Read Daddy Issues by Kate Goldbeck Chapter 28 – Iwas not expecting to cry afterward.
I brace myself for a round of what’s wrong, what’s happening right now, is it something I did?—all questions guaranteed to send me into a deeper spiral. But instead he just holds me tighter and runs his fingers through my hair.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks. I sense the trepidation in the question, like he’s expecting the worst from whatever I’m about to say.
“I know we haven’t known each other for that long, but I feel, like, weirdly comfortable with you.” The way relief floods his face—it’s kind of wonderful to lift someone’s mood. “I don’t ever feel that way. With anyone. I think it’s my curse.” I look up at the ceiling. “I’m permanently on edge.”
“Why is that?”
“Hasn’t everyone been emotionally mangled by another person to some degree?”
“You don’t seem mangled to me,” he says.
“Because we haven’t gotten to that stage where you start to pull away and I sense it but I’m afraid to bring it up because that’s the death knell and I’m not ready for it to be over.”
He lifts his head up like he’s trying to see my face more clearly. “I’m sorry, what? The death knell?”
“It’s like I’m a magnet for people that come on strong and then disappear.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
“It’s a pattern.” I try to explain it the way I’d draw it on a page. “Imagine two people holding on to a big bunch of helium balloons together. It’s a windy day, so I’m clenching the strings so tight. And he’s not even paying attention to the wind, so some of the balloons are escaping and it seems so obvious because they’re like…red and orange balloons floating away but I’m the only one in a panic. And it’s so embarrassing that I’m even paying attention that I can’t bring myself to say anything about it so I just quietly take over holding all those goddamn balloons. And he doesn’t even notice.” My voice gets higher and more strained. “He thinks the balloons are just floating there, on their own, and whenever he wants, he can just grab one from the sky because it’s there waiting. And I just feel so much…rage about it, but if I show it, I feel so weak. It’s unbearable.”
I grimace at the fact that I just unleashed my Hal anxieties with Nick, especially in bed.
“Does your dad know you feel this way?” he asks.
“My dad?” I sputter.
“Well you’re talking about someone who takes and doesn’t give and doesn’t acknowledge you, right?”
God. Paging Dr. Freud. That’s not something I’m capable of unpacking right now, so I stay quiet.
“Well, I’m glad you feel comfortable.” He turns onto his side, facing me. I’m still investigating the mysteries of his ceiling. “I feel that way, too.”
“Is now a good time to reveal that I’m into some very specific kinky st—”
“I’ll do it. Look”—he gestures at himself—“I’m not freaked out. And I haven’t even heard what it is yet.”
I laugh. “Why didn’t you even blink?”
“I’m old and I’ve seen many things. It’s very difficult to scare me. Also I used to date a girl who was into pimple popping, and honestly, that was more of a red flag for me than wanting to be peed on or something.”
“You peed on someone?” I sit up.
“Now whose judging?”
“I was kidding about the kinks.” I wish I were that interesting. “But now I can’t tell if you are. I mean, I’m sure I could come up with something if you’re into it.”
“Okay then.” He sits up, too. “Who’s tying up who?”
I laugh, but I still can’t tell if there’s some truth in this conversation. “I did that with an ex. It was…fine?”
“Just ‘fine’? Then he was doing something wrong.”
“Are you some kind of shibari expert?”
“No, but let’s review my résumé. I’m very good at tying knots. I can suspend an entire lighting rig from a truss. And I’m feeling pretty confident after moving you to tears.”
He runs his fingers along my collarbone and down the center of my chest, his eyes on my body, even the parts I’m not crazy about showing. But the way he’s taking me in, I don’t feel shy. I’m not wishing I’d kept my bra on so that my breasts will be pushed up. He gives me this feeling that everything I am is enough.
“Your body,” he murmurs, tracing along the sunburned skin between my breasts. It’s still sensitive, but the way he touches me is so delicate that it offsets the sting. “You’re so beautiful.”
My brain still hasn’t recovered from the orgasm, so I actually process this in a way where I can accept it at face value. And I’m not even drunk. Is this growth? Am I healed?
I’m shivering a little from the ceiling fan breeze, but his hands are big and warm—he runs hot, and I love the way he feels against my body. Every part of him. I’m not usually into missionary, but when he climbs on top of me, I have a primal urge for him to cover me like a weighted blanket and fuck me into his mattress.
I like his mouth a lot, too. He’s already learned that I melt when someone kisses my neck and shoulders and that spot behind my ear. And I think he’s applying this insider knowledge to other sensitive parts of me. I get weak. Ticklish, like every sensation registers tenfold. My knees buckle even when I’m not standing. And I’m definitely not standing now.
