She: Part 2 (31 page)

He repeats his actions multiple times, causing both of us to build quickly. I grip the duvet tightly, calling out, almost there. He leans up on his hands, watching me, completely in control of himself. He edges into me again and I can tell from the look on his face that he’s on the verge, but he’s doing what I told him to do this morning — he’s holding back, elongating both of our pleasure. Then remembering that he said he wanted to be
inside
of me, I kick my heeled shoes against his backside, pushing him deep within me. I come immediately, overly stimulated by the feel of him, moaning loudly, shaking under him.

“
Gemima
,” he groans loudly, moving his hips a few more glorious times before he orgasms too, stilling as he pours himself into me. “
Ah
, baby,” he cries, leaning over me and burying his face into my neck once more, his breathing heavy. “I think I’ve got heel prints in my ass,” he chuckles.

I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. “Maybe they’ll scar…then we’ll have a lasting reminder of your thirty-fifth birthday,” I grin, cheekily.

He stares at me, looking amused. “Then what the hell is my body going to look like when I’m seventy, if you continually have your way with me?” he jokes.

“Very well ridden,” I giggle, kissing his full lips.

We make out for several amorous minutes, with Logan still very much inside of me. I wrap my legs around his back and he smiles into my mouth.

“I bet I can make you squeal,” he whispers, his green eyes alight as he ignites my fervour for him once more.

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” I smile back.

He shakes his head, “Not that kind of squeal, baby.”

“Then what?” I ask.

“Mercy bought me a puppy for my birthday,” he reveals.

I gasp, my eyes wide. “
Really
?” Smiling broadly, Logan nods, and just like he thought I would, I squeal, “
Oh my god
!”

“She knows the breeder and decided three months ago when the litter was born that she would get me one of the pups. I told you she kept telling me that I needed to get a girlfriend, right?”

I nod quickly.

“Well, apparently that seemed like a lost cause to her,” he chuckles, “so she thought a dog could keep me company instead.”

“Oh…wow…
wow
!” I stammer.

“I was pretty stunned myself,” Logan admits. “Mercy seemed a little unsure about telling me.”

“Why?” It’s the best gift
ever
, I think.

“Now that I have you—”

“You don’t need a dog?” I laugh. “
Jeez
, thanks, Mercy.”

“No, no,” Logan laughs too. “It’s more that I’m not alone anymore.”

I cup his face in my hands, gazing at him lovingly. “Good,” I say quietly.

He smiles once more, taking my breath away. “So, she said that I could think about it, and talk to you about it, and let her know if I want to keep him.”

“Of course you do!” I exclaim.

“I thought you might say that,” he laughs again.

“And it’s a boy?”

He nods. “I have some photos in the kitchen,” he tells me and my excitement shoots higher. I release him from my leg grip and he slowly pulls out of me, and kisses his way down my body, scooching to the bottom of the bed. He stands, looking down at my naked, gratified form. “You are so beautiful, Gemima,” he says, his eyes transfixed.

I smile, sit up and crawl over to him, looking him up and down. “Ditto, baby.”

I then hurriedly pull him to the kitchen, where I see that the countertop is littered with an assortment of dog-related products. Mercy’s has already bought him everything.
She
’
s so sweet
, I coo in my mind. In amongst the puppy food, toys, and toilet training pads, lies a small bundle of photographs.

Logan picks them up and offers them to me. “Our son,” he says, in a comically dramatic fashion. He adds, “Potentially.”

I take the pictures and squeal again. It’s love at first sight. In the first photograph the tiny grey French bulldog is staring up at the camera with large blue eyes and ears that look far too big for its head. He’s utterly adorable. I quickly look through all the images, each one cuter than the last.

“Oh, Logan,” I breathe, mesmerised.

He chuckles at my obvious admiration.

“Why only
potentially
?” I ask him. “Don’t you want him?”

“He is gorgeous,” Logan admits, “And I’m very touched by Mercy’s thoughtfulness…”

“But?”

“It’s a big responsibility,” he says immediately, “and I don’t want you to feel like it’s being thrust upon you,” he says considerately.

“I’m all in,” I grin.
I
’
m sure I can hide a little doggy bed under my desk at work
, I think, getting carried away.

