Some Sort of Love (Happy Crazy Love #3) (5 page)

I move my hips over yours, slowly at first.

I lean over you, kiss you, taste myself on your lips.

You put your hands on my ass, force me to move faster, ride you harder.

jesus fuck

I smiled even wider. This was like directing my own porn movie. I only wished I could see him, his white shirt and black pants undone, his hand on his dick, his eyes dark with lust.
God, I could come again just thinking about that.

But I was on a mission.

Now for the big finish.

I can feel you getting even harder and bigger, you’re hitting that perfect spot inside me, the one that makes my entire body clench up, my heart pound. I’m screaming your name as I come on your cock, and I bounce up and down even faster and harder, and it’s so tight and wet and hot and you dig your fingers into my ass and tell me you’re going to come. And then I feel you do it deep inside me and I don’t stop moving until I’ve taken every last drop and feel your body go still.

OK, that had to do it, right?

I waited for him to text me back. It took a minute, and then the messages came in slowly.

Um

Fuck

That was

So hot

I laughed softly.
It was.

Be right back

OK

I assumed he went to clean up a little, and I was thirsty, so I pulled on my t-shirt and took a minute to wash my hands and grab a water from the fridge. A few seconds after I got back into bed, he messaged me.

Hey.

Hey.

That was amazing.

Agreed.

I’m surprised I didn’t wake up my kid.

I giggled.
Were you that loud?

I don’t know. Maybe. You were very vivid in your description.

It was very vivid in my head. I confess… I may have thought about it before.

You mentioned that.

It’s the truth.
I hesitated.
Did you ever think about me?

You know I did.

I don’t. Tell me.

I thought about fucking you. A lot.

Where?

Um, wherever I happened to be jerking off.

Hahaha that’s not what I meant. I meant when you pictured it, where were we?

I have no idea. I don’t think I pictured anything but bodies.

I sighed.
You’re such a guy. But I’ll take it. I like that you thought about fucking me.

But now I want the real thing. Not in a closet. Not on the phone.

My breath caught.
Me too.

Maybe we should go on a date first.

Haha maybe. Although we have already banged in a closet and sexted. The jig is up.

Right. But I would still like to take you out.

My whole body tingled, and I wiggled my toes.
OK.

I’ll call you this week.

Sounds good. Night.

Night.

I set the phone on the nightstand and pulled the covers up to my chin, unable to keep the smile off my face. All the worry in my head, and all the tension in my body, had been replaced by something else.

Exhilaration. Anticipation. Hope.

This felt like the beginning of something.

Setting my phone aside, I lay back on my bed and put my hands behind my head, my legs crossed at the ankles. Probably I should take off my pants and hang them up, put my shirt in the laundry basket, check on Scotty…but for a moment, I just wanted to lie there and think about her. Not about today’s minor meltdowns over the yellow spoon or the seam in his socks, or the major ones about the hair-washing and stained pajamas. Not about the conversation with my mother in which she told me I wasn’t severe enough in disciplining my son when he acted out. Not about the arguments with my sister in which she told me I can’t keep letting Scotty make the rules. Not about the email I got yesterday from the school saying they still don’t have his new IEP ready despite the testing results being sent to them weeks ago.

For a moment, I blocked all that out. I wasn’t anyone’s son or brother or father or advocate. I was just a man thinking about a woman.

But just for a moment.

• • •

A noise woke me, and I sat up quickly. Waited in the silent dark. Had I actually heard something? Or was the dull thud part of a dream? My mind was cloudy and my head hurt a little, probably from such an abrupt waking. I waited, scratching my beard and stifling a yawn. Then I heard it again. It was coming from downstairs, most likely Scotty trying to get a snack in the kitchen. He did that sometimes in the middle of the night. I picked up my phone to check the time—just after four.
I bet Jillian is sound asleep.
For a moment, I pictured her in bed, her skin warm and soft under the blankets, and imagined what it would be like to roll over at four in the morning and throw an arm around her slim waist. Pull her closer. Breathe in the scent of her hair.

Get hard against her ass.

Thump.

Sighing, I stood up and headed down the hall, where a nightlight kept the stairs well lit. They creaked as I went down, and the house felt a little chilly, the wood floors cool under my bare feet. We’d had a warm September, but soon I’d have to turn the heat on at night.

