I absolutely adored writing this story. I did have my ups and downs with it, lack of inspiration or so inspired I spent long nights awake writing it. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed creating it. Like a good friend of mine once told me, it ends when everything that needed to be said, has been said, and when everything that needed to be done, has been done. X
You swear someone pressed a fast forward button.
You said your respective vows, Cara stepped off of her heels when you had to stand on your toes to kiss her, successfully making you blush and everyone laugh.
Then, you ate and you mingled and you looked at the clock a million times sighing each time you realized there were still hours to go until your wife was completely yours.
Dinner came and you ate again and when it was time to dance, Cara put her heels back on and you once again had everyone’s eyes on you. When that familiar nineties ballad started echoing through the speakers, your friends giggled and you pulled away from Cara to watch her lip-syncing the song with amazing facial expressions.
Your wife is precious.
And then the song ended but it was quickly replaced by the voice of Elvis Presley. You don’t even think you danced at all. You simply embraced her, swayed from side to side and allowed yourself to get lost in the moment.
When people started joining you, you saw it as the perfect opportunity to escape to talk to a couple of friends. And Cara saw it as the perfect opportunity to put on some sneakers, apparently. When you came back, you found her dancing some very unique moves with a few kids. Your heart swelled when you saw each kid clinging to her legs as if they were koala bears clinging to their respective branches. And on top of everything, she had a couple more tugging at her hands, trying to get her to do something. You laughed when she gave you a look that screamed for help.
Your night was absolutely made, though, when you got to play with your cousin’s toddler – a platinum blonde baby girl with the biggest blue eyes you’ve ever seen and a nose so cute it could challenge Cara’s. You took her to the dance floor in your arms, loving the way her face lit up with each new song, and then Cara decided to join you, extra loving towards you for some reason.
As Cara held her in her arms and the baby started poking her dimples with her little hands, you really wanted to cry at how incredibly cute this whole scene was.
“She could really pass for your daughter.” You’d gushed, hiding your face in Cara’s neck.
“Our daughter.” She had corrected, kissing the baby’s little nose first and then kissing your lips.
Your love for her grew impossibly stronger.
But, at last, people started leaving closer to midnight. First relatives with young families, then friends, then your parents and hers, then her sisters and their families until all that was left was you and your wife, alone with a house all to yourselves.
Cara’s more than tipsy, giggling and commenting on how much fun she had but she definitely doesn’t want to repeat this ever again, unless it’s with you. You smile and kiss her cheek as you hold her whilst climbing up the stairs.
"Baby, I’m going to make you feel so good now." She slurs in a mumble against the duvet when she falls on the bed, "We’re going to have the best wedding night sex ever."
You only have time to take off your dress before you hear her light snores.
You’re kissed awake in the morning.
Each time Cara separates her lips from your cheek, you’re left with a light tingling on your skin. It makes you smile. You take a deep breath, stretching out your limbs as you roll over on your back, wanting to wrap your arms around her. You pull her down until your nose is buried in the crook of her neck. You don’t think she’s wearing perfume, yet, her skin smells unbelievably good.
“We’ve got to go the airport,” She says and then lets out the cutest of giggles, “Wife.”
“Wife.” You whisper, testing it out for the first time since you slipped a golden ring on her third finger.
You reply with a kiss to her pulse point.
Not very long after, you find yourself in the back of the car that’s taking you to the airport.
Cara’s been talking to someone on the phone and you think it’s got to do with the fact that she is now a married woman. She’s probably wondering how she’s going to announce to the world she’s now your wife. You’re caught smiling before you can help it. Wife. She’s right – it does have a ring to it.
She hangs up.
“What are you smiling for?”
“You.” It slips out of your mouth before you can stop it.
“Aw.” She takes your fingertips to her lips, “You sap.”
Your eyes fall on your surroundings as her phone rings again. You stare out the window, vaguely aware of your intertwined hands. It’s a cold morning and the sky is a dull grey, like most of the time. Yet, it’s like you’re looking at everything with new eyes. Maybe it’s because you feel so happy, but you swear everything looks a million times prettier.
Minutes later, she hangs up again.
She puffs out air, mildly distressed.
“What’s worrying you, babe?”
“Nothing, nothing.” She mumbles. Then, she breathes sharply, hesitating before adding, “I obviously don’t want to release a statement saying we got married because that would make me— us, sound more important than we actually are, but I also don’t want to hide it from the world. I want to show you off.”
“You mean you want to kill the hope of all the men and women that fancy me?” You joke, earning a little pout from her.
“I could say the same goes to you.”
“Oh, baby, I’ve had you wrapped around my little finger since we first got it on.”
She looks at your profile, lips slightly parted like she wasn’t expecting such a confident answer from you.
“I see what you’re doing. Now that we’re married and there’s no going back, you’re finally showing your true colours. Who knew you were so cocky.”
“Are you going to divorce me?”
“What is this ‘divorce’ thing you’re talking about? Never heard of that word before. Is it foreign?”
Touched by her adorableness, you pull her in for a kiss, locking her lips on yours by wrapping an arm around her neck. She squeals and tries mumbling something against you. You don’t let her.
When you pull away, you’re left grinning. She’s breathing heavily and wiping evidences of your kiss from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Jesus Christ, woman.” She whispers, “You literally took my breath away.”
Her phone vibrates against her thighs. Then, comes the all-familiar ring.
“Please tell me you’re going to put that bloody thing on silent during our honeymoon.”
She looks at you apologetically as she takes the phone to her ear.
“Love you.” She mouths and blows you a kiss.
You shake your head and look away, trying hard to hide an inevitable beam. She plays with your hand, absentmindedly taking your joined hands to her cheek as she talks away.
When she’s finally done with her calls, she throws her phone in her backpack. You kiss the back of her hand and throw her a soft smile. She moves around until her head’s on your shoulder.
“Don’t worry about the press, babe. We’re married now,” You say, ignoring your fluttering stomach, “No one can ruin that.”
Cara ends up figuring it out whilst you wait for your flight.
She snaps a picture of your intertwined left hands, rings shimmering under some light you’re not quite sure where it came from, and then she posts it online under the caption, ‘I went to a wedding yesterday.’
When you were making plans for your honeymoon, there was something that was always on top of your priorities – privacy. Cara has, unfortunately, felt the need to become an expert in making sure your holidays are almost always hidden from the eyes of the world. So, she found a villa in Salina, which is an island in Sicily with a couple thousand of residents.
The airport is the sea. It’s sort of weird how you actually reach the property you’re staying in by seaplane. On the world’s smallest dock, waits a middle-aged man in a suit, looking very sharp, polite smile as he greets you both with strong handshakes.
A slight breeze hits you as you start climbing the seemingly interminable flight of stairs that’ll lead to the house’s terrace. You feel slightly bad for the men who are carrying your suitcases behind you.
Sicily is not as warm as you wished it would be. You hide a shiver when you take in the sight before you. You’d never seen anything like it. The pool that seems one with the sea, the wooden floor surrounding it, the lounge chairs and the gardens behind it. You’re amazed.
Inside the house, your jaw drops. Your eyes flick to Cara’s side profile. Her lips are shaped in a little ‘o’ as you’re both led by the man that speaks with a very thick accent and sort of sing-songs the last word of his sentences as the good Italian native he is.
When he leaves and closes the front door behind him, the echo is heard throughout each division in the house.
“I’m impressed.” Cara mumbles as she opens the window of the room you chose to sleep in. The man didn’t say it, but judging by it being the smallest of the rooms and also the one in the highest floor of the house, you’d say this used to be an attic. It’s almost like a little tower.
As you search for a knitted jumper in one of your suitcases, you hear Cara whistling as she steps out into the balcony. Then, she calls for you. You forget about your search and follow her.
The panoramic view has you gasping. You can see a couple of other islands from here, and the numerous yachts anchored amidst the Mediterranean, and the crystalline waters below you. You can literally see the rocks on the bottom. It’s that transparent.
You both take in the view side by side. A couple of minutes later, you decide everything will look impossibly prettier if you’re in each other’s arms. She rests her chin on your head, whilst your hands and hers intertwine by your sides.
“I think you hit jackpot, this time, babe.” You mumble as your eyes follow a moving boat.
“I think so, too.” She kisses your hair, “I bet coming to this house will become some sort of tradition for us. I mean, I can already picture our kids bickering about which bedroom they want to sleep in.” She holds you tighter, this time locking your arms and hers around your torso, “And my parents or yours or both could come with to babysit them whilst you and I go on romantic walks and wine tasting—“
“I don’t like wine, love.”
“Shh, don’t ruin my pretty picture.”
You roll your eyes along with light chuckles as she decides to rest her head next to yours, nuzzling your hair for a moment.
“That does sound perfect.” You mumble, letting her head support yours.
“Your cheek is cold.” She says. You hear her frowning, “Are you cold?”
You’d lie if you said you weren’t. You break apart to go back inside to search for warmer attire than a simple tee.
“You’re like an old lady.” Cara jokes as she watches you throw on a knitted jumper on, sitting at the edge of the bed.
“No. You’re like an old lady. You’re always too hot. It’s like you’re going through menopause.”
You manage to get a chuckle out of her.
“I want to have a baby first.” She confesses, locking eyes with you through the mirror as you fix your hair.
You turn around, having the need to look directly into those pretty eyes of hers. You think she’s feeling small under your stare, with the way her posture isn’t as confident as usual.
“Are you implying you want to give birth to our first child?” You ask, hiding a smirk.
“I’m implying I want to get pregnant.”
Her blush is enough answer for you.
In the evening, you go out for dinner. Hand in hand, you walk on roads made of stone. There are a few people out, still, mostly residents. Elderly residents. They throw you odd looks to which Cara responds with a smile and a wave. You grin at her antics.
You end up in a cosy restaurant.
The room’s lit very dimly and there are a couple of burning candles on your table. You don’t know whether they do this with everyone or if your wife asked them for these particular details – you did see her whisper something in the waiter’s ear.
Either way, it’s so fucking romantic it makes you feel weak.
When she orders in Italian for the both of you, you’re left with a silly grin and staring at her through squinted eyes.
“Since when do you speak Italian?”
“I don’t.” She giggles, “But I memorized this line so I could impress you. Are you?”
“Thoroughly. And somewhat turned on.” You confess, feeling even weaker when you see that divine smirk of hers. “You could’ve just insulted me, though, and I would probably still think you were being super sexy.”
She takes your hand to her lips and kisses your knuckles. Then, very sultrily, she says, “Now, why would I insult my lovely wife?”
You stumble in the house a little after one in the morning.
Cara’s drunk. Like, really drunk. You drag her away with you when she finds the lights on some fancy touch screen on the wall at the entrance incredibly fascinating and consequently hysterical.
“You’re so drunk.” You mumble, struggling to hold her when she decides to use your body to support her seemingly limp body, “So, so drunk.”
