Push(59)

“I’m not mad,” I say again. We sit like that for a long time. His hand keeps moving up and down my spine. I am thinking about my dad’s funeral. About how my mother wailed with agony. About how much they loved each other. About how much I loved them. Both of them. And my brothers—I used to love them, too. Before Michael swallowed them whole. Part of me wants to cry, but I’m not sad. Not really. I lift the dog tags up and put them over my head, tucking them inside my shirt, against my heart.
“Thank you for these, David. I love them.” I pause for a second. And then I add a single word. “Love,” I say quietly.
I kiss him, wrapping my hands around his head. It feels as if I am dissolving into him. As if he is taking the breath right out of me. As if we are melting together. His tongue slips against mine, softly at first and then with force. I need him to wash everything away.
He gets up off the bed and bends over me, kissing my mouth and sliding his hands up and down my thighs. I swallow back the last possibility of sadness as the unspoken meaning of his gift sinks into me. He cares about me. He wants me to stop hurting. He wants to fuse all my broken pieces back together. With his affection and adoration and kindness. It is sweet. He is sweet.
David stops kissing me long enough to lift my shirt up over my head and take off my bra. He squeezes my breasts, rubbing them coarsely, as his mouth molds back over mine, sucking the breath out of me again. I can feel his fingers begin to move along the section of the chain resting between my breasts, following it down to the V and then back up and around to the back of my neck. It sends a shiver of anticipation through me, and the tags rattle against my skin.
I slide off the edge of the bed and on to my knees in front of him. I open his zipper and look up as he takes off his shirt and looks down at me. The power is still there, but it is tucked behind a cloud of something else. It’s not pity, of that I am sure, because I’ve seen pity before—I know how it burns. It could be compassion, perhaps. Or empathy. Or understanding. Whatever it is, it settles into me and makes everything right. His eyes watch me as I touch him, as I wrap my hand around him and make his body stiffen. I brush him against my cheek, feeling the softness of his skin and inhaling his scent. Then I latch on to him and suck. My mouth is warm and wet, and he softly exhales as I move my hand and mouth together around him. His hands, at first, are limp at his sides, but then he moves them under my chin. He holds me like that, pulling my face to him over and over. Eventually he tells me to stop, and when I do, he raises my chin so that I am looking up at him, wanting him more than I ever have before. Wanting to show him how thankful I am.
“Lie down on the bed,” he says, the cloud dissolving from his eyes. I clamber to my feet and do as I am told, knowing that my compliance can offer a small sliver of gratitude for his amazing gift. David walks around to the other side of the bed and tugs my panties and jeans off before removing his own. He pulls my ankles so that my ass is now just barely on the edge of the bed. Standing next to me, he bends my knees up against my chest and pins them there with one of his arms. The palm of his other hand begins rubbing my ass in slow, wide circles. He is looking at my face, watching me want, and I am begging him with my eyes. Begging him to touch me. Begging to thank him. Then, at last, his fingers find me. They slide over me, press against me, swipe at my core. They move in and out, pushing the blood through my limbs and lighting my body up. I grab at the sheets, gripping them to steady myself.
Jesus, I am close. He spreads my legs open and slides himself into me, crashing against my body, nearly making me come. He pauses for a second, I think to control me. To rein me in.
“Not until I say,” he says. I look up at him and nod my head, trying to keep myself in check.
He starts again, very slowly. Moving his hips back and forth. I want to tell him to go faster, but I keep my mouth shut and wait. His pace stays slow, but it is so deep this way and he is hitting a sweet spot every time he pushes into me. I groan with each shove in hopes of inspiring him to pick up the pace. David watches the spot where our bodies meet. Where we melt together. I think about what it must look like to see him moving in and out of me, and the thought nearly lifts me back to the edge.
“David,” I groan, “I...” He stops again.
“Emma,” he says. “I want to watch you come when I tell you to. And not before.” My lack of self-control is melting the small sliver of gratitude I want to show him. Get your shit in check, Emma.
I don’t say a word, but I nod again. I vow to myself that I will not come until he tells me to. I can do this. I will do this for him. He starts moving again, but this time his hips are grinding in a circle. I keep my eyes closed and breathe deeply, letting my mind wander and stretch away from this moment. Just for an instant, just to keep me sane. Then he tells me to wrap my legs around him, and his hands slip under my backside, lifting me up off the bed. We stand, him inside of me and me wrapped around his body like a naked cloak. He sets me down on my dresser. This time he goes faster, smacking into me. He is hitting that spot again, and I am about to unravel, despite my promise to myself.
“Go,” he says mercifully, and with that word, I fly into him. Grunting and heaving and writhing with my own pleasure. He is watching me, and I try like hell to keep my eyes open so that I can do the same to him, but I can’t. I can only feel him. I feel him come, thrusting deep and fast inside of me, the dog tags bouncing off my chest. His breath snags twice and then his body steadies. He pulls out of me as my legs drop off the edge of the dresser. And my heart lifts into my throat.