
I don’t make a big deal of anything she’s saying. I work at taking off her clothes. When I reach her bra, I pull down the cups instead of taking it off completely. I hold one of her br**sts with one hand. My other arm is wrapped around her waist so she can’t get away. Not that she would try. I think by now, I have her.
“Do you like feeling weak?”
If I look over her shoulder, I can see the entire rear of her in my dresser mirror. She is wearing a white lace panty.
I eye her legs as I wait for her answer. My heart is pounding; the rest of me is aching. I already know her answer. I know she likes to feel weak. It is a thrill for her to yield, though it costs her something every time she does. I want to eliminate the emotional fear and get her to the point where she just enjoys it.
“Yes.”
“I won’t leave you,” I say. “I won’t ever love another woman.”
I let go of her breast and let my hand trail between her legs. Pulling the material aside, I touch her. I’ve learned that leaving her underwear on until right before I take her helps the process. You have to strip this woman’s defenses away slowly.
She falls back on the bed, and I slide on top of her. She unclasps her own bra and throws it to her left.
“Wanna try something new?”
She nods.
I make her straddle me, and then turn her around so she’s facing away. She can see herself in the mirror this way. I’m curious to see if she’ll watch.
She leans forward, putting her hands flat on the bed between my knees, and begins to roll her hips in a circular movement. It’s times like these that I am unsure of who is really made weak by whom. This woman was made for sex. She’s so inhibited, but when she lets go, I am given the most sensual ride of my life. Both of her hands are flat on my chest. She rocks back and forth as she rides me. She throws her head back and her hair is so long it sweeps my knees. I have never seen anything more erotic and beautiful in my life. When her head rolls forward, her hair cascades into her face. I wrap it around my hand and pull her to kiss me. While I’m playing with her tongue, I flip her over. She protests and I nip her on the shoulder, which seems to shut her up. I am behind her and I have her on her knees, but instead of bending her over, I run my hands down her arms and grab her wrists, guiding her hands to the frame of the bed so she’s half upright.