“I am tipsy. So, so tipsy.” She starts, pauses, then releases a very raspy laugh, “Tipsy is such a funny word. Tipsy. Tipsy, tipsy, tipsy.”
You curse having chosen the room in the last floor of the house. You drag her up the stairs with slight difficulty.
“Baby, stop.” You struggle to say when you feel her body become dead weight on you.
She stops for a second only, and then, in a soft whisper, she goes on, “Tipsy, tipsy, tip—“
“Cara, love, I think that’s enough.” You breathe, feeling the familiar throb of a headache.
You manage to open your room’s door with Cara’s body slumped against your back. She’s wrapped her arms around your neck and is now singing softly in your ear some broken tune you are not able to recognize.
At the edge of the bed, you turn around and let her fall back on the mattress. Another fit of giggles follows.
You pull your jumper over your head, feeling too hot from all of the unexpected efforts. And then, feeling Cara’s eyes on you, your shirt follows. You turn around to find her, indeed, ogling you.
“You’re such a pervert.” You fake offense and throw her your shirt, which lands exactly on her face.
She moans out a protest as she clumsily throws it away.
“We are married. I am allowed to eat that majestic body of yours with my eyes.” She slurs, starting to unbutton her shorts. You watch her struggling, and then, apparently giving up, she finally takes her shorts and knickers all at once. You’re glued to your spot when she crudely spreads her legs.
You sigh because you really want to have sex with her right now, but she’s drunk and you’d much rather do it when she’s sober and remembers everything in the morning, because – and you know it’s incredibly cheesy – you really wanted your first time as a married couple to be special – you didn’t buy that sexy lingerie for nothing.
You strip down to your underwear and then you crawl to her until you’re in between her legs, body hovering above hers.
“I have something for you, tomorrow.” You whisper, letting your head fall until your noses are touching.
“I have something for you, tomorrow, too.” She whispers back, somehow in her state of drunkenness managing to find a part of her that’s still sober.
“So, can we wait until tomorrow night?” You kiss her cheek right below her eye.
“But—” She stammers, locking her green eyes with yours, “But…”
She sighs and nods.
A victorious grin shows on your face. You peck her nose and then you kiss her. And she kisses you back, rather clumsily and a bit sloppily, too. You pull away when her hands start trying to unclasp your bra.
“You taste like fancy wine.”
“Why won’t you let me play with your boobies?”
"Baby, tomorrow night–"
"But I promise I won’t try to seduce you." She says in a very innocent voice, "I just want to touch them and kiss them and fall asleep on them ‘cause they’re the best pillows ever."
You see that little mischievous glint in her eyes, but you let her do it anyway, not having the will in you to say no to this angel-like wife of yours.
After she takes off her shirt, there’s an unexpected turn of events. As soon as you get under the covers, you get an immense urge to cover her neck with soft kisses and suck on her skin until it bruises.
She writhes a little under you, but as soon as your kisses become firmer, she relaxes and lets your bodies melt together.
You only stop when you think you’ve lulled her to sleep. You carve a path of soft kisses up to her chin and pull away, but, much to your surprise, you find her emerald eyes staring right back at you.
She rolls you over, immediately sliding down until her eyes are hovering right above your chest. She throws you a delighted smirk before getting to work.
She kisses your right breast.
You furrow your eyebrows.
She kisses your left breast.
You widen your eyes in shock. And then that shock somehow transforms into the awareness that Cara has named your boobs. You snort very loudly, making her look at you with sad, but mostly drunken eyes.
"Why are you laughing at me?" She pouts a little, looking down for emphasis.
"I’m not." You lie, still giggling as you take a hand to her hair, softly caressing it.
She ignores you and carries on, kissing and caressing your chest very gently. You sigh, relaxed, satisfied. After minutes of this, she pushes your breasts together and kisses them both at the same time, mumbling, “I love you both so much.”
You have to suppress a laugh.
She comes up to your face again, silly grin on her lips.
"The twins had missed me."
"They had." You nod, stroking her slightly rosy cheek with your fingers.
She lets her body mold with yours, resting her head on your shoulder and tangling your legs together.
You don’t know who falls asleep first.
Before you know it, it’s morning.
Cara’s light snores close to your ear are more than enough to let you wake up with a smile on your face.
Never in your life have you ever slept as well as last night. You don’t even remember your dreams. Honestly, you wish you never had to sleep just so you could feel her next to you, always. And you know life’s good when you’d rather be awake than to be asleep. You don’t need to dream of things you’ve never had. You have everything you need right here, with you.
You roll over until you’re face to face with her. Your heart skips a beat when you make out the lines of her calm-looking face, lips parted, inviting. You kiss the tip of her nose and she scrunches up her face in a way that makes you feel weak. Her mouth closes and her lips form a straight line.
Her eyes flutter open to meet yours. Her lips part again.
She comes closer to you, putting her forehead to yours. Her eyes have closed once more. You pull away to kiss each of her eyelids. And, right after, she hides her face under your chin.
“My head is killing me.” She hoarsely whimpers, planting a little kiss on your chest.
“I want to make breakfast for us so you can take a pill but the fridge’s empty. We should go shopping for groceries or something.”
“Can we take a bubble bath first?”
You help her up, holding her because she’s still mildly drunk – that or she’s just too lazy to move her limbs and drag herself to another room. Because the bathroom’s incredibly well lit, a million sunrays poking through a curtain covered window, Cara groans, shuts her eyes tightly and takes a hand to her face to shield away from the light.
You wash your teeth as she squints and tries adjusting her hungover eyes to the lighting. You’re distracted when you bend over to wash away the foam and you feel a pair of naughty hands squeezing your buttocks. You can’t help the throaty moan that falls from your mouth. If she keeps up with this, you don’t think you’ll be able to wait until tonight.
You gather up all the will that’s left in you, and try separating from her when you move away to grab the towel that’s fallen to the floor. Thankfully, she does separate from you, sending you a glare and muttering that you’re a tease.
You fill the tub with warm water and lots of soap with a smirk on your lips whilst she washes her teeth.
A minute later, after insisting she wants to be the big spoon, you end up between her legs with her arms wrapped around you. She’s silent, her lips resting on your shoulder.
“This is a nice way to start our honeymoon.” She says and you can’t see her but you can sure hear her smile.
Your head falls back so you can press your lips to the side of her face as best as you can, wishing it was all it took to make her feel better.
“Except the hangover part.”
“I’m mildly hungover.” She corrects, now caressing your stomach with delicate strokes, “I wasn’t completely drunk, last night. I was tipsy.”
You cringe at the word.
“Whatever you say. What are we doing today?” You quickly change the subject before she remembers ‘tipsy’ is a fun word to say.
“Get sweet tans, shamelessly make out in the open without fear of having our picture snapped.”
“I like how your mind works.” You kiss her ear and then you separate from her, turning around and kneeling between her legs, “Do you think I can tan without a bikini on?” You coyly ask, gathering foam on your chest as if you’re the most innocent of human beings, “I don’t like tan lines.”
She blows the foam away and some ends up on your nose. She giggles as you pout. You mean to take it off, but as you take your hands to your face, you bring even more foam with them.
“Cara, wipe it off.” You whine, making faces as you feel it itching terribly.
She keeps giggling, mumbling that she has to snap a picture of you. You’re truly desperate. You try blowing it off, but it only gets in your eyes and hair and it’s still on your nose. Seriously. It’s like it’s multiplying. And your wife won’t come to your rescue. Instead, she dried her hands and is now toying with her phone.
“Stay still.” She mumbles.
You puff out air upwards, shooting her an incredulous look.
“Why are you being so mean to me?” You whimper, finding it sort of annoying that she keeps pointing that damn thing at your face.
“Aw. You sweet little thing. Come here.” She urges you to her, nuzzling your nose until half of the foam is on hers.
You’re against her again as she decides to take yet another picture. But this time her lips are on your ear, and on your cheek, and on the corner of your eye. You can’t complain.
After lunch, she takes a pill and then she gets sleepy.
Cara naps whilst you read a book on the balcony, relaxed, yet distracted by the beauty surrounding you. Still, you manage to get halfway through it before you start yawning. You’re not tired – simply bored.
You go back inside to find Cara still sleeping peacefully.
You watch her for a while and caress her face, softly kissing every inch of her skin. Her parted lips invite yours to fit in between them. You kiss her ever so delicately and feel her stir.
"Sleeping beauty." You whisper when you pull away, day made when you see her lazy smile.
"I married princess charming." She mumbles against your hair after you decide to fit your head on the crook of her neck.
"I can’t believe we’re married." You gush against her neck, momentarily sappy, "I can’t believe you’re mine forever."
She kisses your head.
"Silly. I was yours forever way before we got married."
"You’re not just saying that, are you?" You sullenly whisper, "We’re not going to be like those couples that get married and then when things get a bit more complicated they get a divorce, are we?"
"We’re going to fight a few times, but we’ve fought in the past, haven’t we? You’re probably going to sleep on the sofa lots of times–" You bite her neck and she giggles, "–but I’ll love you no matter what."
"You were supposed to say that in your vows, Cara." You fake a stern voice.
"I know…" She whimpers, "–and I was going to but I was kind of speechless because you really did look like a princess."
“You looked like a princess.”
"No. I looked like a queen."
You chuckle at her lack of modesty.
"Honey, if you’re a queen and I’m a princess, we’re either mother and daughter or–"
"Yuck." She grimaces, "Take it back."
"–or stepmom and stepdaughter."
"Oh." She smirks and chuckles devilishly, "That’s an interesting plot. Very porno-like."
"Yeah, you know all about those."
She playfully hits your arm, finding what you’ve just said similar to a blasphemy.
"The only porno I watch is the one we made years ago." You feel her lips on your head again, "We should make a sequel."
"I married a pervert."
You feel her smile.
"You married a perverted Queen. Don’t forget about that little big detail."
You plant a little kiss on her neck before gently getting on top of her, body between her legs. Your head hovers above hers, your dull eyes locked with her emerald green ones.
"Can I be Queen, too?"
"Only if you kiss me."
You let your head fall until your lips are touching hers ever so softly.
"I meant a real kiss, love." She mumbles against you.
You roll your eyes but part your lips anyway. Your mouths fit together like a puzzle. Her hands have come to tangle with your hair, earning a little moan from you. When the kiss becomes impossibly heated, you try to part from her, but she wraps her arms around your torso and bites your tongue.
You whimper quite loudly.
She chuckles devilishly against you when you try pulling away again and she doesn’t let go of it. As a last resort, you poke her sides, consequently resulting in her releasing you and a tumultuous giggle.
Deciding to punish her, you plant little pecks all over her face, falling in love with the whiny sounds she makes.
"I’m a vampire Queen." She excuses herself when you stop.
"I don’t remember vampires feeding off their victim’s tongues."
"That’s what you see in films, ‘cause real vampires totally do."
You kiss the tip of her nose, lingering.
"In REC 3 the zombie bride kisses the groom and then bites off his tongue and they die together.”
