Dear God - by Marsha
Dear God,
How I dread opening my eyes. I already know where I am; the sound of another breathing in my ear told me that the instant I surfaced from dreamland. I never thought I'd be the type, but here I am trying to work out a plan for getting out of his apartment without waking him. I know where every piece of clothing landed last night. They shouldn't be too hard to collect.
My sandals are by the door.
It had been raining last night. We ran through puddles like children. Like we always had. I teased him about that time when we were eight and he'd fallen into a lake of a puddle on our way home from school. He reminded me that I'd been the one who cried because I was afraid his mother would ground him. He then teased me about the time when we were sixteen and I was attacked by a gang of boys with water balloons and a curiosity about wet tee-shirts. I reminded him that he'd taken off his shirt to cover me and then chased the boys away with threats and fists.
My purse is on the small table by the refrigerator.
We went to the kitchen first, for drinks. Finding only a two-liter soda bottle of ice water and a half-gallon of Kool-Aid, we'd opted for water and ice cream. Vanilla with cherries and chocolate fudge. We ate it right out of the carton, laughing and sharing the last clean spoon. He was such a slob. Making faces and dribbling ice cream. I laughed and laughed, getting a headache from the cold.
My dress is in the living room.
I don't know what happened. One second we were laughing, tickling each other on the floor because I brought up the time he'd tried on every dress I owned to go to the Halloween dance in high school. He'd said none of them showed off his legs to advantage. I couldn't very well let him forget that. It was my job as his cousin to remind him. Oh, now I remember. I knocked my head on the table. That's right. He got an ice pack while I tried not to cry. It was a helluva bump, blood and everything. When he came back, I broke down and cried like a big baby. He held me, rocking back and forth on the floor with the ice pack on my head.
My bra and panties are on the floor at the end of the bed.
I do know how that happened. I sat up, away from him, determined not to be the crybaby. He'd smiled sympathetically at me, reached out to cup my face. He always got mushy when I cried. He kissed my nose, telling me it was turning red. He kissed my forehead, rubbing my arm and whispering that my mop of curls would hide the scar quite well. I punched him and wiped my eyes. While I realized I had smudged my mascara on the back of my hand, he wrapped his arms around me and toppled us backward. Before he knew what hit him, I was kissing him. On the mouth. And it was not the kiss of friends.
It could work.
I open my eyes and see his ceiling fan, still and staring down at me. Though I'd been on my back most of the night, I hadn't noticed he had a ceiling fan. My eyes had either been closed or focused on other things. Like a most beautiful face, flushed and sweaty and moaning my name over and over. I close my eyes.
He was wonderful. Years ago I had secretly yearned to have him as my first. I'd wanted to be with someone I felt comfortable with in any kind of situation. And how unique a situation is the one where you let someone see and touch your every intimate part? I didn't want a stranger or some guy I'd dated three times consecutively. He was the perfect choice.
I think, subconsciously, I had been waiting a long time for last night. I open my eyes and see that fan again and think of my earlier thought of his face. He hadn t hesitated. He'd let me do whatever I'd wanted to do to him. He kissed me the way I'd always wanted to be kissed. He caressed me and talked to me. Yes, he'd talked to me. I couldn't help but ask questions. Once I'd put out of my mind the fact that I was undressing my cousin, I'd had a few questions about what went where and how it got there. He'd laughed at me, but I laughed, too. How silly was it that a twenty-five-year-old woman was getting laid for the first time on her birthday? He knew, I knew, and we worked it out just fine. Damn fine. For most of the night, in fact. It had to be some kind of a record.
Cautiously, I turn my head. Sweet God, he's so beautiful. Why did You have to make him so very beautiful? He's curled on his side, arms crossed over his chest and mouth open as he sleeps. And what a mouth. It's bad enough he has a body that's been proven to make nuns faint, but he also has a mouth that begs to be kissed even when he's unconscious. Chiseled lips, a romance novel would call them. Cruel lips because the heroine would want to kiss them so badly, but she couldn't be sure he wanted her to kiss them.
Couldn't be sure
What if he wakes up, sees me lying here, and regrets us instantly? I'll know, too, because I know him so well. He'll either try to play it off, laugh and suggest that we go to McDonald's for breakfast. Treat us like we never happened. Or he'll curse and then apologize in the same breath. Lay there staring at that ceiling fan and wonder if he could get me to leave without making it too obvious that he wants me to leave.