I went to the kitchen, where all the lights were on and Scotty was opening and closing cupboards. I figured he was looking for his cereal bowl, since the box of Fruity Pebbles was already out on the counter.

“Hey, buddy,” I said.

“Do you want some cereal?” He meant that
he
wanted cereal. Pronouns still gave him trouble, and although his language and communication skills had improved a ton with therapy, he often repeated questions he’d heard asked before. Almost like he had scripts he recalled in certain situations when he couldn’t find the right words to ask the question or make the statement he wanted.

“It’s not time yet.”

He ignored me and went on looking for his bowl, the dinosaur one he likes to use at breakfast. It was probably in the dishwasher, but I didn’t want to tell him that. When he’d finished looking in all the cupboards he could reach, he stood still and fidgeted, facing away from me. “Let’s have breakfast right now.”

“Hey.” I went over and hugged him from behind, hoping to head off his frustration. “It’s only four in the morning, so we’re not having breakfast yet, OK? We’ll find the bowl at breakfast time. Come back upstairs with me.”

“But I woke up, and after I have breakfast and get dressed, I can play on the iPad before church.” He pointed at the fridge.

I laughed a little. Pinned to the fridge with a Detroit Tigers magnet was the Sunday chart with a symbol for each thing Scotty would do today. Once each thing was done, he’d move the little symbol, which was Velcro-ed to the chart, over to the column that said Done. If he got through three things on the chart without hassle, he got fifteen minutes of free iPad time. “That is the order of things, you’re right. But look at the time. That order needs to start around seven in order for Dad to be sane. Let’s go back upstairs now.”

He let me lead him up the stairs, and I could almost taste the victory of a couple more hours of sleep, but he fussed when I tried to go back into his room, glancing down the hall like he might try to make a run for it.

“It’s not time to wake up yet, Scotty,” I said firmly.

“But you’re dressed.” He pointed to my clothes—the wrinkled, unbuttoned white shirt and rumpled black pants I’d fallen asleep in.

“Not really, bud. This is what I wore to the wedding last night.”

“You slept in your clothes?” A hint of a smile.

“I guess I did.”

“I want my iPad.”

I sighed, exhaustion weighing down my bones. “How about if I lie down with you in your bed?” In my head I could hear my mother telling me this sent a confusing message.
Either you want him to follow the rules on his own or you don’t.
She was probably right, but sometimes I just needed to buy myself a little more rest. Scotty loved to be close to me, and usually fell asleep right away if I lay next to him.

He considered it while he twirled a hand in his hair. “OK. Yes.”

We both climbed into his double bed, me on my right side and Scotty on his left. Immediately he reached over and started to play with my earlobe, almost like it was a security blanket. He’s done it ever since he was a baby, and his therapist says it probably calms him, quiets his mind so he can relax. But sometimes he even does it during the day while he’s playing—he’ll just run over to me while I’m working at the table or folding laundry or cooking dinner and rub it for a few seconds, and then take off again. Those times make me laugh, which he loves, so maybe he’s doing it for me as much as for himself. But in my heart I think it’s his way of telling me he loves me and feels safe and happy. Those moments are gold to me.

Within minutes, he was asleep, his little palm resting on my cheek.

I watched him for a moment, listening to him breathe, adoring his peaceful expression. He was such a loving, sensitive soul. I wanted to shelter him forever, and yet I wanted others to know and experience his sweetness too. But it took time and patience—who would give it to him? Who would look past the quirks and grow to love the person beneath? I knew I couldn’t follow him around for the next ten years, forcing kids to be more understanding and grown-ups to be less ignorant, teachers to be more tolerant and doctors to be less dismissive. Eventually I’d have to let go a little. Eventually.

I took his hand from my face, kissed it and held it between us, closing my eyes.

• • •

Scotty woke up for good about two hours later, and I left him in his bedroom playing with his dinosaurs while I went to shower. I hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep to feel rested, but I was in a good mood, partly because of the sweet quiet time I’d had with him this morning, and partly because of the memories of Jillian from the night before.

Stepping beneath the spray, I couldn’t help smiling as I washed my hair and soaped up. First chance I got, I was going to read through our texts again. Just thinking about them made my cock start to swell. Groaning, I looked at the open bathroom door, wishing I had five minutes to lock it and jerk off before getting dressed. It would feel so good. But it never failed—every time I attempted that while Scotty was awake, he would come knocking. His timing was uncanny.