She pauses just to look at you, mildly shocked, and then she slowly shakes her head.
"That’s so gorily romantic."
"Should’ve put that in my vows, shouldn’t I? That I’d let you bite off my tongue if you were a zombie so we could be zombies together?"
"Aw." She coos, "You’d let me do that?" She affectionately strokes your cheek, "Your romantic side is finally showing."
"I’m romantic all the time."
"Yes, love, through horror film analogies."
You pout and then let her accusations instigate you to show her just how romantic you can be.
"Tonight, you’re in for a treat."
"Can’t wait.” She huskily says as she manages to roll you over until she’s straddling you, and then she kisses your cheek.
“I’m going to be sexily romantic.” You look away from her, thinking of what you’ve just said, “Or romantically sexy.” You shrug, “Whichever.”
“It’s actually funny because I had something prepared for you for our wedding night – which will be tonight, according to you, even if technically our wedding was two days ago – so now that I think of it, if I still go ahead with this little something, we’re probably going to end up having the hottest sex this world’s ever witnessed.”
“This world’s not witnessing anything, Cara.”
“You know what I meant,” She rolls her pretty eyes, “You and I, only.” She sits on your center, suddenly, gasping and then moaning, “I just imagined watching ourselves on a mirror, but, like, through a mirror on the ceiling.”
You smirk, taking your hands to her hipbones.
She leans down, giggling even when your lips touch, “Thank you.” She pulls away seconds later, “Aren’t you glad you married a kinky vampire Queen?”
You roll your eyes, then smirk again and mumble, “Bite me.”
You’ve had dinner and now it’s show time.
Cara’s been trying to open the front door for a little bit now, but you’ve been distracting her.
"I’m so ridiculously horny." You whisper in her ear, biting her earlobe when you hear her sigh.
"Darling, I can’t fuck you if you don’t let me open this goddamned door." She mutters, frustratingly blowing out air so the few strands of hair that fell onto her face go back into place.
You step aside for a moment, smirking. You are, indeed, ridiculously horny. It’s been a couple of days since you’ve done anything and you’ve been teasing each other constantly. Besides, she says she has a sexy something for you, too.
You shiver at the thought just as she yells out in victory and opens the door.
She stays by it, waiting for you to walk in so she can close it behind her. You go in, the door closes and a pair of hands slap your bum. You yelp and then relax against her.
"Naughty." You moan, head falling back onto her shoulder when you feel a hand sneaking under your shirt and gently stroking your stomach.
"Is it time for my surprise yet?" She quietly asks in your ear.
You turn around, feeling her hand sliding to your back instead.
"This reminds me so much of Barcelona." You confess, thinking back to that night when you first gave yourselves to each other.
She kisses you, opting for staying silent.
"You sap." She whispers when she pulls away, smiling, "Want to go for a swim?"
Cara’s discarded all of her clothes on the deck – except underwear – and threw herself in as soon as she could. You’re, as per usual, at the edge, tentatively dipping a couple of toes.
"Babe, I promise you it’s warm." She whines, trying her best to convince you.
"I’m not lying!" She cries, puffing out her cheeks in frustration.
She swims to the edge and rests her surprisingly warm hands on your feet, looking up at you with sad puppy eyes.
"C’mon, baby… I want to make out and you’re depriving me of your affections."
You sigh and start tying up your hair.
"I don’t want to wet my hair." You warn her, making her grin and nod like a fool.
You roll your eyes at how pathetically in love you are with her and then you sit at the edge and very, very slowly go in. She was right. It is warm. Way warmer than outside.
"Now it’s starting to feel like Barcelona." Cara’s smile is soft as she takes you in her arms, placing a couple of kisses along your jaw.
"Except this time we can start the fun in the pool." You unclasp her bra, earning a little moan from her.
"Teasing, only." She says, separating from you so she can look at you whilst removing the garment, "What I have for you has to be done indoors."
"That night in Barcelona I was so ready to get it on in the swimming pool." You giggle and blush at your naiveness, "It would’ve been an interesting first time."
"First time?" She asks, obviously startled, "You had never done it with a girl?"
"Never with a girl I was in love with." You mumble, cheeks heating.
"Oh, babe…" She coos, grinning. She holds you against her again, lips on your jugular.
You remember she’s not wearing a bra anymore so you cover her breasts with your hands and she moans approvingly.
"They’ve grown," You strain to say when she sucks on the spot right below your ear.
"They’re just happy to see you."
She manages to get a couple of chuckles out of you before things get serious. A little peck turns into a gentle kiss which turns into a desperate kiss which turns into the hottest make out session of your life.
She’s got you trapped against the pool wall. Your legs are wrapped around her waist and your hands have been roaming around her entire torso. You’ve felt her abs, you’ve fondled her boobies, you’ve massaged her scalp and her neck and her back.
"I’m so ridiculously horny." She mocks you, pulling away so you can give your swollen lips a rest.
"We should do something about that."
You’re out of the pool in seconds. You dry each other, stealing a couple of smooches here and there.
Inside the room, you tell her you’re going to get ready and she tells you she’s going to prepare your surprise, as well. In the bathroom, you put on that sexy black lace lingerie you got just for her to take it off of you. With some luck, she might do it with the help of her teeth.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head.
You fix your hair nicely and make sure everything’s in place before opening the door just a crack, only to have Cara yelling out, “Wait! Don’t come out just yet.”
You close the door again and rest your back against it, stomach fluttering from all of this anxiety. You smile when you hear her moan out a curse.
"Hurry up, babe," You moan, "I’m dying in here."
“I can’t figure out where this goes.” She mutters.
You can’t help but to laugh.
“Another strap-on, Cara?”
She’s done minutes later.
"Okay. Come out."
But because she doesn’t sound very convincing, you’re slow to open the door just in case she decides to send you back in again. You’re met with a dim lit room. The only light is coming from a lamp on the bedside table. There are petals all over the bed and a bottle of champagne right in the middle. You smirk.
But she’s nowhere to be seen.
“Where are you?” You ask, heart racing and slightly shaking in anticipation.
You hear the familiar clicking of heels on wood. Your head snaps to the window that leads to the balcony. Your jaw drops.
Cara’s presenting herself to you in full glory. She’s wearing a silky robe that’s awfully nostalgic, heels so tall you don’t know how she’s managing to steady herself, garters clipped to thigh high stockings, white lace knickers, white lace bra. You have got to be dreaming.
When you get to her face, you find her lips parted, staring at you through slightly widened eyes.
“What are you wearing?” She whispers in awe, stepping inside.
“What are you wearing?” You whisper back, feeling your body become hotter every time you take in her appearance.
You meet halfway, hands flying to her waist as soon as you’re close to her. You’re silent as you trace her muscles with your fingertips. She’s leaned down to cover your neck with red lipstick. Your quiet moans blend in with the sound of the sea washing the little beach below you.
As you’re walked back to the bed, your hands slide down to her bottom, thinking you’ve never seen it looking as good as tonight. You’re spun around and thrown on the bed on your stomach. She straddles your thighs.
“Your ass looks phenomenal, babe.” She mumbles, sliding down a little. When you feel a bite on one of your butt cheeks, you gasp, surprised. “Best bum on this island.” She punctuates each word with a kiss to her teeth marks.
But then she’s off of you. You roll on your back, asking her where she’s going.
"I am going to film us." She mumbles as she looks for something, "We’re making a sequel to our porno."
You smirk, shaking your head at her naughtiness.
"We’re wearing interesting attire, this time." You halfheartedly say, getting lost in her long legs as she bends over.
"Last time we wore nothing. Well, I mean, I wore a strap-on." She finishes setting up the camera and comes to you again, stopping at the edge of the bed.
You remember the bottle of champagne behind you and hand it to her so she can open it.
"I like your stripper heels." You say as you watch her struggle with the opening. "You look–" A loud pop cuts you off as the cork goes flying until it hits the ceiling, "–obscenely sexy."
"Do you like the petals? I feel like it makes everything a million times more romantic."
“I mean, we’re going to have the dirtiest sex ever and—“
“If it didn’t have a touch of romance it’d feel like we were sinning or something?”
“Exactly. Makes it all more innocent.”
She straddles you and puts the bottle to your lips, tilting it until you can taste slightly sour liquid. When a couple of drops slip from your mouth and run down to your chin and neck, Cara does not hesitate to lick you clean.
“This is going to be a memorable night for us isn’t it?” You mumble afterwards, watching her take a swig of her own, “Sixteenth of April – from now on this day shall be celebrated with hot, messy sex–” You’re cut off when she hums, smirking as she swallows. “–and sexy lingerie.”
She kisses you right after she stops drinking, tongue battling with yours like she’s already drunk. You’re left breathless when she pulls away. She’s smugly staring at you, naughty smile on her lips, eyes darkened by lust. You’re glad she’s decided to film you. You’ll definitely want to see this again.
"You’re aware that I’m going to ravish you completely, aren’t you?" She mumbles against your jaw, hands starting to explore your chest.
You grin mischievously.
"I was hoping for that."
You’d say one of the best things about having sex with someone that you’ve been with for a long time, is that you know each other incredibly well. Almost too well.
Cara knows when you’re close – not that you’re very discreet about it either – and tonight she’s using and abusing of that knowledge.
You’ve had your fun with her and now she’s having her fun with you. You think you’re an hour in, probably, – you don’t know, you’ve sort of lost track of time – but you were ready to come fifteen exact minutes ago.
Your hair’s glued to your forehead, your whole body feels sweaty and tired and way too hot. You’ve been gripping the bed sheets with so much strength you’re pretty sure you’ve ripped them.
Your back’s arched as she once more edges you to your limit. You groan and throw your head back, getting impossibly closer to the point where you’re not sure you can put it off anymore, but then Cara pulls away.
You feel like crying.
"Cara…" You plead, panting, "Please."
You look at her smug face and think of slapping her. You don’t have the strength.
"This is fun," She starts, caressing your sensitive inner thighs. You feel like you could come from that alone, "I had no idea I knew you this well."
You prop your torso on your elbows and throw her your saddest look.
"I’m desperate, baby," You whisper, pouting, "Please end this once and for all."
She coos tender words as she lies on you, between your legs. She holds your face in her hands and kisses you so tenderly for a moment you forget about the fire within you and allow yourself to get lost in her gentleness.
"I want to watch you." She mumbles when she pulls away.
You want to nod and tell her to hurry up, but one of her hands makes way down your sweaty body and you can only gasp when she cups your core.
And then, at last, she lets you go. You gasp again. Your back comes off the bed but Cara’s weight pins it to the mattress. Your eyes are shut tightly as pleasure washes over you. You try uttering her name, but it’s stuck in your throat as your body convulses involuntarily.
As you slowly come down, you become aware of Cara’s intense stare. She’s watching you in awe, probably wondering if she’s the cause to why your legs won’t stop trembling.
"No more." You sigh, feeling her hand starting to move again.