Either way, I don't think I could ever look him in the eyes again.
My fault.
It is completely my fault. I'd been so depressed about turning twenty-five that I'd cried on the phone when he'd called to wish me a happy birthday. I am a crybaby. He'd cancelled two meetings so he could take me out. Make me forget my worries and disappointments about being a quarter-century old and still not knowing what I wanted to do with my life. The rest of my quarters.
And I went and turned a nice evening into a sexual free-for-all.
I am low.
So low.
I close my eyes.
I open my eyes.
His hand is sliding across my stomach. His thumb gets left behind and makes his hand curl around my breast. I realize I'm holding my breath and try to gasp without gasping. He squeezes.
As I try to think of something to say, something to do, he moves closer and hugs me to him. His arms are now behind me, one trailing up and down from shoulder to knee. My breasts are squashed between us, my arms around his neck and back.
And I'm liking it.
"I never," he says against my neck, "would've thought you were a screamer."
I gasp and thump his back with my fist. He laughs and looks at me, sobering.
"You're so lovely," he whispers. Tears come to my eyes. (Crybaby.)
He sees those tears and worries. He's such a damn gentleman.
"I didn't hurt you too much, did I? Oh, baby, I'm sorry." He hugs me. I know he's sincere.
"It's not that," I croak, wiping an eye and hugging him back. "I've been lying here trying to decide if last night was a mistake. If I could leave without waking you."
He is utterly still. I don't think his heart is beating. He pulls back, leaning over me on his elbows. His eyes are looking everywhere but at me.
"Was it a mistake?" he whispers, sounding pained.
"Look at me," I demand, cupping his face. "Do you think it was?"
He stares at me, then he shakes his head, banishing the worry with a cocky grin.
"Hell, no. I've been hard up for you for years."
I smile with relief and he kisses me. A good, deep kiss that washes away all fears. Gone. Just like that. No worries.
How I dread opening my eyes. I already know where I am; the sound of another breathing in my ear told me that the instant I surfaced from dreamland. I never thought I'd be the type, but here I am trying to work out a plan for getting out of his apartment without waking him. I know where every piece of clothing landed last night. They shouldn't be too hard to collect.
My sandals are by the door.
It had been raining last night. We ran through puddles like children. Like we always had. I teased him about that time when we were eight and he'd fallen into a lake of a puddle on our way home from school. He reminded me that I'd been the one who cried because I was afraid his mother would ground him. He then teased me about the time when we were sixteen and I was attacked by a gang of boys with water balloons and a curiosity about wet tee-shirts. I reminded him that he'd taken off his shirt to cover me and then chased the boys away with threats and fists.
My purse is on the small table by the refrigerator.
We went to the kitchen first, for drinks. Finding only a two-liter soda bottle of ice water and a half-gallon of Kool-Aid, we'd opted for water and ice cream. Vanilla with cherries and chocolate fudge. We ate it right out of the carton, laughing and sharing the last clean spoon. He was such a slob. Making faces and dribbling ice cream. I laughed and laughed, getting a headache from the cold.
My dress is in the living room.
I don't know what happened. One second we were laughing, tickling each other on the floor because I brought up the time he'd tried on every dress I owned to go to the Halloween dance in high school. He'd said none of them showed off his legs to advantage. I couldn't very well let him forget that. It was my job as his cousin to remind him. Oh, now I remember. I knocked my head on the table. That's right. He got an ice pack while I tried not to cry. It was a helluva bump, blood and everything. When he came back, I broke down and cried like a big baby. He held me, rocking back and forth on the floor with the ice pack on my head.
My bra and panties are on the floor at the end of the bed.
I do know how that happened. I sat up, away from him, determined not to be the crybaby. He'd smiled sympathetically at me, reached out to cup my face. He always got mushy when I cried. He kissed my nose, telling me it was turning red. He kissed my forehead, rubbing my arm and whispering that my mop of curls would hide the scar quite well. I punched him and wiped my eyes. While I realized I had smudged my mascara on the back of my hand, he wrapped his arms around me and toppled us backward. Before he knew what hit him, I was kissing him. On the mouth. And it was not the kiss of friends.
It could work.
