Page 18 of There Is Also a Dog
She slowly lowers herself onto her stomach, making sure I stay with her. Collapsing on top of her back, I bury my face in her hair, inhaling the fresh scent. I wrap my arms around her waist. She holds her legs tight, keeping me inside her as we roll onto our sides and my hands find her breasts. She places her hands over mine and then reaches back to comb her fingers through my hair. I don’t want to let go of her.
We are all breaths and heartbeats and sweat-sleek skin.
I press my lips against her shoulder. “One down,” I whisper.
She blows air out of her nostrils, her body shaking with laughter.
After I clean myself off, she suggests, “Should we bring Agnes into the bedroom so we can go out there and you can bend me over the dining table?” like she’s asking if we should order takeout or put on a movie.
“Yes. Yes to all of that.” I think that’s a fantastic idea, and Agnes doesn’t seem to mind it either.
We turn off all the lights, and I take her on the table.
Two down, infinity to go.
We have a cup of gourmet hot chocolate while I force Jillian to watch half of a Christmas romantic comedy on Netflix. She claims she has to multitask while watching anything and rearranges the office supplies in the kitchen island counter. “Where do you get your stationery?” she asks, mildly horrified. “The garbage dump? I would have given this place a full five-star rating if only you had more attractive notepaper and pens. I’ll send you some writing paper and notebooks—to match the high-quality and sophisticated yet comfortable decor of the rest of the rental. But you have to promise me you’ll replace the stuff in this drawer.”
She’s acting like a wife already, and I do not hate it. “Yes, dear.” I promise to upgrade all of my stationery if that’s what it takes to get her back on the sofa with me.
Turns out that was all it takes.
She joins me again, and then we have even hotter sex on the sofa. I think she might be genuinely turned on by my willingness to use nicer writing paper. I will have to decide later if that counts as crazy or not. Actually, I’ve already decided. Anything that makes her so turned on that she straddles me and rides me like a cowgirl who’s trying to tame a bucking bronco is the best kind of crazy.
Then she puts on her pajamas and I get dressed and we watch the last half of the Christmas movie. She doesn’t even complain about it because I feel her up under the quilt. My inner teenage nerd is giddy with glee, but then I finger fuck her like a man. A grown man who likes holiday rom-coms. As long as they aren’t horribly written.How do ya like that, Christmas-hater?!
When it’s over, she tilts her head and looks at me like a little girl, and asks, “Hey, can we watchDie Hardnow?”and I almost want to ask her to marry me again.
Instead, I pull her onto my lap and say, “I’ve got an eye-doctor joke for you.”
“Oh yeah? Hit me.”
“Better like this?” I kiss her soft and slow. “Or better like this?” I kiss her deep and hard. When I finally pull my head back, she’s laughing and I’m getting a stiff one again. “You get it?”
“Oh, I got it.”
I kiss her neck and start unbuttoning her flannel pajama top. I love that she claims to hate Christmas yet she brought red-and-green-plaid pajamas. She drops her head back and sighs likehere we go again.
“Did you really not get my hardware-firmware-wetware jokes?”
“What jokes?”
“Never mind…”
When we are finally exhausted in bed, with Agnes sprawled out by our feet, she turns to face me and says, “I thought I’d be screwed if I didn’t get internet. But I got screwedbecausethere was no internet. It’s a Christmas sex miracle.”
That gets her a laugh. And a light spanking.
“I really liked those thong panties, by the way.” She’s trying not to smile, but I can still hear the total satisfaction in her voice.
“Give me your home address, and I’ll have a week’s supply of replacements sent within two business days. Possibly three, since tomorrow’s a holiday.” We’re silent for a long time. I’m quite certain we’re both thinking the same thing—that despite only knowing each other for one night, it already seems wrong for us to be living in different places. “Or I can have them delivered to my place, and you can wear them the next time you come to visit us,” I tell her. “If you want to come visit us.”
“I do,” she says.
It’s only two words, spoken so softly I barely hear her, but the way she says it, she has answered all of the important questions I haven’t asked her yet.
I do have one important question that I need to ask her now, though. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