You’re waiting for your breathing to calm down when you feel her starting to plant little kisses all over your face.
"You’re precious." She whispers, letting her lips linger close to your ear.
You don’t have the strength to make an impersonation of Gollum, or else you wouldn’t have missed the opportunity. You close your eyes instead, exhausted, and drape an arm around her naked torso.
When you wake up again, you’re alone in bed and everything’s too bright for your still sleepy eyes. You put on her discarded silky robe and go in the bathroom to wash the sleep off of your face.
The few hickeys on your chest remind you of last night’s sex. You grin, thinking that you probably have the hottest wife in the world. How you got so lucky you’ll never know.
You descend the spiral staircase slowly and carefully, the stone floor feeling cold against your bare feet.
"Babe?" You say loud enough for your voice to echo through the house.
From the living room, because the windows are wide opened to take in the sunshine on this fresh morning, you hear splashing coming from the pool. You step out to the little balcony that leads to the terrace to find Cara just coming out of the water.
You whistle approvingly. Slightly startled, she looks up at you, wide eyes at first. Relaxed, she smirks.
"Looking good, Delevingne." You say, resting your arms on the railing.
She wraps a towel around her shoulders and comes closer to you, now standing right below you, looking up at you with a hand shielding her eyes from the bright sunrays.
"Come give me a good morning smooch." She puckers her lips for emphasis.
You’ll never say no to Cara’s smooches. Again, slowly, you make your way down to the gardens where she’s patiently awaiting you.
You fasten your pace when you see her staring at you through a lopsided grin, body tilted as she dries her hair. You look at her with a dreamy look on your face. You honestly remind yourself of a high school girl with a crush on the hottest guy in school.
As soon as you reach her, you throw your arms around her and press your lips to hers. You hum in approval, surprised at the mild taste of chlorine on her skin.
"I missed you in bed, this morning." You mumble when you start pulling away.
"I went for a run." She says against you as her lips kiss your jaw, "Not everyone has a body like yours without having to work out."
"What a joke." You chuckle, touching her cold, hard abdomen, "All you ever do is eat, yet look at these bad boys."
"Girls." She corrects.
"Did you name them like you named my boobs?"
She blushes brightly.
"I did not name your boobs."
You touch your chest as you say, “This is Freckles and this is Louise.”
"How do you know that?" She cries, throwing the towel to a nearby chair.
"You just keep burning yourself every time you get drunk."
You kiss her small pout away. Her stomach grumbles with hunger and then yours follows. You lace your hands together and pull her upstairs, ignoring her little whines as she complains of sore muscles.
In the kitchen, you make orange juice whilst she changes into dry clothes. She comes back five minutes later, wearing an oversized flannel over her naked body. She sits at the counter, yawning over and over again.
"So," You start, setting a glass before her, "Why Freckles and Louise? I understand the Freckles one, ‘cause I have a few freckles on my right boob. But Louise?"
She takes a sip and moans at the taste, ignoring you. You shoot her an expectant look.
"Originally," She begins, eyes dramatically fixed on the glass, "I named your boobies Thelma and Louise, you know, ‘cause they’re bad girls."
You snort. She rolls her eyes, smile betraying her.
"But then, one night I realized you have cute little freckles all across your right boob, so I nicknamed it Freckles. The end."
"Oh, wow. Lovely." You say, containing a whole lot of chuckles by taking a bite off of an apple.
"I love the twins."
"I know you do."
"And your bottom."
"Did you name my butt cheeks too?" You joke. You gasp and widen your eyes when her cheeks redden, "You have!"
"Another story for another time."
"Honey, all I have to do is get you drunk to get you to start talking."
She shakes her head, grinning like an idiot. You copy her. You share a moment of comfortable silence as you sit across her, still eating the apple in your hand.
"Did you know in the ancient times this island had some weird name that means twins in English because of those two parallel mountains that look exactly the same? They totally look like boobs, not gonna lie.”
"You’re such a lesbian." You mumble through an amused smile, mouth full.
"Babe, all you think about is boobs."
"And you’re wearing a flannel."
You sunbathe after lunch, chairs close to each other.
You’re on your back and Cara’s on her stomach, eyes closed. You know she’s going to fall asleep so you have to pay attention so she doesn’t get sunburned.
Minutes later, a light snore startles you. You get up and carefully sit beside her. You unlace the string of her bikini at the back and pour sunscreen on your palm.
As you gently apply it on her, she begins to purr moans. You smirk when she smirks.
"Those hands of yours are magical." She mumbles as you caress her muscles as best as you can. "Your massages are unbelievable, babe."
"I think you like them because they nearly always have a happy ending." You straddle her thighs as you say it, hands travelling down to the dimples on the small of her back.
She lets out a naughty chuckle. You kiss the nape of her neck, lingering.
"By the way," She starts, letting her eyes flutter open for a second, "Our marriage has blown up every social media website and television. We were on the news and everything."
You furrow your eyebrows, hands going to her ribs, “After years by your side I still find it so weird that people seem to have the need to feed off my private life.”
"By my side? Babe, you’re well known on your own."
"You are much more than I am, love. And I’m more than fine with that. Sometimes, I wish people didn’t recognise me at all." You let her know as you tenderly stroke her, "My privacy flew out the window when we got together."
You feel her tense up.
"What are you saying? Do you think you’d be better off without me?" She tries turning around but your body weight pins her down.
"Don’t be silly, baby. I wouldn’t have married you if I thought I was better off without you."
She sighs, looking straight ahead.
"If I wasn’t scared there is some paparazzo out in a boat a couple of kilometers away from here with a mega lens pointed at us, we could have sexy times outside."
"Oh, babe," You chuckle sadly, not really knowing what to say, "We’ll have sexy times outside, someday. Don’t worry."
She starts grinning all of the sudden.
"You know what I just remembered?" She asks, wanting to turn around. This time, you let her. She remembers her exposed torso, rushing to put her top back in place.
You cover her breasts with your hands and soothe her, “Shh, don’t worry. I got it covered.”
She smirks at your cheeky remark but carries on.
"It’s silly, though." She warns, prematurely blushing.
You think she meant to say it’s cheesy.
"Won’t judge. Promise."
"It’s just that— you remember how I used to tell you I had this terrible urge to pat on people’s shoulders at your gigs to tell them that you’re my girlfriend? Well, now I’m gonna be, like, 'Hey, I put a ring on that.', right?” She grins as she thinks of it, “And at interviews they’re going to refer to you as my wife and I’ll correct them and say ‘lovely wife’ because from now on those two words are stuck together forever.”
You’re biting your bottom lip to stop yourself grinning like an idiot. You decide to lie on her, head on her shoulder.
"I love it when you’re extra cheesy." You mumble against her neck.
She gasps dramatically.
"After all this time, you tricked me into thinking you were this simple, sophisticated young woman, yet, you’ve got a soft spot for corny lines."
"Shut up, you sap, you’re the cheesiest of us two. Or have you forgotten the jacket story at Glastonbury–"
Her groans cut you off.
"You’re never gonna let that one go, are you?" She says, annoyed. Then, she gasps again but this time she adds a smack to your bottom. "You bitch! You liked that smooth move of mine! That’s why you can’t let it go!"
"What?" You squeal, scoffing a couple of times, "That’s just absurd."
She shakes her head, pulling at and smacking your buttocks in disapproval repeatedly.
“I should throw you in the pool for having lied to me all these years.”
You pull away to show her your frightened eyes.
“I’m not going to. And you know why? Because I’m a good wife.” She shakes her head and her hands rest amidst your back, “Unlike yourself.”
“How do you know I’m not a good wife?” You pout, elbows on each side of her head, “We’ve only been married for, like, four days—“
“Three. See? You don’t even know for how long you’ve been married to me.”
You let your head fall until your lips are on her ear.
“You should punish me.”
You nip at her earlobe.
“An orgasm for each day we’ve been married? Just so I don’t get it wrong again.”
Her smirk kills you.
A couple of weeks in, closer to your departing date, you’ve got a runny nose and a sore throat.
You bet it’s that damn cold you caught before your wedding trying to catch up with you. Maybe making a cannonball contest with Cara to see who would jump the furthest in the middle of the freezing cold Mediterranean and playing around in the pool didn’t really help, either.
Cara’s been taking care of you like the good wife she claims to be.
You’re currently snuggled up to her in a could-be-warmer Monday – you think – night, blanket up to your chin and watching an ancient James Bond film that’s on the television. She’s got your guitar on her lap, playing whatever comes to her mind, singing along with it. You think it sounds heavenly.
“You’re so talented.” You mumble when the ads come on, looking at her profile for a moment before kissing her cheek.
She blushes. You smile.
“We should make a duet.” You go on, resting your head on her shoulder.
“Like Sonny and Cher?”
“Can I be Cher?”
“Why do you wanna be Cher?”
“Because I think Sonny’s moustache would suit you better.”
You turn to her with a pout, and she puts down the guitar and turns to you as well. She takes a few strands of your tied hair and makes you pucker your lips so she can simulate a moustache.
“God, your hair is so long.” She mumbles, kissing you because she can’t resist your puckered lips, “You don’t look like Sonny, you look like Yosemite Sam.”
“I think he’s hotter than Sonny.” You shrug when she glares, “I’ve always had a thing for short, red bearded men.”
She fixes your ‘moustache’ and then she whistles.
“Now we’re talking.”
“How do I look?”
“Do you reckon I should stop shaving and grow a beard?”
“No way, babe.” She shakes her head and lies you down. She gets on top of you as she speaks, “Every woman would start hitting on you—“
“That happens now.”
“C’mon, don’t be grumpy and provide me much needed Cara cuddles.”
You roll over until your head’s on her chest, and your legs are tangled messily. A hand caresses your neck, whilst the other tugs at your ponytail ever so gently. You’re either cold or she’s just incredibly warm against you. You wrap your arms around her neck and pull yourself up until your lips are on her pulse point.
You decide to mark her skin with hickeys, not caring if they’re visible or not. You kiss her right below her ear, smirking when she lets out a little shaky breath. Your body was slightly cold, but now that you’re turning her (and you) on, you’re on fire. You plant wet kisses all over her throat, feeling the vibrations of her little moans.
“Baby,” You start, sweet. She hums, “I’m horny.”
“Go charm some woman’s pants off with your magic beard.”
“Baby,” You say again, “You’re a woman.”
She lets out a laugh.
“Let my beard tickle your boobies.”
“Just my boobies?”
“And the kitten in your boxers.”
She chuckles mischievously as you bite her jaw.
“I love feeling your beard scratching my kitten.”
You snort as loud as you’ve ever snorted. She tries not to giggle.
“I’ve been told that before.”
She’s suddenly trapping you against the backrest, lips on you in a breathtaking smooch. Your eyes are widened as you’re caught by surprise.
“What did I do?” You mumble against her.
“God, I love it when you’re smug.” She whispers on your lips, “It’s so, so, so, so adorable. And sexy. Your smugness is pure sex.”
