She nods, and it’s the answer to everything. “I don’t think I ever thanked you…for it.”
I smirk, wanting to keep this back and forth going.
She smiles at me, my hand still on her cheek. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” It’s some kind of muscle memory, my hands more familiar with Kendall’s skin than my brain. My thumb brushes over her bottom lip. They become pliant and loose, moving with each tug and pull.
Her warm breath touches my knuckles through a soft sigh, and I can’t remember the last time I heard her make that sound. Something so resigned yet calm and gentle. Her hand hooks over my wrist, and I don’t know if it’s to stop me or to give her something to hold on to. Something to confirm this is real. That I’m touching her, and she’s touching me. And those nine years between us feel like a blur. A piece of matte Scotch tape placed over the cracks and breaks to make them deceptively smooth and secure.
I cup her neck, my hand still moving with a mind of its own. An act to grip her more firmly. More daring and bold. And her own body follows, letting me take the lead and showing her the dance we always used to move to. A quiet waltz to ease us in the mood. An upbeat rumba as the heat flames into haste and determination. A sultry salsa as we settle into what our bodies already know.
But then we pause. We haven’t rewritten the rules yet. Our lives have been whittled and chipped into polite gestures that only allow amiable conversation and avoidance techniques. This almost feels too new. Too uncertain.
I watch Kendall’s eyes take me in. Those deep pools of brown and gold flicker in the unflattering yellowish light in our garage. I remember what it was like to touch her without ever second-guessing myself. When I didn’t have to wonder whether or not every kiss or hug or playful swat crossed a boundary I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to. And I can’t seem to stop.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper. Another boundary I don’t know if I’m allowed to test. I hide behind dithering gestures like I’m shy and we haven’t exchanged such sentiments. My other hand touches her before I’m able to stop it. Knuckles against her arm, fingers tangled in her hair.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she jokes with a smirk, and it’s all I need. A nudge. A little push, my arm twisted, to guide me in the right direction. I see the edges of a laugh form at the corner of her lips at the same time I kiss her. Ikissher.
I almost forgot what this felt like. What it’s like to know every tremble, every gasp, every moan. All of it vibrating against my skin. And for her to completely give in to it all.
She pulls me closer, dragging her nails through my hair and making our kiss messy and bruising. I wrap my arms around her waist, our curves and lines and borders are melded together. I might suffocate her, hold her so tight we might fuse together. And that would be completely fine. I don’t want to know what it feels like to have to pry myself away from her. I grip her thighs, a heavy possessive squeeze, and she hops into my arms. Another shove to keep going.
“I missed your lips so fucking much,” I groan, my voice brutal and hoarse. “I want to kiss you all the time.” Suddenly, the kiss isn’t enough. I need to be touching her, tasting her, feeling her.
“Then kiss me,” she challenges. My heart pounds in my chest, slamming against my ribcage like it’s demanding to be let out.
With her back pressed to the side of my car, she claws at my shirt, pulling and tugging to no avail. I reach for the handle and punch a figurative fist into the air when it opens. I hadn’t locked it. I sit her down at the edge of the back seat and watch her lean back on her palms. A moment for her to watch me. Let her eyes rake over me while I take my shirt off and cage her in, my hands braced along the door frame.
The air turns tight, thick with uncertainty. This feels so far replaced from our norm, and I don’t know how to approach it. Should I pounce, jowls first with my hips wiggling in the air? Or should I prowl, careful and patient?
Kendall decides for me. She leans into me, running her hands over my bare chest, and stops when her fingertips reach my jawline. She inches closer, whispering her lips over my skin already licked with flames. “Kiss me whenever you want.”
So, I do. The dust has settled from the storm cloud we dragged in, and everything is so fathomable and clear. I want to kiss my wife and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Her knees part, tugging me closer to her, and I feel her thighs brace my waist. She’s wearing a dress, a flowery piece with narrow straps and a loose hem. I’ve seen her wear it dozens of times. When the weather’s a few degrees too warm. When she doesn’t want to put in too much effort but still wants to look nice. When the laundry isn’t done and it’s the only thing within arm’s reach before we head out to dinner. I fist it, using every muscle, every strained tendon, to avoid ripping it. Instead, I push it higher and higher until it’s bunched at the fleshy part of her thighs.
“Is this okay?” I whisper. Like I’m asking permission from a stranger. And we’ve sort of become that, two people onlyacquainted in memories and dreams. But now that dream is real, and I’m remembering so much more than how she feels.
She sighs, huffing a laugh like it’s inane. “Of course it’s okay.”
“I…just want to make sure,” I confess.
She leans up, tilting her face toward me. “I’m sorry.”
It’s hazy and clouded, her equivocal apology, but I see through it. I push a hand through all the confusion, leaving behind a clear space. Ready to tell her she doesn’t need to apologize.
I rest my forehead against hers. “It’s—you don’t have to…”
She cuts off my words with a kiss, and I somehow know she gets it. This back and forth of civility and deference only because we don’t want to rock the boat. I don’t care for that shit anymore. I just want us to beus.
Firm nails rake my back, and it elicits a harsh groan from my chest. Her hands work my jeans, undoing the button and zipper. I’m met with a barrier when my hand grips her hips. Her panties. They need to be gone, nothing between us. Bare skin against bare skin. And Kendall seems to have the same urgent need. She lifts her butt, letting me slip them down over her ass. I give her a squeeze.
“I want you to touch me,” she rasps. A demand. But I don’t move. I want this to last. I want to take my time. But her impatience wins when she cries a frustrated whimper. Like I’m being difficult. Uncooperative. She hooks her foot behind me, dragging me closer.
I look down, her wet pussy making my chest vibrate. She spreads her knees wider, exposing the smooth underside of her thighs and the bottom curve of her ass. I’m supposed to make the next move, keep this momentum moving, but I’m torn. I don’t know if I want to take my time, risk moving slowly with the knowledge it’ll give her the opportunity to stop and changeher mind. Or if I should rush, desperation and all. I choose the former.
She scoots closer to the edge, and I dip low, trailing kisses down her neck and chest while bracing the side of the doorframe. I kiss her over the cotton covering most of her body, still relishing in the fact that her skin is quivering underneath. I lift the hem even higher, exposing her stomach. My kisses continue to trail over her. Along the ridges of her ribcage, in the dip in her navel, down her pubic bone where her C-section scar is. It’s lighter than the rest of her skin. A jagged horizontal line filled with memories.
