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Something about him being inside of me makes me release my death grip on anxiety, and the more comfortable I feel, the better I learn.
Though I can’t lie, sometimes when he’s inside me, casually sketching set designs on his iPad, hair a tousled mess, the comfort turns to heat, and I’m bent over the kitchen counter, begging to be bred.
Closing the door, Cohen pulls out the office chair, and I sit to find my university portal on screen, my username stored. Sometimes between scenes, I’d slip into his office and use his computer for online assignments.
“It’s pass or fail,” Cohen notes, reading the banner as I enter my password and student identification number.
“Yeah,” I breathe, running numbers in my head. “With only fifteen questions, I need—”
He dips down and presses his lips to mine. “It is what it is, so let’s check, okay?”
I sigh, leaving my fears outside of my body. He makes me brave, and I don’t know how, but he just does. “Okay,” I smile. He reaches over me, his big hand dominating the mouse easily. A few clicks later and the screen is loading, the results of my hard work and long-standing dream all coming to a proverbial head. I know I can fail and retake, but I don’t want to.
Cohen’s hands come down on my shoulders and he’s spinning me around, collecting me from the chair like his rag doll as soon as the word PASS appears on the screen, green letters making my eyes warm.
“You fucking did it, Scar, you did it, baby,” he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss to my cheek, my nose, my lips, kissing me everywhere. I love it. My entire body thrums with pleasure at making him proud.
I shake my head. “And today was such a good day on set, too.” I squeal a little, because goddamn it, I have a reason to be squeal worthy. “And now we get to go home!”
He laughs, holding my face, his eyes shiny. “Yes, we do. So let’s go home and celebrate how fucking phenomenal you are.”
I don’t argue with that. Cohen hangs his utility belt and answers an email, then shuts his computer off and goes to my dressing room to collect my things. When he’s through, we walk out of the building hand in hand, and he stops us on the back stairs.
“Hey, I know it’s not new, and I’ve said it before, but when I realized you had feelings for me too, I made a promise to myself to let you know everyday just how much you mean to me, you know, in case.”
I know hisin casehas nothing to do with breakups and everything to do with sudden losses, the kind we’re both unfortunately so familiar with.
“I’m proud of you,” he says first, and I cling to his flannel, holding myself steady as his deep timbre pours sweet words all over me. “And I love you so much.” He doesn’t seal it with a kiss. He just smiles, then leads us to his car where he opens my door for me, and buckles me in the seat.
My mind is running with excitement and plans as we drive to our place. Because I’ve been busy with school and my new schedule, and Cohen’s taken on more hours at Crave designing more sets, neither of us have really had a moment to acknowledge that we’ve been having unprotected sex now for almost a full month.
We’re off work early today, though, since Aug and Lance are bringing in their new film school mentee for some sort of orientation or meeting. That means we have the whole afternoon and evening to indulge in our love of fucking bareback.
God do I love it.
I also like the excitement that comes with being filled by him. Not knowing if in a few weeks from now, our raw and unfiltered passion has grown into something more.
“I’ve really enjoyed the last few weeks,” I tell him as he opens then closes the apartment door behind us.
“What do you mean?” he asks, sliding his keys onto the counter, toeing off his brown lace up boots after snagging the laces free with a hooked finger.
“No protection.”
He stands, and starts on unbuttoning his shirt as his eyes idle with mine. Finally he says, “Me too.”
My voice is quiet when I ask, “Are you hoping?”
We stand there, my question hovering between us. The answer should be easy, but after what we’ve been through, it’s also terrifying. He swallows. “Yes.”
I smile at him. “Me too.”
And before we get too mushy, he shrugs off his flannel and drops a kiss on my cheek before turning the corner to the kitchen. “I’ll make you anything you want so tell me what sounds good,” he says, reciting the same thing he says almost every night. Except now, whatever he makes, he makes sure to include fertility friendly foods.
“Honestly, Co, anything. Everything sounds good,” I tell him, ready to strip out of my jeans and put on literally anything but. Because even the best fitting jeans are still jeans.
“Hey,” he calls after me, bottles of condiments rattle in the fridge door as he yanks it open in the distance. “I redid the tulle on the ballerina’s dress, by the way. I didn’t know what color yours was as a kid,” he adds, and his words lasso me, bringing me back to the hallway where I stop. He turns from his spot in the kitchen, smiling. “I did her dress in pink tulle. Addie’s ballerina had a pink skirt,” he says, his chin lifting slightly.
He’s trying to talk about her more, and I’ve urged him to do just that. He’s shown me some photos, and even talked a little bit more about that weekend. I know it’s hard but I can also see it does bring him happiness to remember her.