“Hold on, I’m not following. Adorable and sexy are on opposite sides of the scale.”
“Yeah, okay, smartass.” You feel a hand pushing your head down towards her center, “Get to work before you start annoying me.”
You sort of missed composing and recording. So, almost naturally, the first thing you do after you get back in London, is go to the studio to finish that song you started just before the pre-marriage madness.
Charlie’s glowing. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. He’s irradiating happiness. It surely has got to do with the fact he’s four months away of having his first child in his arms.
“How’s Matilda II?” You ask, safe in the confines of the recording room.
“So cute. She’s this tiny little thing but God, she’s so beautiful.” He gushes, voice a pitch higher than usual, “You have got to see Matilda’s belly. It’s fucking huge!”
After that, he keeps rambling about his future newborn and occasionally complaining about Matilda’s demanding ways. You smile here and there, nearly regretting asking anything at all.
An hour later or so, you’re finally ready to record the vocals, when you realize you can’t reach the high notes. You try and try, but every time your voice has to rise, it cracks and comes out as a whisper.
At one point, your throat starts hurting.
“I’m no doctor,” Charlie starts as soon as you come out of the booth, “But from my experience, I’d say you will have to rest that voice of yours for a couple of months.”
Your face falls.
“Glastonbury is at the end of the month!” You cry, voice – ironically – cracking.
“You better go see a doctor,” He smiles sadly, wrapping an arm around you shoulder before walking out of the room.
You get home to find Cara throwing clothes in her suitcase.
She grins when she sees you. You grin right back at her, even if you’re not in the mood for smiles. She makes you forget about the bad things in your life. You place a soft kiss on her cheek before falling on the bed with a thud.
“Home so early?”
“My voice’s fucked up.” You mumble against the mattress. You feel Cara’s quizzical stare, so you elaborate, “I can’t sing.”
“What do you mean?
“It hurts when I do it.” You mutter, dejected. You’re tempted to scream into a pillow but you know you shouldn’t.
The mattress sinks and then you feel Cara’s lips on your ear.
“You should go see a doctor.” She whispers, burying her cute little nose in your hair, “I’m sure it’s nothing. You’re probably just tired or something… but—“ She hesitates, “You never know.”
It doesn’t comfort you one bit.
You’ve been having trouble falling asleep because according to a Google search, you have a deadly tumor in your throat. That, added to the fact Cara’s left for Paris for a few days, contributed immensely to your newfound anxiety.
But, at last, on a Tuesday morning, the doctor informs you there’s nothing to worry about, except for the fact you’ll have to give your voice a rest and go to voice therapy. A weight’s lifted off of your shoulders. However, to know that you’ll have to spend the next few months without being able to perform or record or even simply sing for fun, it’s going to kill you. On top of everything, it’s summer in a month, and summer means festivals. No festivals for you.
So, now you have to cancel a whole bunch of performances. You don’t even know what you’re going to do now that you have so much free time. You’ll probably spend hours in front of the television, eating and watching films and series and cartoons and getting fat.
Cara’s made you promise that you’d call her as soon as you got home.
In your apartment, you put on comfortable attire, fill a bowl with chips, slump down on the sofa and turn on the television before keeping your promise.
You call her. She doesn’t pick up. Seconds later she texts you saying she’s getting her hair done and that she’ll call you back in a little bit.
It’s not long before your phone starts ringing.
“Hey, babe.” You mumble, mouth full.
“Hello, love. How did you sleep?”
You swallow before setting the bowl on the coffee table so you can lie down and get comfortable.
“Alright, I guess. Yourself?”
It never fails to make you grin like a mad woman.
“Missed you, too.”
She’s silent for a few seconds. You hope she’s grinning like a mad woman, too.
“What did the doctor say?”
“I have this thing on my vocal chords— it’s like a little grain—it has a weird name. I don’t know. Whatever. I’ve got to go to voice therapy for the whole summer.”
“So it’s nothing to worry about?”
“I can’t sing for like four months. That’s pretty worrisome for me.” You clench your jaw, already imagining the torture you’re going to go through.
“I won’t perform at any festival this summer. People are going to forget about me.”
She laughs. You furrow your eyebrows, not understanding why she finds it so funny. Then she makes this little murmuring sound, still chuckling.
“Don’t be silly, love. Nobody’s going to forget about you. I won’t let them.”
You smile, wanting nothing more than to be able to coo a sweet I love you in her ear. She’s so utterly adorable you just want to smother her with kisses.
“Come home. Come take care of your ill wife.”
“You’re making me feel guilty.”
She protests on the other side, effectively making you miss her more.
“This would be a good time to get your lovely self pregnant.”
“And why’s that?” You ask, smile permanently engraved on your face.
“Because you don’t have to work for months.” She quickly replies, then adds, “And because I’ve been wanting your babies for years, now. And you said we could have a baby after we got married and we’re married now, so I want my baby.”
“Well, too bad I’m not getting pregnant first.” You roll over until your face’s hidden on the sofa’s backrest.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I told you why. It makes sense that you get pregnant first because you’re older than I am.” You, once more, explain, frustrated that you can’t seem to get your point across, “Sometimes it just doesn’t seem that you want to get pregnant at all.”
She’s silent for a little bit.
“That’s not true.”
You know it’s not true, but maybe if you manage to make her feel a little bit guilty she’ll come around.
“Cara, we’ll talk about this when you’re home again.” You sigh, “Which won’t be for another million years.”
"If by a million years you mean three days, then yeah, I’m coming home in a million years."
You roll your eyes.
"Besides," She goes on, "We’ll have plenty of time to be together this summer."
"You say that like it’ll be some form of torture for you to be with me for so much time." You quietly retort, genuinely insecure.
"What’s it with you, today?" She sounds annoyed. You swear you hear her rolling her eyes, too. "You’re acting so weird." She pauses for a moment, hesitating before adding, “It’s like you’re purposely trying to argue.”
"I’m just sad."
You hear her sigh.
You’re about to tell her that you can’t when you remember there really isn’t anything stopping you. But, then again, you don’t want to be like those couples that can’t be apart from each other for a day before starting to feel depressed.
"We have to learn how to be apart from each other, Cara. It’s all fun and games now, but when you have to go to God knows where to shoot some film, it’ll be harder."
"That’s why we should be together as much as possible right now." She slowly explains as if you’ll have a hard time understanding, “I just want to make you feel better.”
"Seriously, babe, get on a train and come here. We’ll have dinner together and tomorrow, if you still want to go, you’ll go." She confidently says, voice a little sad at the end.
Feeling like you’re being unfair, and actually wanting to be with her more than anything, you give in to her wishes.
You arrive in Paris at a quarter to seven.
You carry a suitcase with you, well aware you are not leaving in the morning. Now that you’re here, you’ll only go home when Cara goes home.
She told you she’d be waiting for you around here somewhere, but you’re nearing the exit and you still haven’t seen a flash of her silky blonde hair.
And then, coincidentally (even if you don’t believe in coincidences), Cara comes in, panting as if she’s just ran all the way from wherever she was before.
She’s scowling for some reason – you’re willing to bet there a few vultures, outside, waiting for her – but then she sees you and she smiles and waves and you swear she becomes an entirely different person. She engulfs you so tightly when she meets you that it’s almost like you haven’t seen each other in forever (if by forever you mean three days, then yes, you haven’t seen each other in forever – she would’ve said).
"Are you alright?" She asks in your ear.
You nod, “Are you?”
She kisses your cheek as she pulls away only to show you the brightest of smiles, “Perfect.”
After escaping the paparazzi outside the train station and then outside the hotel, you reach your room, and the first thing you do is fall on the bed, face down, claiming you’re tired like you weren’t just comfortably sat in a train for a few hours.
"I miss our bed." She says as she grabs all of the clothes that are scattered all over the floor. "It’s so comfy compared to these harsh hotel room mattresses."
"Our bed’s the best." You agree, nodding and smiling lazily.
"It’s even better when you’re in it–"
"–waiting for me to come home so I can fuck you into oblivion."
You raise an eyebrow at her crudeness, smirk in place.
"You’re especially naughty, today."
"I haven’t had sex in three days!" She cries.
"Good." You sternly mutter, opening your eyes just in time to see her roll hers, "But I can’t have sex for a few weeks, now." You lie, closing your eyes again, "The doctor told me I can’t yell or even raise my voice. I obviously can’t moan, and you’re so good in bed you always get me screaming."
Your eyes shoot open. You find her watching you, soft smile on her lips.
"Really? You’re okay with not having sex for a few weeks?"
"Of course, love." She sits down beside you, hand immediately stroking your back, "Anything for you to get better."
"You’re sweet." You mumble, momentarily touched, "Best wife ever."
"I just won a Best Wife Ever award because I’ve agreed to not having sex for weeks. And you should have got a Worst Liar Ever because we’ve had noiseless sex before."
You smirk. She steals you a sweet kiss.
"Love, I was thinking tonight we could have dinner with a couple of friends of mine I haven’t seen in forever."
"Whatever you want." You say, happy that you’re here with her right now.
"Are you leaving tomorrow?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
"Why don’t you want to stay with me?"
"What am I to do in Paris, all alone whilst you’re working?"
"You can be my assistant, or – and I think you’ll love this one – you’ll take out your credit card and you’ll spend a bunch of money on clothes you’ll never wear.”
"I do like that one."
She giggles and next thing you know she’s half on top of you, half on the mattress.
Her face is centimeters away from yours and her hand has somehow made way to your cheek, stroking it affectionately. You’re vaguely aware of the cold ring on her third finger touching your warm skin.
"Can I be really corny for a moment?"
You manage to scoot closer to her, noses now touching, almost as if you want her to say it just to you so no one else can hear her, which is incredibly silly because you’re all alone in your hotel bedroom.
She’s silent a couple of moments after that.
"Don’t leave in the morning." She quietly starts, "I should be used to this by now, and maybe at some point I was, but I really don’t want to be apart from you. I don’t want to learn what it’s like being on my own, again."
You begin to smile.
"Don’t leave." She repeats, this time in a whisper.
"What did you think I brought that big suitcase with me for? Silly."
You nuzzle her nose, and then she kisses you. You think she meant to peck you very softly at first, but she miscalculated the distance so she ends up planting a rather firm kiss on your lips. Tired – or not – she lets her head fall on the mattress, kiss intact.
Dinner with Cara’s friends is surprisingly fun. You’ve never met them before, but apparently they’ve known each other since her boarding school years. You watch as two of them hug her for long moments. It’s endearing, really. Except for this Mila girl that beeps on your gaydar and holds on to your wife for a tad too long. Or maybe she holds on too long to Cara and only after she beeps on your gaydar. Either way, something tells you to be wary of her.
She introduces you as her lovely wife like she promised she always would. You swoon.
Throughout dinner, even with only five people around the table, two groups are formed: Cara, the other girl and Mila, and then it leaves you and the other girl’s boyfriend, Pedro.