I open my eyes and see his ceiling fan, still and staring down at me. Though I'd been on my back most of the night, I hadn't noticed he had a ceiling fan. My eyes had either been closed or focused on other things. Like a most beautiful face, flushed and sweaty and moaning my name over and over. I close my eyes.
He was wonderful. Years ago I had secretly yearned to have him as my first. I'd wanted to be with someone I felt comfortable with in any kind of situation. And how unique a situation is the one where you let someone see and touch your every intimate part? I didn't want a stranger or some guy I'd dated three times consecutively. He was the perfect choice.
I think, subconsciously, I had been waiting a long time for last night. I open my eyes and see that fan again and think of my earlier thought of his face. He hadn t hesitated. He'd let me do whatever I'd wanted to do to him. He kissed me the way I'd always wanted to be kissed. He caressed me and talked to me. Yes, he'd talked to me. I couldn't help but ask questions. Once I'd put out of my mind the fact that I was undressing my cousin, I'd had a few questions about what went where and how it got there. He'd laughed at me, but I laughed, too. How silly was it that a twenty-five-year-old woman was getting laid for the first time on her birthday? He knew, I knew, and we worked it out just fine. Damn fine. For most of the night, in fact. It had to be some kind of a record.
Cautiously, I turn my head. Sweet God, he's so beautiful. Why did You have to make him so very beautiful? He's curled on his side, arms crossed over his chest and mouth open as he sleeps. And what a mouth. It's bad enough he has a body that's been proven to make nuns faint, but he also has a mouth that begs to be kissed even when he's unconscious. Chiseled lips, a romance novel would call them. Cruel lips because the heroine would want to kiss them so badly, but she couldn't be sure he wanted her to kiss them.
Couldn't be sure
What if he wakes up, sees me lying here, and regrets us instantly? I'll know, too, because I know him so well. He'll either try to play it off, laugh and suggest that we go to McDonald's for breakfast. Treat us like we never happened. Or he'll curse and then apologize in the same breath. Lay there staring at that ceiling fan and wonder if he could get me to leave without making it too obvious that he wants me to leave.
Either way, I don't think I could ever look him in the eyes again.
My fault.
It is completely my fault. I'd been so depressed about turning twenty-five that I'd cried on the phone when he'd called to wish me a happy birthday. I am a crybaby. He'd cancelled two meetings so he could take me out. Make me forget my worries and disappointments about being a quarter-century old and still not knowing what I wanted to do with my life. The rest of my quarters.
And I went and turned a nice evening into a sexual free-for-all.
I am low.
So low.
I close my eyes.
I open my eyes.
His hand is sliding across my stomach. His thumb gets left behind and makes his hand curl around my breast. I realize I'm holding my breath and try to gasp without gasping. He squeezes.
As I try to think of something to say, something to do, he moves closer and hugs me to him. His arms are now behind me, one trailing up and down from shoulder to knee. My breasts are squashed between us, my arms around his neck and back.
And I'm liking it.
"I never," he says against my neck, "would've thought you were a screamer."
I gasp and thump his back with my fist. He laughs and looks at me, sobering.
"You're so lovely," he whispers. Tears come to my eyes. (Crybaby.)
He sees those tears and worries. He's such a damn gentleman.
"I didn't hurt you too much, did I? Oh, baby, I'm sorry." He hugs me. I know he's sincere.
"It's not that," I croak, wiping an eye and hugging him back. "I've been lying here trying to decide if last night was a mistake. If I could leave without waking you."
He is utterly still. I don't think his heart is beating. He pulls back, leaning over me on his elbows. His eyes are looking everywhere but at me.
"Was it a mistake?" he whispers, sounding pained.
"Look at me," I demand, cupping his face. "Do you think it was?"
He stares at me, then he shakes his head, banishing the worry with a cocky grin.
"Hell, no. I've been hard up for you for years."
I smile with relief and he kisses me. A good, deep kiss that washes away all fears. Gone. Just like that. No worries.
"And here I thought," I say with a grin, "that I had seduced my best buddy, my cousin."
"You're good, baby, but you didn't seduce me." He gives me a cocky grin. "I've had last night planned for weeks."
He nuzzles my neck and lifts my leg to around his waist. He's liking it, too. A lot. I guess it's true what they say about men and mornings. Even the morning after...
The End
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