“You’re sure?” Logan smiles back, and it’s clear that he’s very taken by the puppy as well.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“I’ll have to figure out if I can take him to work,” he muses.

“
We
will figure it out,” I say, stepping closer to him and pressing my lips against his.

He smiles happily at my words. “He’s very funny in person,” he tells me.

“You met him?” I ask, suddenly full of jealousy.

“Yup,” he nods. “Mercy brought him with her when she dropped his things off. But she had to take him back again; the breeder wants him to stay with his mother for another couple of weeks.”

“Is he named?” I wonder.

Logan shakes his head. “That’s up to us, baby,” he says, his arms encasing me.

“This is
so
exciting,” I wiggle gleefully in his embrace. First Logan gets an awesome roof terrace, and now he’s getting a puppy! With gifts on my mind, I ask, “What did your parents get you? A kitten?” I guess, hopefully.

“No, they got me two tickets to Charleston,” he chuckles. “They’re desperate for you to visit,” he laughs.

“I’d love to, Logan,” I tell him sincerely. Though we’ll have to consider our puppy, I think, the new responsibility already kicking in.

“Karen and Taylor got me great seats to an upcoming concert that I want to go to,” he tells me.

“An N*Sync reunion?” I assume cheekily.

“I wish,” Logan jokes. Then he opens his briefcase and pulls out a small, handmade teddybear, “And Abby made me this,” he smiles.

It’s dodgy-looking at best, but incredibly endearing.

“I have a whole box of things that she’s made for me. Believe it or not, this is actually the best looking of the lot,” he laughs again.

“It’s precious, and that’s adorable that you keep everything from her,” I can’t stop myself from adding. “Dare I ask you what Buddy gave you?”

“He got me dining vouchers to four of the best rest restaurants throughout the city,” he tells me.

Oh, cool! “That’s…that’s shockingly respectful,” I mumble.

“I know,” he agrees. “I, uh, I did question him about fixing our sex swing, but he said that a crucial element of it broke clean in two while he was using it, so we’ll have to wait a little longer. God knows what he was doing on it.”

“He was celebrating,” I inform him.

“
Celebrating
?”

“Yeah, after winning that job that you showed me in the paper.”

“How do you know that?” he asks, looking comically perplexed.

Grinning, I reveal, “He told me when we spoke on Monday.”

“Ah-ha,” he breathes in understanding. “Well, clearly he was celebrating
very
enthusiastically,” he says, making me giggle.

“We should be doing the same,” I note, checking the clock. It’s eight PM. “Four hours left of prime birthday time. What do you want to do?”

“Dinner,” he says, at exactly the same moment that his stomach grumbles.

We survey our options in the fridge and freezer. They’re extremely limited. Deciding that takeout is our best option, Logan calls a local pizzeria and orders enough food for at least four people, insisting he will finish it all. Then while we wait for it to be delivered we jump into the pool for the first time since Logan’s surgery.

Although I’ve grown slack on the whole
no heavy lifting
rule, I’m inflexible about not letting Logan swim. The motion of swimming will apply pressure directly to the part of his abdomen that was opened up, which as far as I’m concerned is a big no-no.

Logan finds my fussing amusing. He lounges against the side of the pool, laughing to himself. When I narrow my eyes at him threateningly, he laughs even more, and says to me, “What would you have me do in here, baby? Drown?”

“Doggy paddle,” I tell him, grinning at the thought, though for most of the twenty minutes that we’re in the pool, we linger in the shallow end, no swimming needed.

* * *

After dinner and a quick shower, I pull on my white cotton and lace nightgown — the one that I wore on our first night together — and I stand before Logan, who is seated on the sofa in his bathrobe once more, finally ready to make a huge fool of myself.

“Ladies and Gentlemen…” I address my audience of one as if it were an audience of one thousand, “welcome to the inaugural Logan Leary Appreciation Night!” I pronounce loudly.

Although very much making up everything as I go, I manage to stretch out this spectacle for an impressively long time. I cover all of Logan’s important features: his genuine nature, his knack for romance, his unparalleled thoughtfulness and attention to detail, his entire body — during which both his dimples and his backside get extra mentions — and of course, his sexual prowess.
You should consider standup
,
Gem
, I tell myself, especially given that Logan spends the best part of the next hour in stitches.

