Between Lovers Read Online Free

vulnerable, sometimes incoherent, sometimes the sweet rambles of a naughty child. She holds the sheets with one hand, wiggles in pleasure, her hips moving her love up toward my body. I pull her legs up, rest her ankles on my shoulders, all she can do is grab the sheets and enjoy. That’s how I make her my prisoner.
    â€œTell me you love me.”
    â€œDamn, you’re fucking me. That’s it, that’s it, f-f-fuck me like you think I should be fucked.”
    Her crude words attempt to disconnect the emotion, but they can’t dilute how I feel.
    With my thrusts I say, “Tell. Me. You. Love. Me.”
    â€œI love you, I 1-1-love you, and you know, oh God—”
    â€œWhose pussy is it?”
    â€œYours. It’s. Yours. It’s. All. Yours. I. Love. You. This. Pussy. It’s. Yours.”
    â€œSay my name. I want to make sure you’re here with me.”
    I refuse to be reduced to my lowest common denominator, refuse to be seen as a single body part, refuse to become just a dick putting out the fire in her hole.

2
    Nicole says, “I still want you to meet her.”
    I don’t respond to that.
    I lay there in the bed with my eyes closed. Nicole is on top of me, her hands tracing over my body, wide awake like she’s been IV‘ed to a double latte mocha cappuccino espresso.
    Another commuter train rumbles by out on Embarcadero.
    She kisses my lips before she heads for the bathroom. Nicole walks in a way that lets you know she used to do ballet many moons ago, as a child, that she does yoga as an adult, using the core of her body to move herself, her abs and inner thighs tight from doing most of the work.
    Nicole leaves the bathroom door wide open. She sings a Pru song, the one about the candles. She sings that all the time. Her singing is terrible, but it has raw passion. The toilet flushes.
    The sandman sprinkles sleep dust all over me. Try to shake it off. Body heavy.
    Water runs in the sink. She’s washing up. Her bracelets jingle with her scrubbing.
    I feel warm. At peace. Then I’m gone to dreamland.
    Just that quick I’m in Paris. At a strip club. A slim European woman with freckles coming toward me and Nicole. The woman is naked in high heels. The dancer performs, sings, her voice so clear. She sounds as smooth and hypnotic as that wonderful vocalist Ondine Darcyl, croons “Black Orpheus” in perfect French, moves her body with a Brazilian feel.
    Sudden heat on my groin frightens me, makes me yell back to consciousness.
    Nicole laughs. “You jumped up like Al Green getting splattered with hot grits.”
    â€œScared the shit out of me.”
    Nicole whispers, “Relax.”
    She has two towels, one hot, wet, and soapy, the other just hot and wet. She wipes me down, removes all the leftover love with the soapy towel, then wipes away the soap with the other. She does that with a smile. So nurturing and compassionate. When she’s done, she kisses the tip of my penis.
    She asks, “Did you hear me when I said that I want you two to meet?”
    I sit up. We stare. I tell her, “I’m not deaf.”
    â€œLast month, when I asked, you said that you’d think about it.”
    â€œHelp me out here. Why would you want us to meet?”
    â€œThen I won’t feel guilty. Like I’m cheating.”
    â€œAre you?”
    She pauses. “Then you won’t act like she doesn’t exist. I love you. I love her.”
    â€œYou don’t love her.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    I say, “Adam and Eve. Adam and Eve.”
    We stare at each other, restless, indeterminate gazes that reach deep.
    She says, “I’m a divided soul, sweetie. And I can’t go on like this. Not much longer.”
    â€œThen choose.”
    This is a discussion we’ve had countless times since the wedding. Each time it becomes harder.
    She tells me, “I have a solution. If you’re still open to new things, it can