Better Like This
Better Like This
Hello!
This is a sequel to Someone to Grow Old With, so if you remember that story, and otherwise too, of course, I hope you enjoy this continuation! Do tell me what you think! *smiles*
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The drive lasts ages and ages and I'm exhausted by the time I'm finally home. I have to park some way from the townhouse, but my weary limbs don't mind the walk. It adds a small swing to my tail, finally getting off my butt and to walk down the street in the setting sun. The drive is too long to be taken casually, and again I wonder.
I put one of my bags down to ring the doorbell, and I hear him come soon, the door is opened, and a smiling man greets me with a purr. The man of my life, standing there wearing summer cottons, because that is appropriate for this weather, and his paws are bare and must feel nice and cool on the dark tiles.
"Hey," I speak wearily.
"Hi," Chris says, and we nuzzle, right there on the doorway, and I take a hold of his arm and don't let got for a moment while we greet each other properly.
He takes the bag I put down to ring the doorbell and we step inside, back into familiarity made out of the scents, the photographs, the coffee tray on the little table, the music playing from Chris' beloved vintage stereos, even the couch we restored together over all those evenings and weekends, so that now it's fantastic.
As soon as he's got his paws free, I put my arms around him and pull him onto me, and don't let go while I nuzzle him and listen to his breathing and his purr, and he strokes the back of my neck, and we don't even need to speak a thing. I've missed him so badly, his scent and his voice, and his smile, and those eyes glinting behind his spectacles.
"Come on, let's get you sit down," he says, "do you want something to drink?"
"Just water, I don't want anything else now," I reply.
We walk into the living room and he puts me down to the couch and disappears into the kitchen. I relax, finally happy in my very own surroundings, Chris' scent in my nose while I look around the friendly room. He's been having a lot of fun, I bet, just relaxing in the quiet afternoon, waiting me to come back home. One of his coffee table books is open on the coffee table, as appropriate, and I have to lean over and flick up the cover to cheat, having made no instant recognition based on the open spread. "Marc", it says, on the cover that depicts an angular, stylized tiger. I smile a little as I put the book down back to how it was before.
The sight of my paw clutching the corner stops me, however. I frown briefly, before I dig into my pocket. The golden band is warm from my own body heat, and shines reassuringly when I slip it onto my ring finger. I don't wear it when visiting home because mother has forgotten, and father...doesn't need the reminder, I think. Our silence on that is polite, after all.
Putting it on makes me feel better, and soon I hear Chris returning, and a glass of cold sparkling water is placed onto my paw. Chris lingers behind the couch and puts his paws on my shoulders and starts to knead them, like he often does. I purr out, letting my head tip forward a little while his thumbs stroke the base of my skull.
It feels heavenly.
"Safe trip?" he asks.
"All in all," I reply.
He massages the tension away from me, in many regards.
He kisses the top of my head and breathes there, letting me enjoy his warmth and his scent, while I melt onto the couch. His paws continue kneading me, and my tail won't keep still on the floor, reacting to the lovely rolling release of the tension that has been building up through hours of driving on the car, and the entire weekend.
"Let's talk about it when you want to," he says.
I take a sip of my water and feel refreshed.
"Not now," I say, "I don't want to, yet."
"It's alright," he replies, his strong paws stroking firmly, just as is needed, "only when you want to."
I don't want to talk about the shitty adult diapers, the dirty talking, the endless spectacle of trying to feed her, bathe her, of putting drugs into dose boxes for the week and reminding dad about the home nurse visits. It's not the time to tell Chris about being mistaken for my father, about the urinary incontinence and about the crushing sadness visiting my own home causes in me.
I will talk, but not now, not when I'm in my own special place, my real home, as it is, now, and has been for many years now, with Chris, for so long that even the walls smell of us.
"Thank you," I tell him, instead.
He rumbles, and he sounds happy.
"Have you kept yourself busy?" I ask.
"Just the usual," he says, "Virginia popped by for tea and cake."
I chuckle.
"How nice."
"We gossiped," he chuckles.
"I'm sure you did," I chuff.
"She sends you her best."
"That's nice. I better pop by sometime next week."
"We can both go."
"If you like."
"Why not?"
Why not indeed. I roll my shoulders in his grip and let out a small purr again.
"So...Marc?" I point out the book with my foot, which amuses him.
"I'm going through an Expressionist phase," he replies.
I glance over at the bookshelf by the little TV stand, lined with those glossy, tall, big books of his.
"What next?" I suggest.
"Maybe Babylonian," he replies.
"Do you have a book on that?" I ask.
"Yes," he replies happily.
I drink more water and start to unwind, if slowly. Everything at home feels like a bad dream when viewed from this physical distance, even if the temporal distance is only accounted in hours, for now. The feelings already seem more dull, somehow, in the warm glow of the sun through the thin curtains, making even my furs seem brilliant. I feel the need to glance over to see Chris, how he must look in such light.
Our eyes meet, and we smile.
Then he kisses me, and I don't resist, his paw cupping my chin while our lips meet in gentle, flowing motions.
"Don't make me any excuses about being stinky after the drive," he says, and I know.
We are both breathing more heavily when I get up from the couch and follow him upstairs, watching the swing of his striped tail intently.
We meet again, arms and bodies and lips, seeking one another in deeper warmth, our chests growing noisy, our paws grappling favorite body parts in kind. It might've only been a few days but after the depressive time of the weekend, I need to do something that leaves me blissfully unaware of anything but my body, and my lover's.
I bite his lower lip, softly, give him a look, and drop onto my knees, my paws kneading his rump before I slip my thumbs under the waistband, nuzzling onto him and making him groan appropriately.
"Al..." he rumbles.
I pull his pants down and nuzzle again, his scent smeared onto my cheeks but I don't care, my fingers squeezing onto his cheeks while I begin to lick and savor. He is deep and musky, not unclean, only a hint of sweat, and is hips flex with tension and want.
I suckle on him, make his toes curl onto the carpet, and let him steady himself with his paws on my head, holding me down, not forcing me, simply telling me, really, that he doesn't want it to stop.
I stop before it's too much for him and smile, licking my lips.
"Let's do the good old rub-down, how about it?"
"I wouldn't be able to wait for anything more," he replies, his tail lashing the air behind him.
We rid ourselves of clothing, throw a towel over the bed and he lays down, telling me where he wants me without any words, as I climb on top of him and take him. His paws grip me, my body, much like mine holds his, our maws in constant motion while we kiss and breathe in unison, our bodies beginning to rock in a rhythm that puts sweat onto us on this humid, warm afternoon that has us panting from the exertion in a matter of minutes.
We aren't destined to last any longer, either, pleasure soon rushing through both of our bodies, sealing us together with heat that makes us growl and pant again.
Afterwards, I let him take charge, and hold me in his arms, our bodies snugly pressed together, his knee thrown over my hip while we groom each other's faces, softly.
Oh God, please let me remember this, forever. Please let Chris remember.
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Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed yourself, and I look forward to your feedback!