For some reason, you’ve always found boys much more approachable than girls. Boys are simple. Girls are not.
Pedro’s a Spanish man leaving in Paris and he seems decent. At least he smells amazing and his style is spot on. At one point, Cara and her two friends are reminiscing or catching up, whichever, and you and him are simply there, serving as ornaments.
You’re focused on the paintings on the walls when you feel a tap on the hand you’ve got on the table. Pedro’s smiling at you like he’s trying his hardest to win you over.
"Look," He mumbles, holding out his phone to you. You see a familiar album cover and twelve songs written by yourself.
He’s definitely won you over.
So, for the next hour, you bond.
He asks you questions about you like he’s absolutely fascinated by what you do. You gladly answer to each and every single one of them, laughing when you don’t understand him or he doesn’t understand you.
And then, by the time you’re done with dinner and ready to go out to some club or bar or wherever, you realize Pedro knows all about you and you know nothing about him.
Cara and the other two walk ahead of you, leading the way and laughing like they’ve all gone mental. Pedro and yourself are right behind them, walking side by side in comfortable silence.
"What are you, anyway?" You ask, smirking at him because by now you feel like you’ve known him for years, "What do you do?"
He smirks right back at you, white teeth nearly blinding you.
"I’d say something to do with fashion. Like a designer or something close to that. Or a model.” You shrug nonchalantly, “You could be a model."
"Cold. Very cold."
"Though I have modelled in the past. Nude. For people to draw me."
"Well, that’s an ungrateful job." You mumble, though guessing that particular class must’ve been full just to see him naked. "Did you enjoy it?"
"It was easy money. I did get very sore, afterwards."
"I can imagine."
"I’m an artist. Just like yourself." He says, at last. Your eyes snap to his side profile, curious. "Though I express myself through painting. Or sculpting. But I’m better at painting."
"Are you any good?"
He asks you for your phone. You hand it to him, hesitant, uncertain of what he’ll do. He hands it back to you and you notice he’s typed some form of address in it.
"My work is currently being exposed here. Stop by and I will let you decide for yourself."
You’ve just found entertainment for whilst Cara’s at work.
You fall into comfortable silence. You look ahead to see Mila clinging to Cara’s arm, giggling at something she’s saying. You clench your jaw. Why is Cara letting that woman hold on to her like she’s some form of branch?
You feel something slightly heavy on your shoulders and then warmth spreading across your body. Pedro’s just put his blazer on you.
You look up at him to find him sporting a genuine smile.
"You looked like you were cold."
"Thank you." You bashfully reply, still caught by surprise.
You realize you’re getting close when you see a few people smoking outside and muffled music coming from inside a building. Cara and the girls walk in in haste. By now, you’re actually feeling a bit left out. You look at Pedro. By the frown on his face, so is he.
You go in together.
There’s a cloud of smoke blurring the air and the environment’s very poorly lit. You’re not sure where you’re going. You wish you could at least see Cara so you could know where to go, but she’s long gone. It’s slightly irritating.
Thankfully, Pedro appears to be familiar with this place. He wraps an arm around you and guides you through a mass of once sober bodies to a part where there are circular sofas and hookahs and you quickly find Cara between Mila and Pedro’s girlfriend. The latter beams at you like her boyfriend’s blazer isn’t on your shoulders.
There’s some sort of arabic song playing on the background. You’d find it relaxing had you not just witnessed with your bare eyes Cara pulling Mila closer and whispering something in her ear.
You could leave. You’re not sure you would be missed.
You sit down beside Pedro and his girlfriend – who has now joined you – in a terrible mood. You’re quickly reminded her name is Marissa when you start chatting with both of them. She’s as lovely as Pedro and they make the cutest couple. It truly warms your heart when you see her putting a kiss to his cheek before getting up to get drinks.
You subtly take off his blazer, starting to feel like you’re not the one that should be wearing it.
As you try not to let your bad mood take over your features, you try focusing on your surroundings – the laughs coming from behind you, the french accent all around you.
"Babe," Cara finally calls for you, silly smile on her lips. She blows out smoke. What a strange sight. "Come try this!"
You shake your head, forcing a smile.
She shrugs and doesn’t insist. Mila mumbles something you can’t hear, effectively making her chuckle. It’s like they’re making fun of you. What a nightmare.
When Marissa comes back with drinks, she sits down beside Pedro and then hands you one with a yellowish neon colour.
"It’s incredibly strong." She says through what you think to be a sympathetic smile, "You look like you need it."
"If it is as strong as you say it is, I’ll need more than one." You mutter before you take a sip. You grimace. It’s so fucking acid your throat’s on fire. You gulp down the rest.
Both Pedro and Marissa laugh.
Twenty minutes later, the alcohol’s definitely made its presence in your body.
Your mind’s still reeling, though – maybe now more than ever. You’re imagining how everything must look from another point of view. Pedro and Marissa are cuddling, sort of. Now they’re just snogging. Cara and Mila have been whispering things in each other’s ear. Nobody would say you and Cara are the married couple. Nobody. You’re almost expecting them to just start making out.
You feel like you’re a lit candle at the dinner table of two couples of lovebirds. It’s troubling how you keep quiet even with all the turmoil inside of you. But you really don’t want to come off as the jealous, clingy girlfriend – this particular case wife – otherwise you would’ve left a long time ago.
Tipsy, feeling the need to get really drunk, you head over to the bar to gulp down a couple more of that really horrible drink Marissa got you.
You’re aware of the handsome man with dark skin and the prettiest of smiles giving you the eye three seats away from you. You can feel his stare burning your skin. It’s not long before you’re taking shots with him and giggling at his cute french accent. He mumbles something in your ear and next thing you know you’re being pulled to the mass of once-sober bodies. You suppose you blend in perfectly, this time.
And it’s only when you’re ten minutes into it that you feel him behind you, his hands on your stomach and his lips on your neck, that you wake up from some form of daze you didn’t even realize you were in. You try scurrying away from him. By then, it’s too late.
Your eyes widen when you see Cara pushing bodies away like Moses would part the sea in two walls. And when she reaches you, you’re already separated from him. She still insists on pushing him and yelling out a few curses. The poor man furrows his eyebrows and holds his hands up, confused as to why some woman is hitting him and threatening him.
She pulls you to where you can breathe. Her hands hold your face between them
“Are you okay?” She asks, pushing back the hair that’s glued to your sweaty forehead, “Did he try to—“
“No.” You frantically shake your head, sober for a moment, “It’s my fault. He didn’t— I just—“
Her worried eyes are expectant.
“I just wanted to dance.”
She steps away from you. By the way her body has tensed up and her arms have fallen to her sides, you can tell she’s more than angry.
“And you couldn’t have asked me to dance with you?” She pauses for a single beat. You look up, to the sides and then finally, you roll your eyes as she goes on, “You just had to go and grind on some dude’s dick!”
“I would’ve.” You slur when she shuts up, “But you were too busy snogging Mila.”
Her eyebrows furrow comically, her eyes widen and her mouth gapes. You nearly laugh.
You simply stare at her in disbelief.
She puffs out her cheeks, sighs and stalks away from you. Thirsty, feeling like you’re too sober for this mess, you get yet another drink from the bar – this time it’s purple and it tastes even worse than the ones you had before.
You stumble your way back to your seat, only this time, ignoring your mini argument and with the help of liquid poison cursing through your veins, you decide your seat is no longer beside Pedro and Marissa, but between Cara and Mila.
When you near them and you notice Mila’s arm stretched out and resting behind Cara, you take the spontaneous decision of sitting on your wife’s lap. You do it so abruptly, you ‘accidentally’ spill some of your drink on Mila’s thighs.
You giggle as you wrap your arms around Cara and Cara giggles as she wraps her arms around you. What a heavenly sound her laugh is. You kiss her cheek and then you turn to Mila.
"Sorry." You apologize, accompanied by a fake smile and a deadly glare.
When you see her getting up and saying something about cleaning up before it stains, you think your mission is accomplished.
"How drunk are you?" Cara mumbles in your ear, making you forget all about everyone in the room.
She releases a very raspy laugh and puts a little kiss to your cheek, argument long forgotten.
You swallow your pride and whisper in her ear, “I’m sorry.”
“Do you still want to dance?”
You show her your answer by putting your lips to her neck.
Wanting more, you lace your fingers with her hair and plant an intoxicated kiss on her mouth. And you’re vaguely aware that you’re practically eating each other’s faces but you really don’t give a fuck. Especially because she’s moaning ever so quietly every time you pull away to change the position of your head. And also because she tastes like heaven.
You dare to slip a hand under her shirt.
"Babe… Baby," She mumbles against you before she manages to push you away with some strength, "Not here, love." She says as she pushes your hair back, planting a couple of little kisses on your jaw.
You’re jealous and insecure, needy and wanting attention and Cara’s giving it all to some girl who’s gladly accepting it. You bet had Mila been on her lap, kissing her like you’ll be dead by midnight, she wouldn’t tell her to stop. That thought throws you over the edge. You clumsily get off of her, overcoming her attempts at trying to pull you down.
"Where are you going?" She frantically asks.
"Where do you think? Back to my seat."
"Sit here with me."
Mila drops down next to her again.
You ignore her and turn around, feeling her eyes on your back.
Maybe it’s all of these french people smoking around you or your drunk self or your jealous self or every single one of these combined, but you could really, really use a cigarette, right now. Most of all though, and sort of paradoxically to your wishes, you need fresh air. You feel sweaty and your body keeps getting hotter and hotter, and your heart’s beating stronger, and your stomach’s churning.
You don’t make it to your seat.
Spontaneously, you grab your belongings and head outside.
The nights of Paris in May should be warm. Not tonight, apparently. Pedro’s blazer would come in handy.
As you steady yourself against a wall, you become aware of the group of three or four people next to you, talking quietly, mostly enjoying their smoke. There’s a woman about your age with them, knee bent, cigarette between her fingers. She looks relaxed, lost in her own world, but somehow still watching everyone around her.
"Can I bum a smoke?" You slur out.
She doesn’t say a word as she takes out a cigarette off of her back pocket, lighter in the same hand. You think she’s used to doing this. Your fingers tremble as she lights it for you.
"Merci." (Thank you.)
She smirks and gets, once again, lost in the few people that pass by.
The first drag off the cigarette makes you feel like you’ve just woken up from the longest of slumbers. The second reminds you of why you stopped smoking.
"What are you doing?"
Cara’s voice spins you around, startling you slightly.
You expel smoke in her direction, again steadying your drunken body with a hand gripping on to the wall.
"Since when do you smoke again?" She steps closer as if to catch the remains of the poisoned air that was once stored in your lungs.
"I felt like smoking." You then, with a very sarcastic tone, ask, "Am I not allowed to smoke anymore?"
She rolls her eyes.
"Are you so drunk that you forgot you quit smoking years ago?" She mutters, stepping even closer but crossing her arms at her chest.
