Page 25 of Wrapped Up In You
Faster and faster, he moved, pegging my prostate expertly on every stroke, sending sparks shooting through my body. The sounds coming from him were feral and had my balls drawing up once again.
With a mighty roar, he buried himself deep inside me and stiffened as he unleashed into the condom. I was so fucking close to coming again myself and he hadn’t even touched me. Desperate to relieve the ache that had built up once more, I reached between us and stroked myself. Three tugs were all it took to have me coming, the hot liquid spreading between us, covering my hand, my chest, and his abs.
He pulled out, quickly tied off the condom, and collapsed on top of me in a sticky, messy heap. I relaxed my legs, though still kept them loosely wrapped around his calves, and stroked his back as we both struggled to catch our breath.
Despite the mess between us, the weight of him was comforting. I stroked his sweaty hair, not wanting to let him go. I’d hold him forever if he’d let me.
I had to stop thinking like that. I was only setting myself up for disappointment.
Eventually, he rolled off me, lying on his side with his head on my shoulder. “You make me feel things I don’t know what to do with.” My heart lurched at his words. “I don’t know how to process any of this.”
“Do you want to stop?” I held my breath, waiting for his response.
“No, I don’t want to stop. And I think that’s what scares me the most.”
* * *
We both showered again, taking turns with soap and shampoo on one another, neither wanting to stop touching the other until the water ran cold and we got out. We ate lunch, then retired to the living room, where Jonathan picked up his Kindle and I got out my guitar.
I fiddled with it for a bit, tuning the strings but not really knowing what I wanted to play. For the first time in my life, I felt self-conscious about playing in front of someone. Lucy tried to act like he wasn’t listening, but I caught him glancing over a time or two, which did nothing to dispel my nerves.
I’d played in coffee shops and open mic nights without a problem, but there was something about playing in front of him—forhim—that felt more personal. He’d said I was amazing the other day, but that was…before. Before we’d fucked. Before I started to feel…things. Music had the ability to open me up in a way that transcended words, which typically filled me with joy, but in this environment, withhim, it made me feel raw and exposed. Vulnerable. This thing between us had an expiration date, yet I kept allowing myself to get further and further entwined with him. It could only end in disaster.
Annoyed with myself and needing to do something, anything, to get this jittery feeling out of my system, I closed my eyes and began to strum. I began with “Coventry Carol.” It was a little more obscure, but I had always loved the use of the Picardy Third at the end of the verse. At the conclusion of that one, I moved into “Silent Night,” only pausing briefly to glance at Jonathan before continuing. “We Three Kings” was next, followed by “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” After about thirty minutes of playing, Jonathan abruptly set his Kindle down and moved to the end of the couch closest to where I’d dragged one of the stools over to sit on.
“You have all that memorized?”
I shrugged. “It’s not that hard.”
“I bet not everyone would say that. I had a terrible time memorizing piano when I was a kid.”
“I guess it’s always been pretty easy for me.”
“Why don’t you sing while you play?”
“I didn’t want to bother you while you were reading.” That was partially true. Mostly, it was because singing left me feeling even more vulnerable than playing my guitar.
“Will you sing for me now?”
“What do you want me to sing?”
“‘The Holly and the Ivy?’”
I raised my eyebrows at that. “Um, yeah. I think I can do that one.”
“Did I pick one you don’t know?”
“No, I just didn’t expect it. It’s not as common.”
“It was my mom’s favorite. Or at least, I think it was. I remember her singing it when I was little. I think the year before she died.”
I swallowed. Jonathan never spoke about his mom. I knew she had passed when he was young, but that was all I knew. I’d seen one picture of her with Jon and a baby Jonathan on a shelf in Jon’s home office, but that was it. My mom hadn’t really been able to tell me much about her when I’d asked once out of curiosity. Apparently, Jon didn’t talk about her much either.
I swallowed, the pressure now feeling very heavy, and began to strum. This request felt significant in a way I wasn’t sure either of us fully understood. I fumbled through the introduction, a little flustered, then got control of myself as I began to sing. I could feel my cheeks heat, but I kept my eyes on his the entire time, forcing myself to overcome my nerves out of sheer stubbornness. Thankfully, my voice didn’t betray me and came through strong and true as I sang.
The moment I finished, he leaned over and kissed me. “Thank you for singing for me. I don’t have very many memories of my mother, and I’m not an overly sentimental person, but that song has always been special to me. You sang it beautifully.”
“Thank you.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. I was overwhelmed and unsure and awkward and scared. I usually barreled through life at full speed, forgetting to think before acting, diving in headfirst and hoping for the best. That approach had gotten me into countless predicaments over the years—failing grades in school, arguments with my father, employment issues—but I’d always managed to overcome, optimistic I could somehow come out alright on the other side. I’d bring the grades up, apologize to my father, find another job. I was rarely scared because I always had the confidence I’d figure out a way to fix it.
