“I’ve missed you too, Hunny, more than you’ll ever know.”
Encouraged by her gratification and obvious euphoria, I proceed to hold her hips and drive into her with timed precision, my glide effortless—she’s so wet and primed for me.
When I’m feeling this fucking ravenous and alive with pent up sexual tension, I need to remind myself to be careful and not get carried aware for fear of hurting her. So I pull out and spin her around to face me which always brings me back to a safer momentum.
Lifting her back up onto my cock, I impale her and press her against the wall, my sudden change of position forcing her to gasp. With her lips now parted, I ravage her mouth, seeking out her tongue with my own as I continue to drive into her, relishing the feel of her body once again joined with mine. I realise just how much I have missed being inside her, holding her, hearing the raw, carnal noises reverberate from within—I’ve simply missed making love to the woman I love.
Okay, so I realise this can be seen as ridiculous. In hindsight, it has only being less than a month since last having sex with her. The thing is, the power of addiction is a force to be reckoned with; a dependence that can only be cured with fortitude. And where Alexis is concerned, my resolve is non-existent.
Feeling the build-up of pressure at the head of my dick, I explode into her like Mount Fucking Vesuvius and growl like a God damn barbarian, my release too long in waiting.
Following our love making from the night before, you’d think I’d be one happy, relaxed, and fully sated man. But I’m not, not completely anyway. Yes, my balls now feel a little more like the billiard variety and a lot less like the bowling variety, I can’t dispute that. The thing is, today I’m anxious for an entirely different reason, for today is Gareth’s birthday and I can’t seem to get him out of my mind; out of my conscience.
Sitting here at my desk, I replay the final conversation I had with him on the morning his psychotic DID alter, Scott, held Alexis hostage and nearly killed her. I’d been so wrapped up and absorbed in my own life, I had not paid attention to Gareth’s state of mind and body language, completely failing to see just how out of control his condition really was. I’d fooled myself into believing that he was taking his meds because I’d asked him to do so, never having thought to check that the pills he was actually taking were, in fact, the prescribed ones—apparently, he had been popping vitamins in my presence.
Now nine months down the track, and I can clearly see—as I look back on those weeks leading up to the explosion—that his behaviour and conduct was not only irrational but evidently disturbed. Things like the angry phone call I received after Xmas, when he accused Alexis of deliberately omitting him from our family lunch. Not to mention the numerous phone calls and emails I’d gotten while Alexis and I were in Italy—emails, checking on Clark Incorporated issues that did not concern him. All these things I’d just swept under the rug, because for once in my life—ever since the car accident occurred—I didn’t want to have to deal with Gareth, didn’t want to be responsible for babysitting him. Except, the moment I did drop my guard and responsibility, the worst possible thing happened...I failed him.
Sitting on the edge of our bed, I watch Alexis’ peacefully enjoying her slumber. She has no choice but to sleep on her back, because apparently, if she sleeps on her stomach she’ll wake up in a puddle of breast milk. As I stare at her glorious breasts which are hidden behind her maternity bra—a crime in itself—I yearn to caress the soft flesh with my tongue.
The imposed nipple prohibition is slowly killing me, eating at my sanity and diminishing my tenacity. Having no choice but to fight my nipple-need, I think of a distraction.
A smile creeps onto my face as I get an idea of something I know she loves but something I haven’t done in a while. I race downstairs and grab a yellow rose from the vase in the foyer then race back upstairs and kneel on the ground next to the bed. I am excited just like a kid on Christmas Day, all because I love waking her up with a rose.
Very lightly, I wipe the bud of the flower across her forehead, this prompting her brow to crease ever so slightly. Her taunted face is so adorable, and I have to bite my lip to supress a laugh.
Returning the rose to the bridge of her nose, I trail it down very softly. Her hand swings up out of nowhere and swipes at what her subconscious is telling her is there. I quickly retract the rose before she touches it and with a mischievous inward chuckle, wait patiently for her to settle back down again. She does, and as I take in her peaceful appearance, I melt with love. Her eyelashes are long and black, and fan beautifully atop her cheek bones. She has some very faint freckles, and the last time I counted, there were about 19 of them across her nose and cheeks. Her lips are downright irresistible, plump and semi-pursed. And her blonde hair neatly frames the most beautiful face in the world.
Swallowing the lump in my throat and smiling because I know how fortunate I am, I place the rose on her lips and sit it just under her nose, knowing that when she breathes in her next breath, the scent she loves so much will filter into her senses and begin to wake her from her sleep.
I watch with fascination as she does just that and breathes in a deep breath, her chest rising as her hands find her hair while she stretches. Her eyelids flutter open and within seconds she begins to decipher what is before her. When she does interpret what her eyes are exposing, her heartbreaking smile starts to spread across her face. And, as always when she graces me with that expression, I am conquered... done for.
“Mornin’,” she mumbles, and sits up on her elbows while taking the rose from my hand.
“Mornin’,” I reply, leaning down to kiss those perfect lips.
She drops back onto the pillow and wraps her arms around my neck, securing me tightly to her. “You’re dressed. Why are you dressed? You should be butt naked and underneath me.”
Wanting to be butt-naked and underneath her, I contemplate that actual scenario before reminding myself why I am dressed and ready to leave. “I have an appointment.” I’ll be gone for an hour.”
“Okay,” she pouts.
“Don’t do that.”
Her pout increases. “What?”
“You know what,” I lean forward and suck on her pouty lip. “I gotta go,” I say sadly.
She unwraps her arms and places both hands on either side of my face. “Is everything alright?”
Feeling her enquiring stare pierce deep into the depths of my eyes, I lie. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just want to get this done so that I can get back here to my favourite people in the world.”
She nods and kisses me lightly then lets me go, and just as I stand, movement from Brayden’s bassinet catches my attention. I creep over slowly—probably looking somewhat like a fucking cat burglar—and find my little treasure trying desperately to free his hand from his tightly confined wrap. Smiling, I notice the little Houdini has already managed to release one of his hands and is sucking on it ferociously.
“Good morning, little buddy. I’m sorry to tell to you, but it doesn’t matter how hard you suck on that hand, you’re not going to get what you want out of it.”
He lets out a frustrated cry.
“I know. Life’s not fair. I want Mummy’s boobies in my mouth all the time, too.”
A sharp sting to the arm registers as I incur Alexis’ swift slap. “Bryce!”
I lift Brayden up, giving him a quick cuddle and kiss before handing him to his mum. “Right,” I say with annoyance, wanting to stay with them. “I’ll be back soon.
Making my way out of the room, I prepare myself for my visit to Gareth’s grave.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
To feel contrite one would say is a humane and moral virtue, but in order to experience this form of repentance you must first acknowledge your sin then show remorse for your wrongdoing. Jessica has made it quite clear that she does not agree with my feelings of contrition where Gareth’s death is concerned, saying I have no sin to feel remorseful over in the first place—but she is wrong.
For the past nine months, Jessica and I have had session upon session where she has tried desperately to conquer my inner battle of guilt with her own personal army of professional advocacy. The thing is not all battles are fought and then won.