I’m a puddle.
I lift my head. “Are you going to tie me up?”
“I might,” he says into the skin below my belly button. “Because you won’t stop squirming around. And I kind of want to make it worse.”
“Well my safe word is ‘Make it so.’ ”
“Picard’s catchphrase, huh?” He laughs.
“I’ve done some Star Trek research.”
“That’s a terrible safe word. Very confusing.” He pushes himself off the bed. “Don’t move.” It’s reassuring that he doesn’t keep handcuffs on his nightstand. Also that he has a nightstand.
No worries about my moving because my legs are still jelly.
“This is our best option,” he says when he returns, holding up two bright yellow…bungee cords? “Ratcheting straps.” He doesn’t wait for me to ask. “For tying down cargo on a truck.”
“Perv,” I reply, holding out my wrists. “Promise not to slice open my jugular.”
“I promise not to slice open your jugular.” He kisses the inside of my wrists. “I was thinking the carotid anyway.”
The fact that I can laugh at that is a credit to how safe I feel, even as I lift my hands over my head.
He takes each of my wrists in those giant, warm callused hands and loops the straps through the slats of his headboard behind me.
See? Yet another reason for a man to purchase a bed frame.
“Feel okay?”
“I’ve decided my new safe word is ‘two to beam up.’ ” It makes him laugh again, and I’m proud of myself for generating not one, but two Star Trek phrases without the aid of Google.
I’m not completely calm. I’m not even 50 percent calm. There’s a part of my brain or my nervous system that’s doing calculations, racing into potential futures, getting jumpy with every unexpected brush of skin.
But what I also feel is that Nick seems to get that.
His mouth feels soft and malleable but so firm. I’ll be honest, oral usually does nothing much for me. I’ve been known to moan a little bit and pretend like I’m having a great time until the other person moves on or I go down on him just to keep things pushing forward.
Right now? I don’t even want to push forward. I just want his mouth on me for the foreseeable future. I want him to just barely graze the ticklish spot beneath my rib cage that makes me whine. I want him to tug on my nipples with his teeth and make my back arch off the bed from just that and wanting more.
He continues until I cannot fucking take it anymore and I’m positive that he can’t, either. He’s talking into my skin and I can’t actually hear the words, but I get all of them perfectly. He wants me and I want him to devour me. I can’t say that’s something I’ve ever longed for, but oh my fucking God I think I gasp something like “take me,” which would be humiliating under any other circumstance but also, holy shit, I demand to be taken.
Nick lowers his head so, so gradually until it’s like he’s sinking into the foot of his bed. I feel his hairline against my belly button. There’s not a thing I can do about it and I’ve never been happier about not being in control.
I struggle with single-minded focus most of the time. Not now. My mind has blocked out all potential distractions. There’s nothing to look at: no framed artwork, no bookshelves, no laundry on the floor. As far as I’m concerned, Nick’s room doesn’t even have walls. Whatever he’s doing to me right now has filled up all available space. And what he’s doing is teasing me mercilessly for what feels like twenty minutes.
With my hands over my head, other parts of my body become more sensitive to touch, temperature, sensation. My upper back drags against his linen bedspread. His fingers dig into my hips and the backs of my thighs. Anytime I try to squirm away, he holds me tighter. Every abdominal muscle I have is tense and contracting, trying to prolong the inevitable but also helplessly rushing toward the edge.
His mouth is right on my clit and I’m so close. Straining. Inches from the other side. And then he moves, kissing down my right thigh. I suck in a breath because obviously it’s not the carotid I need to worry about. It’s not quite enough and he knows that and he knows I do not have my hands available to, say, grab the back of his head.
This man is going to fully torment me while my hands slowly fall asleep.
Sure enough, he retraces the path back to my center, tongue nudging over and over in such a steady rhythm, letting me believe that I will come any moment…any moment…
He swerves to the other side and I let out some kind of frustrated groan.
Twisting at my waist, I push back on his mouth in a way that seems almost rude. I honestly didn’t know my hips were capable of these angles.
“Hey.” Nick’s head comes up for a second. “Be good.”
My head falls back onto the pillow and I think he takes pity on me. He lets go of one of my legs and slips a finger inside me and I instantly forgive all the teasing because his hands are fucking magic. I knew this from the moment we met and it’s finally paying dividends. The combination of the pressure of his finger and his tongue against my clit and my inability to use my own hands makes me writhe. My thighs are tight around his ears, but I’m sure he can still hear the way I’m moaning. I’m helpless in the greatest way. The moment I cede the last strand of control I’ve been clinging to, he coaxes me over the edge, pulling a carnal noise out of me that would be mortifying in any other context. I’m engulfed in pure, mindless sensation. For those few moments, I don’t know who or where I am; it’s immaculate.