"Yeah, that must be it."
Cara doesn’t like your cheeky reply one bit. She gently takes hold of your wrist. With her other hand, she takes the cigarette that’s held between your fingers and puts it to her lips. She takes a long drag off of it. And then she crushes the tip against the wall, letting it fall down right after she’s done.
She blows the smoke out into the sky for a few seconds.
"You’re acting like a child." She says, voice incredibly husky.
"Forgive me." You sarcastically apologize, staring at her through defying eyes.
You can feel her growing frustrated.
"You’re cold." She says moments later when she sees you holding your arms as if to start warming up. She takes hold of your wrist again. "Lets go back inside."
"I’m not going back in there."
She lets her arms fall to her sides and looks up, cursing a few times.
"Why not?" She sighs, looking away like you’re being ridiculous.
"I’m going back to the hotel."
Her eyes snap to yours.
"You’re being dramatic."
"I’m tired and drunk. I just want to sleep."
"Okay, then let me say goodbye to them and I’ll go back with you–"
"No." You abruptly cut her off, louder than intended.
She kicks the floor in obvious frustration.
"What have I done?" She cries. When curious eyes turn your way, she hisses, "Are you jealous of Mila? Is that it? Is this stupid, reckless behaviour of yours all because of an old friend I hadn’t seen in years wants to catch up? You’re being so bloody selfish. Remember I wasn’t the one practically fucking some stranger on the dance floor."
"I made a fool out of myself in there, Cara!" You blurt out in a cry. Her eyebrows furrow. You correct yourself, "You made a fool of me."
There’s silence as she looks away. You don’t know whether she’s thinking of what to say or simply consenting to your words. You walk away from her. She doesn’t come after you.
The woman from before is still smoking away. When she sees you, she smirks again. She’s holding out another cigarette.
"On dirait que t’en as besoin d’une autre.” (You look like you need another.)
She lights it on your lips.
You leave in search of a taxi. The street seems never-ending. You think maybe it’s your limbs that are threatening to shut down for the night.
It occurs to you, tonight, three complete strangers told you that you looked like you were in need of something – warmth and two different kinds of poison. You don’t know what to make out of it, but it frightens the shit out of you.
As you take a drag off the cigarette, you feel your body temperature falling and the blood vanishing from your face. And then you hear your name falling out of Cara’s mouth. You turn around, and your stomach twists and your head spins, and before any words can come out of you, vomit beats them to it.
"Goddamn it. I’m never letting you drink again." Cara mutters, holding your hair back as you let your insides out, "Oh, love…"
You think you feel one of her hands soothing your back, but right now there are other sensations begging for your attention like throwing up dinner and the drinks you had before.
Then, when your throat burns and your stomach is empty, you straighten your back. You wipe your lips with the back of your right hand and your teary eyes with your left one.
Now you can definitely feel Cara’s hand on the small of your back.
"Don’t." You tell her, intending to sound assertive.
You hear a small sigh and then she says, “Lets go back to the hotel–”
“I am going back to the hotel. You are going back in there and finish having fun with your friends.” You compose yourself and detach from her.
You turn your back to her, meaning to leave when she asks, “Why don’t you want me to come with?”
You abruptly turn around, completely pissed off. You find her somewhat dejected, yet worried and a bit scared. Had you been sober, you would’ve melted at the sight. Drunk, her puppy dog eyes don’t have a lot of power over you.
You look up to the sky, vaguely aware you’re still in public and start, voice a pitch higher than usual, “Because you’re annoying me, Cara. Because in this precise moment, I think of you and that— woman, and I feel like throwing up all over again.” You finish off by looking her dead in the eye, “I can’t fucking stand you, right now.”
You don’t know if she understands half of what you’ve just said, but judging by the way you’re feeling guilty as you get in a taxi and she stays behind, feet planted to the floor, watching you go, you’d say you were crystal clear.
You’re falling asleep an hour or so later when you hear the door being opened.
Cara walks in ever so quietly. Her feet are feather-like on the carpeted floor. She puts down her belongings. Everything becomes deadly quiet, after that. The room’s illuminated by the weak light of her phone’s screen as she focuses on whatever she’s reading.
A minute later or so, the bed dips on her side. A strong aroma made out of alcohol, smoke and sweat, fills your nostrils. An unexpected kiss is planted on your ear.
"Baby…" She whispers. You stay quietly still, eyes closed.
She kisses you again before getting up and disappearing in the bathroom.
You wake up the next afternoon, alone in bed and in bedroom.
Cara’s off to work, you suppose. You wonder if she kissed your ear good morning.
You make your way to Pedro’s gallery, pondering whether or not you should text Cara an apology for what you remember of last night.
He greets you with welcoming hugs and asks you if you’re okay after disappearing on them. You lie, sort of, when you tell him you’re fine. And then he proceeds to show you around, pointing out aspects of art you had never thought of.
"Have you had lunch yet?" He asks when you blankly stare at one of his paintings, trying to make out something out of it, "I’ve been here for hours now and I haven’t had a break yet."
And because he somehow knows where Cara’s shoot is at, you end up getting McDonald’s and eating outside in the prettiest of days, watching your love working from afar, strangely feeling like another set of curious eyes.
You don’t know how she deals with this amount of pressure.
She’s currently the subject of a shooting, posing like a whole different person in front of the camera. And then, at the same time, there are fans or simply curious people on the side, taking pictures, filming, screaming for her whilst she does her job as best as she can. You admire how she never loses focus.
"You are drooling."
Pedro reminds you he’s still with you. You roll your eyes at him and steal him a couple of McDonald’s chips he’s still holding in his hand from lunch.
You’re once again distracted when you hear claps and cheers coming from the shooting. You see Cara hugging a couple of people, laughing with them, taking pictures with them.
"I’m going over there." You tell Pedro, who’s finishing his drink. He hums. "Do you want to come with?"
He shakes his head, still taking sips of his Coke. When he figures there’s nothing left, he wipes his lips with the back of his hand.
"I must be going, anyway."
"I’ll convince Cara to stop by your gallery, tonight, or something."
“I think you’ll be too busy for that.”
You figure out his innuendo and blush.
"Next time you’re in London, give me a call." You mumble, typing your number into his phone.
"Same for you, if you come to Paris. We’ll go out for drinks – just you and Cara, my girlfriend and I."
After goodbye kisses to his cheeks, you leave in search of Cara.
She’s sort of being smothered by a bunch of people but there are a couple of bodyguards making sure everything’s in order.
You think perhaps she’s a bit too busy for you at the moment, so you text her, instead, to tell her that you’re waiting for her at this little café with these really bright yellow sunblinds outside.
You sit by the window, at first simply watching the people passing by, and then, after a waiter comes to take your order and you ask for a glass of cold orange juice, your eyes fall down.
You focus on the baroque drawings on the table. It seems that someone carved a masterpiece with the tip of a sharp knife. You wonder if the other tables are as marked as this one. You trace the lines with your fingers as something comes to your mind. Before, Pedro said if you were to meet again, he wouldn’t bring Mila. You were pleased with that. But at the time it didn’t occur to you that, after all, even with all of your layers of façades, you do seem to be a bit transparent.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
Your head snaps to meet Cara looking at you, a cheeky grin gracing her features. Your smile is soft, nostalgic even, as you remember a rainy night years ago when you had the very first of your interactions.
At that precise moment, the waiter brings back your orange juice. He looks at Cara, expectant, probably waiting for her order, but she dismisses him.
"We’re sharing." She says, and then she puts down a paper bag and sits across you.
She’s quiet as she takes a long sip off your orange juice. You look at her.
"Is it good?" You ask and then, realizing she’s already drank half of it and is not stopping, you cry, "Hey, what about me?"
She chuckles, coming to a halt when there’s a quarter of the glass full.
"I was a bit thirsty."
"I can see that."
You drink a little bit before deciding she can have the rest. You push the glass in her direction, smiling when she eagerly puts the straw to her lips.
You look outside again.
"Were you watching me work?" She asks, pushing the now empty glass to the middle of the table.
"Just for a little bit. I visited Pedro’s exposition and then I had lunch with him before–"
"You had lunch with Pedro?" She asks, eyebrows furrowing like she wasn’t expecting this at all, "Marissa’s Pedro?"
You nod, uncertain of her reaction.
She forgets for a moment she’s already finished her drink. A loud suction noise’s made as she searches for whatever there’s left at the bottom of the glass.
"He’s really talented. I think you’d like his work."
She stays quiet, looking away. You want to keep going, but you’re not sure she’ll say anything back. And so, awkward silence installs.
"How did your shooting go?" You even more awkwardly break it.
"Fine, I guess. I’m all sweaty, though." She grimaces, momentarily forgetting about the weird tension hovering over you, "It’s too hot, today."
"Do you want to go back to the hotel to get some rest?"
She nods, bashfully smiling at you. You don’t see a lot of these smiles from her. They’re precious.
"Are you going shopping or something?"
"No. Unless you want to be alone."
"Of course not, love." She looks at you like you’re being silly.
Then, she gets up and waits for you.
"You drink my orange juice and I have to pay. Where’s the justice in this world?" You playfully mutter, leaving money on the table.
She smirks at you and you shake your head, grin betraying you when she plants a little kiss on your cheek.
You got rid of your clothes and opened all of the windows, curtains closed, as soon as you walked in your hotel room. You now lie on the bed in your underwear, reading some french gossip magazine with Cara on the cover.
Minutes later, she comes out in a tiny little towel, mumbling something you can’t understand.
"What was that?"
"What was what?"
"Did you say something?"
"Oh, I was just rapping."
She lets her towel fall to the floor. Her perfect bum and her long legs are on display for you as she dries her hair with a smaller towel. You shamelessly check her out.
"What are you reading?" She asks when she locks eyes with you through the mirror.
"I’m just looking at the pictures. I don’t understand a word of what it says." You hold up the magazine.
She turns around and rests her back against the dressing table, looking at you like you’re missing out on something.
"I’m currently standing in front of you, completely naked, and you’re focused on a magazine with my picture on the cover."
She shakes her head disapprovingly.
"What?" You shrug, "You look extra pretty here. I had to get it."
"Oh, so I don’t look pretty now."
"You look okay." You smirk as you keep ‘reading’ the magazine, flipping through yet another page.
She rolls her eyes as she turns back to the mirror, now combing her long hair.
"Yesterday, after you left, Mila bought us all this amazing drink– it was called–" She stops to think, "–I forgot the name but fuck me, was it good. It was, like, blue and–"
"Mila bought you drinks to celebrate my sudden departure?" You dully blurt out as if your jealousy was a nonchalant matter.
"I’m not even going to comment." She mumbles, searching her suitcase for something.
“Also, please don’t mention alcohol. Makes me want to puke my guts out all over again.”
She doesn’t add anything. For the next minutes, you once again let yourself be consumed by jealous thoughts. Cara’s putting on lotion and you’re watching her, letting your eyes flick back to the pictures every time her head turns in your direction.
