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“Maybe.”
She mumbles something I can’t quite hear. It sounds like, “Fuck him.”
“Pardon?” I ask, but she says, “Nothing.”
Outside, the light above us flashes occasionally, sending its warning out to sea. But in here it’s quiet and cozy. Poppy’s body is warm and soft. Her hair smells of mint, and her skin of strawberries. Everything about this girl makes my mouth water.
In less than a minute, we’re both asleep.
*
I’m a light sleeper, and I rouse a couple of times in the night, once to pee, and the second time I go down to the fridge and grab a bottle of water for a drink. Each time, when I come back to bed, Poppy’s sleeping soundly. In the moonlight, her skin looks like porcelain, and her hair is a silvery gray. She looks so beautiful that I take a photo of her with my phone, captured in repose. God, she’s so beautiful it makes my heart ache.
I think about her mumbled words, Fuck him. She was talking about Daniel. Maybe before she slept with me, she could tell herself he was normal, and sex was like that for everyone, but now? Perhaps I’ve done her a disservice, and she would have been better not knowing.
Then I think I might have made her pregnant, and my lips curve up a little. I slide back into bed and slip my arms around her, and she snuggles back against me. I’m not going to tell myself she would have been happier without this.
I fall asleep with my cheek resting on her hair, and I dream of mint and strawberries, and summer.
*
The next time I wake, the sky’s the color of cinnamon, so I know it must be around six-thirty. I’m wrapped around Poppy, and she’s fast asleep. I yawn and stretch, discover I have a hard-on, and decide it’s a shame to waste it when I’m trying to get the girl pregnant.
I begin by moving aside her glorious hair to kiss her neck. The skin here is soft, and I press my lips behind her ear, and slowly down her neck to her shoulder. She stirs, but I don’t stop, kissing her shoulder and upper arm.
“Marc?” she whispers.
“Go back to sleep.” I push her gently onto her front. She shifts, burying her face in the pillow, and I push the duvet down, exposing her pale back. All that luscious skin, begging to be kissed. I press my lips down her spine, then either side of it, covering as much space as I can, taking my time to brush my lips over each rib and muscle, occasionally touching my tongue there, too. I kiss down her sides, reach her hips, and kiss over her bottom. I’m an ass man, and Poppy’s is exemplary, so I take my time here, kissing the plump muscles, nibbling occasionally, and trailing my tongue up to her tailbone, which makes her shiver. I run my tongue along the crease of her bottom and down her thigh, part her legs, and bring up a hand to join in the fun.
I stroke down over her bottom and continue beneath her, just brushing lightly, not penetrating, not yet. She shivers again, and I smile, knowing I’m starting to get to her. She’s no different from any other woman; all it takes is attention and time, like planting a seed and watching it grow. It’s not rocket science.
Lying beside her, I continue to press my lips to her back and bottom while I stroke her, and then after a few minutes, I finally press my fingers a little firmer, and sink them into her folds. She’s swollen and moist, and I sigh as I glide my middle finger to her clit. I circle my finger over the tiny button, and she moans and widens her legs, showing me how much she likes it.
“That’s it,” I murmur, keeping up a slow, steady rhythm. “Good girl. Just relax.” I stretch out beside her, propping my head on my hand, and kiss her neck, her ear, and, when she turns her head to look at me with her wide green eyes, her mouth, as my fingers slip through her folds.
This time, she opens her mouth willingly for me, and when I tease her tongue with mine, she returns with small thrusts of her own. My blood begins to heat and pump faster around my body, and I feel an overwhelming urge to be inside her.
I wait, though, playing with her for as long as I can bear it. While I do, part of me observes that need with interest. The research I did on getting pregnant has made me think about how much of lovemaking is driven by a desire to procreate, and how what seems to be instinctive and impulsive is actually nature taking over, pulling the strings without us knowing. My body wants to inseminate her, regardless of what my brain thinks about it. For some reason, I have no idea why, it makes me hot.