And when the glittery feeling recedes, this other emotion surfaces: this pooling of pride and gratitude and peace. Excitement for the future.
Clearly it’s been awhile since another human made me come like this. Usually I’m duping myself into believing that my own hand isn’t in control of the vibrator.
I hear a muffled “Again?” and strain my neck to see the top of Nick’s head.
“Two to beam up.” My voice is ragged. “I think my ears popped. You tortured me.”
“You really are dramatic. It’s cute.” He pushes himself up onto his knees. “And I’m not going to let you fake-complain about that.” He reaches for the ties. “You should applaud.”
“I can’t feel my hands.”
“The thing is, I’ve noticed—totally against my will—that you come way too fast when left to your own devices.”
“I have a limited amount of alone time in the morning,” I say. “I have to be efficient.”
“You don’t have to be efficient with me. In fact”—he pulls the ties off the headboard slats and tosses them to the side—“we’re going to be as inefficient as humanly possible.”
“Does this mean we’ve already exhausted the vanilla portion of our relationship?”
“Never.” He lies down next to me. “I think I could have the most vanilla sex with you for a very long time and be in heaven.”
A few responses float through my mind, but I don’t say any of them out loud. They’re all too tinged with the darker shades of my defense mechanisms. But I mentally underline a very long time. I draw an exclamation point next to it in bright red ink.
I point to the top of Nick’s bicep. “Okay, now explain the teacup.”
“Earl Grey, hot. It’s how Picard orders his tea from the replicator.” He smiles and it beams directly into my dumb heart. “It’s iconic, trust me. Everything on this arm is from Star Trek: The Next Generation. We’ll have to start watching it so you can truly appreciate the right half of my body.”
“Oh, I’m very appreciative. Of both halves.” I lean in to kiss the teacup, pause, and plant a raspberry on his shoulder instead.
“Goddammit!” He flinches and then exhales. “I never should’ve told you that raspberry story.”
I kiss him on the mouth. “I like your tattoos. You’re very committed to this one intellectual property.”
He turns onto his back and looks at the opposite wall. “I’m not ashamed of my body or anything. But I’m aware that it’s…average, I guess? And that’s fine. There was a point in my life where I felt very confident about it. I was unloading trucks all day, climbing on shit. I earned that. But it’s not my priority anymore. I barely even think about it, to be honest. Except for now. Because you’re probably—”
“I’m not.” I grab his chin and force him to look me in the eye. “I’m into it. You just witnessed how much I’m into it.”
“I did.” He breathes out. “I showed you mine, so”—he points at my leg—“what’s this?”
I roll forward so the side of my right leg is more visible. “I told you already. Magneto’s helmet.”
“Exactly. You’re also very committed to a specific intellectual property.”
“No, no. I diversified a few years ago. Look, I have the hands from Michelangelo’s creation of Adam.” I stretch my forearm over his chest. “The most beautiful pair of hands ever drawn, so…no-brainer for me and—what?” I notice him staring.
“You’re kind of glowing.”
“That might be from the orgasms,” I say.
“And I’m happy to be your captive audience. You can tie me up and tell me about Michelangelo’s hands anytime.”
“Damn, you are into some weird shit.” I tickle his sides and he wraps me in his arms and I think a giant hit of dopamine explodes in my brain, leading me to say, “When you hold me, I just feel so…held?”
Nick bursts out laughing.
It made sense in my head. “Okay, you’re also making me lose brain cells. Your giant cock displaced them.”
“Hey, it had to go somewhere.” He squeezes me tighter and I can feel his laugh directly from his lungs to my chest.
I have no idea what time it is. How long we’ve been in his room. I don’t know where my phone is and I don’t care. I’m happy.
“I don’t wanna leave.” I’m not sure how I mean that. Yes, I don’t want to leave this bed, this room, this apartment.
But all those things are in this place where I was never planning to stay.
“So don’t. Stay right here.” He reaches down and pulls the covers over both of us. “I’m not letting you go anyway.”
And I wonder how he means that. At what point we decide what go and leave actually mean. We’ve crossed some kind of boundary beyond “casual” and into an unknown territory, even though the future hasn’t changed at all.
But I snuggle deeper into him because we aren’t there now. We can put it off. So I tell him I’ll stay. And he can take it in whatever way he wants.
The last thing I hear before I drift off to sleep is “I feel like you’ve always been mine.”
