I want my husband, not a fantasy.
“What?” he chuckles, the sound rusty and horny. “Baby, you’ve got no idea what you’re doing right now. You look stunning, Pixie. Out of this world. You love the camera. Look at the way you’re moving. You’re loving it.”
No.
I’m not.
And I realize something. Something important. I never climax before looking at him. I can’t. I’m incapable. I need to turn my head or catch a glimpse of him to orgasm. It’s just my thing.
Abel pops his thumb in his mouth, wetting it. That move gets me every time. Like, how sexy is that? I moan, biting my lip and then I’m chewing that lip right off because he slides his wet thumb inside my ass. I jerk at the penetration, shake and shiver like a leaf as pleasure coils inside me. The butt-play always makes me horny.
“Fuck, Pixie. The camera gets you so hot,” he grits out.
He praises me. He says I look amazing like this, I was made for this, made for the camera. And then he groans, biting his lip, fascinated by the screen-me. His lip-bite does me in and I shatter. My orgasm claims me and I clench my eyes shut as I come and come, spasming. My climax sets off his and he comes inside me with a roar.
Once he’s done, he collapses and hugs me from behind, sighing contentedly. My eyes are wide open, though. My sleep and beer-induced haziness are gone.
It’s never been the camera for me.
Yes, it’s sexy and it gets me going but only because it’s either him wielding it or it’s him getting all worked up when the red light is on.
It’s you, Abel. It’s always been you.
I hug his arm and place a soft kiss on his hair-dusted limb as a tear snakes down and drops on it. He winces but doesn’t wake up. I’m not breaking my promise by crying because my tears are not for my burnt treehouse or my parents. I’m crying for him, because of him, because of something that I didn’t even know I was missing.
My Abel.
Somewhere along the way, the camera became a third person in our marriage. Maybe it happened when he brought home the camcorder, I don’t know. But for me, it has always been just a fantasy, a form of therapy.
I didn’t notice it until tonight that somehow for my husband, it became a reality.
I’m trying to remember the last time Abel looked at me while having sex.
I think it was the day before our shoot was scheduled and we were lounging on the mattress, naked, of course. I was draped over his body, as I said, “You’re still hard.”
“I told you. It’s a sickness. I’m a sick man.”
Smiling, I kissed him sweetly. “Are you sure you’re sick for me? Maybe it’s the apples.” All day we’d binged on sex, Toblerones and apples. “I swear you’re like Adam.”
He fisted my snarly hair. “Who’s Adam?”
“Adam. From Adam and Eve. They got cast out of the garden because he was stupid enough to eat the apple.”
Letting go of my hair, he put both his arms behind his head and chuckled, looking like a king. “Yeah, no. I think, it was Eve. She tempted him.”
“Oh please, it was Adam. He ate the apple because it was his favorite fruit, and Eve tried to stop him but he didn’t listen.”
“What a couple of hungry monsters.” He shook his head.
“Or what a couple of hungry lovers. Lust is hungry work, you know. I’m already craving an apple.”
“And you don’t even like fruit.”
“Nope.”
Then he rolled me on my back and made love to me, while staring into my eyes.
Now, I watch him throw back his head and laugh. He’s talking to Nick, Blu’s husband, sipping beer at the bar counter. We’re at their farewell party of sorts, in their loft-style apartment in the village. They’re leaving for LA tomorrow and this is the last time we’ll see them for a long while.
I’m going to miss them. Blu has become such a great friend, a guide, really. Over the past few weeks, we’ve spent so much time together. We’ve gone shopping, to the movies, to dinners. Sometimes all four of us go, when I can convince Abel to be social. Though he likes Nick so it’s not such a hardship. Plus, if I go, he goes too. It makes me feel really mature, hanging out with another married couple.
“Gosh, you two are so cute.” Blu laughs beside me.
“What?” I look away from Abel, whose laughter has died down to a slow chuckle. I wish he was closer so I could listen to it. I wish he was closer so I could look into his brown eyes. Eyes that remind me of sweet maple syrup.
“You can’t take your eyes off him and he can’t take his eyes off you.” She sips her pink drink. “It’s cute.”