Page 18 of Independence Bae

She shifted on the bed, turning to lay on her back, a seductive smile gracing her lips.

“Cross your legs.”

She made a show of stretching her leg out to the right before dramatically crossing it in a right angle across her knee. The move, I’m sure she knew, giving me a mouthwatering view of her lace covered mound.

I yanked out my cock, thumbing the piercing at the tip, a small groan escaping when a sharp pulse of desire made its way from my cock to all of my extremities.

“Eyes on me,” I order, watching her get distracted by my cock. “Unclip your garters, and take off your hose.”

She rolled each slowly down her muscular calves, never breaking eye contact as she did. Her pouty lips smeared in the evening’s lipstick, were tucked between her teeth. Her engagement ring sparkled at me as she worked her garter and panties off. Seeing it on her finger, knowing that she wore it because she wanted to be mine forever made me even harder—and I hadn’t thought that was possible.

“Now spread your legs.”

I saw her chest expand and deflate in quick succession. She said nothing, simply smiled at her eyes laser focused on me.

“Come here and worship my pussy.”

She was still bossy, that hadn’t changed.

“You’ll wait.” I thumbed my dick, flicking the piercing a few more times.

I desperately wanted to take my time. To make her sigh and moan. Hopefully beg. But I throbbed for her. I fought against the deep desire to rut and fuck.

“A battle of wills then?” She chuckled at me, caressing her mound, never looking away from me. “If we must. But you and I both know that I’ll win.”

She was such a cocky little minx. I watched her rhinestone tipped nails take an exploratory journey up one thigh and down the other, tickling across her slit before spreading her lips apart with her fingers.

“My pussy, Penn.”

“It’s gorgeous, as always.” Rather than do what she asked, I crawled onto the bed, positioning myself above her, directing my tip across her clit, making sure my piercing hooked her swollen little bud on its own piercing.

“You cheated.” Her hips flexed to rise up and meet my stroke. Even in that movement she tried to control the speed and pressure.

“How do you figure?” I asked, chuckling, “You told me to worship your pussy. Is this not worship?”

“This is teasing. Worship would involve your mouth.”

“Guess you need to be more specific next time.”

I thrust into her, bottoming out in one long push. With each inch I withdrew and pushed back in again I saw so many moments of our past. I looked down at her, her tongue twisting against her teeth, her eyes barely visible through her slitted eyelids, her breath stuttered and saw high school Tillie laying on her Laura Ashley bed spread, nervous and unsure. The closer I got to coming, the more of our future I saw spread out ahead of us. So many years ahead of us to travel, relish in the successes our hard work and determination brought us. Just as we strained against the last vestiges of our control, a thought came to me that ripped the orgasm right out of me. Tillie and Marley, sitting next to one another, both comparing the sizes of their rotund bellies. Tillie pregnant. From the quiet of my deepest hopes grew the smallest tendril of hope.

We tumbled over one right after another. Breathless and spent.

“I look forward to another fifty years of that, Tillie Raven.”

Chapter Fourteen

Sex with Pennhad always been the things they write rock songs about. Post engagement sex though? I didn’t have words. We lay there in silence, just the sounds of our stuttered breathing filling the air, and Penn’s thudding heart beat beneath my cheek.

“Till?” He twisted the strands of my hair in his fingers, tugging gently to get my attention. “I think we should pull the goalie.”

“Pull the goalie?” I parroted. I knew what he meant but I’d never heard him use sports metaphors before, especially hockey.

“We’re engaged—as soon as we have a second to think about a date it’s as good as done. We can practice for a few months before we start actually trying and if it happens all the better.”

Here is the thing. I’d be forty in a few months. There’s always been a niggling fear that has spoken quietly on my shoulder every time I start to think about happy possibilities. But I’m reminded of the time in my twenties where I was absolutely careless in using preventative measures with my then boyfriend. There was a month where I was petrified every day, obsessively taking tests, wondering if I was or wasn’t. It took two months of living in abject terror waiting for my period to come and praying that I wasn’t pregnant. And I wasn’t. Eventually it came. But now I think back to that moment often and think that with as much sex as Cohen and I had—there should have been no doubt I’d end up knocked up. Back then I looked at it as the gods showing favor on me and finally—after making me sweat—giving me the absolute definitive answer.

Now I feared a different answer. One I desperately wanted to deny. I wanted to bury my head in the sand and pretend that I was just worrying for nothing. Just a bought of paranoia. But eight weeks ago, I had my annual appointment with my gynecologist. We talked about the risks of continuing to inject myself with hormones into my forties, especially when so many other women were starting to look towards the “next phase of their feminine journey.” Which meant menopause. Which naturally, freaked me the fuck out. As a result of that conversation, nearly two months ago, I pulled the goalie. And nothing.

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