Gritting my teeth, I concentrated on other things—today’s schedule, a client meeting I had tomorrow, the loads of laundry I had to get done, the dry cleaning that needed to be taken in. At this point, I was an expert in reclaiming control of my body like that. And sometime today I was going to look at the schedule for the coming week and weekend. I’d promised Jillian a date, but I needed to make sure I could get Sarah, the usual sitter, to watch Scotty. My sister was good in a pinch and only lived forty minutes away, and I
did
want my son to be close to my family—it was the only one he had—but I also wanted to keep my sanity. Scotty was dealing with enough frustration at school; placing additional stress on him at home wouldn’t be good for him, and Monica stressed him out.

Hell, Monica stressed
me
out.

After drying off, I dressed in dark jeans and a clean white t-shirt, then went to get Scotty, so I could get him cleaned up before we went down for breakfast.

“Come on, bud. Shower time.”

“I’m still playing.”

“You want that iPad time, you better come with me now.”

He thought about it for a moment and decided to come, taking my hand as we went down the hall to the bathroom we shared, the only one on the second floor.

The funny thing is, he never wants to get in the shower because he hates the feeling of soaping up, but once I get him in, he loves the water. He just doesn’t want to do the things he’s supposed to do—if I didn’t stay in the bathroom and force him to use soap, he’d just play around, using his hands as characters, reciting lines from movies or TV shows or commercials or even just scripts he makes up based on whatever he’s thinking about. Sometimes he sang them. Sometimes all I heard were sound effects.

After five minutes of growling and crashing noises I assumed were dinosaurs fighting, I opened the curtain a little. “Did you soap yet?”

“No.”

“Scotty, come on. You’ve had five minutes already. Do it now.”

He said nothing, just continued with the sound effects, his hands moving in front of his face. I sighed, reached in, and handed him the soap. “Do it. Now.”

It would get done faster and better if I did it myself, but I told myself not to. Part of me wondered if eight years from now I’d be checking up on my sixteen-year-old, making sure he used soap in the shower.

“Done,” he said a minute later.

“Good. Let’s get that hair washed.” I opened the curtain.

“Noooo,” he whimpered, pleading with me with those big eyes.

“Yes. It’s Sunday, you know the rule. And we’ve got to do it now if you want iPad time before church. Look at my hair, it’s all wet too, see?” I tipped my head toward him. “I washed it already. We can brush our hair together. And you can brush my beard too.”

He protested a little bit more but eventually gave in and let me wash it. (He counts while I do it, and I’ve mastered completing the chore in twenty seconds.) When he was clean and rinsed, he got out and dried off, then we went down to his room, where he got dressed on his own with only a couple prompts from me.

“Good job.” I raised my hand and he gave me a high five.

We went back to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror together combing our hair. I had to re-wet mine, which had dried flopping down onto my forehead. Scotty watched me, mimicking each step—put a little pomade in my hands, rub it through, comb it back. He got a big kick out of brushing my beard and using the dropper to put a few drops of beard oil into my palm and watching me work it in. I’d give him a drop or two as well, and he’d rub it into his chin and cheeks, a huge grin on his face. For his birthday last summer, I’d gotten him his own little bottle of Corktown oil from the Detroit Grooming Co. just like mine, and he treasured it.

When we were done, I leaned down as if to inspect his beard, and he threw his arms around my neck. Grinning, I wrapped my arms around his back and lifted him right off his feet. I never questioned these unexpected displays of affection—I just held his skinny little body close to mine, silently apologizing for everything I was doing wrong, everything I wanted him to have and couldn’t give him.

• • •

“Great job this morning,” I told him as we drove the short distance to St. Mary’s. “If everything goes well at church today, we’ll go to the park, OK?”

He looked happy about that, although I knew if we got to the park and it was crowded, he’d hang back a little, nervous about approaching groups of kids. His anxiety about crowds was a big reason we went to church. I wasn’t very religious, and I had a lot of issues with the Catholic Church, but Sundays were an opportunity for Scotty to be among people in a controlled environment, one that wasn’t likely to get too loud or chaotic or overwhelming for him. The church I chose had a program called the Buddy Ministry for special needs kids, which paired them with a trained teenager or college student who helped them participate in group activities related to the lesson for the day.