Page 57 of One Hotlanta Night
“Yes.”If I have anything to say about it .“All right, let me go. I need to go wake Vivian up so that we can start driving.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
“Yes, but don't tell Mom and Dad because I don’t need to catch grief from them.”
“They know that you’re a young man living alone in the city. I doubt it’s a big deal.”
“Yeah, but I don’t need them looking at my girl as someone who’s just shacking up with their son either. She’s way more than that,” I whisper, half hoping that Vivian overhears my words if she’s up.
“All right, Scout’s honor. You have my word, I won't say anything.”
“Thanks, sis. I knew you would have my back.”
“We'll see you in a few hours, all right? Love you.”
“Love you too, hermanita.”
Vivian
The drive up to Charlotte is perfect. Perfect in every way. Clear roads, clear sunshine, and my man, who is clearly an excellent driver, if a little on the speedy side. Fits his nature though.
My man… what a thing to say. I still can’t believe I’m thinking about him this way. I was so determined to be single up til—what?—a couple of weeks ago now. Now here is this guy, so loving, caring, and understanding. And freaking hot as hell. I can hardly keep my hands off him. The same seems to be true for him; we’ve already had to pull over once and it wasn’t to get gas, if you catch my drift.
He makes my body feel so alive, so energized all the time. And also incredibly safe. When I’m with him, my stress just melts away. It’s the strangest, almost frightening feeling, because I’ve never known anything like this before. He makes me feel secure. Like he’ll protect me from anything, even my own toxic thoughts. He listens to me vent about work and commiserates. Sometimes he offers suggestions, and other times he’s just there. Present. Making me feel heard. Supported. I don’t quite know what to do with it. This foreign feeling of not just being accepted but desired. For all my parts, not just the pretty ones. All I know is that I love it, and I’m a little terrified of it at the same time.
It would hurt so much to get this ripped away.
Michael glances at me, at how I’m twisting the hem of my shirt, and caresses my thigh that he’s been gripping the whole time. He constantly needs to be touching me, whether with his hands or his mouth, like he can’t bear any separation between us. With other guys, I found that smothering. With him, it’s like another extension of his love. It grounds me, reassuring me of how he feels. Just like when he murmurs soft, seductive words in Spanish when we’re making love.
Making love on the regular versus plain old fucking is new for me. We’ve had passionate, tear-your-clothes-off sex, and also slow, tender, soul-immersing love. It’s exquisite. The way he’slearned my body, what I like, what turns me on… I’ve never had such an attentive lover. I only hope I make him feel just as good. Given the intensity on his face as he gives himself over to pleasure, gripping my skin in every way possible and branding me with his touch, those eyes conveying the depths of his love, I think I’m succeeding.
Love.That word again.
I don’t have much experience with Spanish, but pretty much everyone knows thatmi amormeans “my love.” He’s been calling me that since the night I met him. At first I thought it was just an offhand term of affection, like how we call our restaurant regulars “honey” or “sweetheart.” But as time went on, the way he looked at me lovingly,meaningfully, every time he bestowed those words upon me, it made me wonder if he really meant it.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe he calls all his girlfriends that.Ugh,I hope not. My stomach twists at the thought.
“Mi amor,” he says, squeezing my thigh again. I glance up, meeting his questioning eyes. How is he so in tune with my thoughts, my body? “What is it?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Vivian,” he says softly. “You’re tensing up on me. What’s going on in that gorgeous head of yours?” And that’s the nail on the head. He can always tell when I start spiraling. It’s scary, allowing myself to be vulnerable with him.
Being strong doesn’t mean being immune to my own insecurities. They eat me up just like anyone else. My intense feelings for Michael are the exact reason I’m overthinking, worried that he will think me neurotic or worse. I’ve never desired someone’s approval so much. But I remind myself of his honesty, the night I laid all my worries on the table. How he reassured me and obliterated all my concerns about my past. Ifwe’re going to continue this, I need to continue to be honest with him. On all things. His integrity demands it.
“I was just wondering…” I trail off.
“Yes?”
“Do you call all your… romantic partners ‘mi amor’?”
“What?” He chokes out a laugh.
“It means ‘my love’, right?”
“Yes. Yes, it does,” he says, piercing me with his eyes. “And no, I’ve never used that term before. With anyone,” he says firmly. “Only you. Only ever you.” He flips the hand resting on my leg palm up, wiggling his fingers in what I've learned is a “come here” motion. My hand slides into his, sinking into the warmth and security I always feel from his touch as he links our fingers together. Raising our conjoined hands to his lips, he places a soft kiss first on my wrist, then each knuckle, before settling them on his thigh. And I guess that is that, because he doesn’t say anything else until we pull into his grandparents’ driveway.
Michael