Eventually, inevitably, I run out of material and I can no longer escape my fate. It’s time to perform the much hyped dance. I connect my phone to the music dock in Logan’s stereo system and the very second that Tina’s
The Best
starts playing, Amber’s and my dance moves come effortlessly back to me.

It’s just over four minutes of pure choreographic gold, and as I perform every second of it with precision, I’m
still
convinced that a popstar somewhere would appreciate it.
It
’
s very funky
, I think, perhaps somewhat delusional. When the song ends, I strike my final pose and hold it, receiving Logan’s enthusiastic applause and cheers.

Breathing rapidly, I flop onto the sofa next to him, totally spent.

“You’re officially the coolest person in the world,” Logan announces.

I nod smugly.
I can believe that.

“Oh, so that you accept but not that you’re the most beautiful?” he laughs.

“I’m getting there,” I grin.

He pulls me onto his lap, wrapping his arms securely around me. “Then I must be doing something right,” he says, looking at me like I am the very air he breathes.

I stare at him in equal adoration. “Baby, you’re doing
everything
right,” I let him know. “
Duh
,” I add, laughing, “weren’t you listening to anything I just said?”

His broad, dimple-inducing smile is back, and I drink him in as I catch my breath.

“That was…” Logan begins, but he struggles to find the words.

“Magnificent? Stirring? Dignified?” I snort.

“Quite possibly the loveliest and most romantic thing that anyone has ever done for me.”

“Yeah,
right
,” I laugh.

“It was,” he nods, his sincerity evident. His arms tighten around me. “Gemima, you have made it an absolute joy and a privilege to be me,” he tells me meaningfully. “And not only today. You’ve made my entire life — the not-so-good moments and the terrible moments — all worth it, just to get to this exact moment, here with you.”

His words leave me stunned and speechless.
Oh
,
Logan
! Abruptly I throw my arms around him and bury my face into his neck. “I love you,” I say after a moment, my voice all muffled. “And I feel exactly the same way, Logan,” I then say, looking at him once more.

“I know,” he whispers. “There’s one more thing that I want to say to you tonight, but I have to wait until after midnight.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want it to be my birthday when I say it,” he tells me.

“It’s
ages
’til midnight,” I push.

“Then sleep,” he smiles, “and I’ll wake you up.”

I don’t need telling twice. Perhaps I’m a lot less fit than I previously realised, but that standup routine-cum-dance show has left me exhausted, and that combined with the immensity of Logan’s words means that it is all too easy to melt against his chest and drift off into a peaceful slumber.

I’m only vaguely aware of Logan standing up, holding me like an oversized toddler with my head lolling on his shoulder, and the room going dark behind us as he walks us to the bedroom. I must linger somewhere between sleep and awake, because somehow I’m able to tell that Logan doesn’t sleep at all. I feel him sit on the bed, his back resting against the headboard and me unintentionally straddling him. I feel his arms moving over my back, a sweet and gentle caress, and I can feel his heart rate steadily speeding up. When he rouses me from my sleep sometime after midnight it is beating overtime, and instinctively I know the reason why. I know exactly what he wants to say to me.

“Gemima, will you look at me?” his voice soothes.

I raise my heavy head and rest my forehead against his, looking at him with sleepy eyes. “Always,” I say.

He smiles back. “Will you kiss me?”

Immediately, I press my lips to his, muttering, “With pleasure.” I kiss him again, more firmly, waking up properly.

“Will you marry me?” he asks me when we break apart.

I hear his words, but they take a second to fully register within me. Will I
marry
him? Will I be his wife, his partner, his best friend for the rest of our lives? My bottom lip starts to tremble, the first sign of my imminent emotional eruption. At first I nod slowly, but it quickly grows into the most ardent sign of confirmation possible.

“Yes,” I breathe.
A thousand times yes
.

9. Heartbeat Song

W
e
’
re engaged
— that’s the one thing to go through my mind before it abandons me entirely. It’s been totally blown, all sockets fried, all wires alight.
Is this really happening
, I question myself. Do I honestly, truly get to spend the rest of my life with him?