"What time did you get home last night?" You try breaking the silence as smoothly as possible.
She turns away from you. Through the reflection, you see her grinning.
"What’s so funny?"
"It’s just how you said ‘home’. I find it sweet that even if we’re so far away from London, you still consider ‘home’ the simple fact that we’re near each other." She wipes her hands on a towel and then crawls to you on her knees, a little soft smile on her lips. She drops down on her side, head propped on her elbow, a warm hand coming to rest on your stomach, "It’s like we’re each other’s safe harbours."
You don’t let her sweet choice of words get to you. You try hiding a smile as you shake your head.
"When did you become so poetic?"
"You bring out the best in me."
Her lips touch your ear and then your jaw. Your eyes roll to the back of your head when she decides to half straddle you and plant a thousand wet kisses on your neck.
"Cara," You mumble, voice weak, "Not right now, babe."
"What? Why not?" She straddles you completely, taking your earlobe between her teeth.
"It’s too hot. Tonight." You promise, hands roaming on her back.
She pulls back, pouting.
"But I’ve been horny since last night."
"Why were you horny last night? I was drunk, dancing with some other guy—“
“Don’t ever mention that man again.”
“—smoking, throwing up. What exactly turned you on?” You mumble, eyes green.
"What are you insinuating?"
"Don’t play dumb with me."
She rolls her eyes.
"And I thought you looked smoking hot before you were drunk, smoking and throwing up. Come to think of it, you look hot when you’re drunk. You look fucking sexy smoking. And the throwing up part… not so much. But whatever."
You keep staring at her, half convinced. Her lips meet your jaw.
"Your jealousy is also a turn on. To a point." She mumbles against your skin.
As her hands dip lower, you forget about a green-eyed monster and concentrate on the pleasure that’s to come.
Half an hour later, her head droops from the edge of the mattress. She’s panting and coming down from what you can smugly call one of the best orgasms of her life.
You pull her up and hold her for a second before lying her down correctly. You rest beside her, chuckling at how her body’s still trembling.
"Weirdest orgasm–" Her body jerks involuntarily, high still not completely over, "–ever."
You kiss her forehead and let her rest her head on your bicep. With the hand of the same arm, you trace her cheeks with your fingertips.
"I’m cold." She whispers in your ear. You struggle to reach for a crumpled sheet by the bed on the floor. You cover your bodies. She sighs. "You’re the best. I love you lots and lots and lots. Just you. No one else."
You kiss her forehead as best as you can, feeling like last night’s events are implied on her little speech.
She takes hold of your left hand and kisses your ring finger.
"But, Cara, I don’t like the way that Mila girl looks at you." You hesitantly confess.
"Don’t be silly, babe."
"I’m not being silly. Everyone saw it. Pedro saw it. Marissa saw it." You pause to hear whatever she has to say to that. When she stays quiet, you hesitantly add, "And you were flirting, too."
"I was not–"
"Yes, you were." You roll your eyes, "Don’t deny it."
"I wasn’t." She insists. You roll your eyes again. "Pedro seems to have liked you, too."
There she goes again.
"It’s so fucking annoying when you try to turn a conversation around and make it about me." You mutter, starting to feel anger boil, "Why are you trying to dodge the subject? Are you attracted to Mila? Is that it?"
She detaches herself from you so she can look at you properly. She’s furrowing her eyebrows, lips slightly parted.
"Do you really think I’m attracted to Mila?" She shakes her head, never once looking away from you, "Babe, I could never. No. No way. She’s not even my type."
You lift an eyebrow, staring at her like she’s given you the wrong answer.
"What’s your type, then?"
"My naked wife."
"You’re so full of shit, Cara Delevingne."
She smirks. Then, it falls.
"Are you attracted to Pedro?"
"He’s got a girlfriend." You joke, biting your lip to hide a grin when her head droops forward disbelievingly at your answer, "Besides, I’m into super models."
“Didn’t he say he was a model, too? I recall you turned to him and said, 'Oh, Pedro, you could be a model.’”
You both roll your eyes, annoyed at each other.
"I don’t even talk like that. And he could. He’s got the looks."
"Are you being serious, right now? Are you just trying to annoy me?"
You roll on your side and rest a hand on the side of her ribcage.
"One more than the other."
She defies you with a burning glare.
"You were flirting, too."
"Right because you were the one feeling like one too much. Think about it, Pedro and Marissa were snogging and you and Mila were whispering things in each other’s ear. I looked pathetic." You once more feel angry, "Next time, don’t ask me to come with."
"I told you to sit with us!"
"What? To stay on one side, Mila on the other, sharing you? Ridiculous." You mutter, pulling your hand away. You sit up, uncomfortable, "I understand why she likes you. But you’re married to me." You pout, feeling like you could cry, "Why did you have to go and act like you’re married to her?"
She kneels behind you, lips on the crown of your head. She wraps her arms around your neck.
"But I love you." Cara says in an adorable voice in your ear, almost sing-songing it. “Do you want me to scream it to the world?”
You shrug, trying hard not to let out a ridiculous giggle. She gets up and throws on your shirt and some trousers whilst you frantically ask her where she’s going.
You watch her going for the curtains and you realize then what she wants to do. You leap off the bed with a cry, wrap a sheet around your body and pull her back by her wrist when you reach her. She’s giggling as your bodies gently collide.
“I was going to sacrifice myself to the vultures downstairs to show you how much you mean to me. Had you let me, I would’ve literally screamed that I love you to the world.” She says through an effortless smile before pecking you. “Happy?”
“You’ve gone mad.” You mumble, blush on your cheeks and hiding the silliest of grins as you throw yourself face down on the bed whilst she gets rids of her clothes. You bury your face in the duvet, feeling like a seventeen year old in love all over again.
“I’m the ultimate Romeo.”
The thin sheet you’re wrapped up in is suddenly ripped away from you, leaving your backside completely exposed.
"What a view." Cara mumbles, crawling on top of you, leaving a kiss on every single one of your vertebrae.
She rests on you, chest on your back, arms on your arms, lips on your neck.
You feel her smirking against your skin.
"Thirsty for me and–"
"Well, then, get up and go get some."
You turn your palms to hers, lacing your fingers with hers.
"I can’t because there’s a whale on my back, crushing my ribs."
"That is your problem. Not mine. And whales are cute."
You pout and whimper.
"But, baby, I can feel myself becoming dehydrated. Why are you being so mean to your wife? To your ill wife, at that. I must preserve the well being of my extraordinary vocal chords and right now you’re depriving me of that."
She’s off of you with a last kiss to your skin. Still, you remain unmoving, hands joined.
"Cara," You start in a sugarcoated voice. She hums. "Fetch me a glass of water."
"The doctor told you to rest your vocal chords, not your legs."
You drag yourself out of bed with great efforts, feeling as if your limbs are made of iron.
"You’re so mean to me." You mumble as you search your handbag for a bottle of water. She doesn’t reply and you don’t say much more either, instead grumbling out curses as you empty out your bag on the table. "Babe, do you happen to have a bottle of water with you?"
"Check my backpack." She says, voice sleepy and muffled by the mattress.
You find a half empty bottle with the label half ripped apart. It’ll do. As you drink, you watch her very slowly drifting away to a much-needed sleep. Wanting to rest with her, you take one last sip before placing the now nearly empty bottle on the table.
And then you see it. You somehow catch some sort of scribbling on the label wrapped around the plastic. You carefully pick it up as if it’s evidence to a crime. You bring it closer to your eyes to come to the conclusion that the seemingly rushed scribbles are several digits that combined form a phone number. But what bothers you is a little heart and more x’s than normal drawn right as the numbers finish.
Disconcerted, you put it down. With a very strong heartbeat – strong enough for you to feel it in your ears – and a churning stomach, you lie beside Cara. She greets you by snuggling closer to you, leg draped over your thighs and arm trapping you close to her.
"Cara, whose number is that? The one on the bottle of water." You quietly ask, cuddles unreciprocated, hoping there aren’t any more common objects with digits and hearts scribbled on them in her backpack.
She stays quiet.
You shift your body a little to look at her. She has her eyes closed, and looks like she’s sleeping to anyone who isn’t feeling her heart rate picking up pace against your arm.
"Mila’s." She quietly admits.
You sort of knew it.
"I didn’t have my phone on me when I met her the other day, and neither did she–"
"When did you meet her?" You try sitting up, a bit startled that last night’s dinner wasn’t the first time in ages they’ve seen each other.
"When I got here." She adjusts her position, also, but still clinging to you like you’re going to slip away, "She works for the designer I did the shooting for. That’s actually how she told me she was sharing an apartment with Marissa."
You stare at the wall ahead of you, trying to figure out why you’re feeling this sick. You don’t have a reason to be feeling down. Just because Mila has got the hots for Cara, doesn’t mean the feeling’s mutual.
Cara’s on your lap, suddenly, as naked as the day she was born.
"There’s no need to be jealous. Absolutely no need." She looks at you with worried eyes, combing your hair behind your ears. Then, she kisses your forehead. "I kind of like it when you’re jealous."
When she pulls away, you avert your eyes from her, wondering if she makes you jealous on purpose.
She falls silent and then she scoffs.
"Do you think I liked watching you fawn all over Pedro–"
"I was talking to him. I’m allowed to talk to Pedro, am I not? But there’s a difference between talking and flirting.”
She’s off your lap in seconds, pissed off.
She picks up clothes from the floor, trying to make out what’s yours and what’s hers.
"I’m tired of your accusations. I really can’t deal with you right now." She mutters, throwing on a tee and some knickers. Trousers follow.
"Hurts to hear the truth, huh?" You cover yourself with the discarded sheet as you get up, as well, walking past her and going in the bathroom.
"You’re ridiculous, sometimes."
It’s the last you hear from her before she walks out of the room, closing the door harder than necessary. Curious, though, you fly to the window, opening the curtains a crack to see where she’s going. Ten minutes later, you still haven’t seen her. Either the paparazzi are too thick, or Cara’s too sneaky. You go back to bed when you give up.
You turn on the television and stare at the screen, watching an english film with french subtitles. You get bored easily. You divide your attention between the phone in your hands, the handsome lead guy in the film and the magazine once discarded at the end of the bed. You flick through a couple of pages of it until you find the article about Cara and realize there’s a picture of both of you at some event thrown along words you cannot comprehend. You stare at the effortless grin on her lips as she looks at your side profile. It makes you realize how proud she is to be yours. It makes you forget all about why you’re mad at each other in the first place.
You hear knocks on the door. You put on a robe and fix your bed hair before opening the door to reveal a scowling Cara.
“I forgot to take a keycard.” She mutters before walking past you, getting what she came for and going out again.
You slump down on the bed after closing the door back again, sad because it’s only when she’s mad at you that you miss her cuddles the most.
An hour later, when she comes in unannounced, you have to remember you can’t leap off the bed and throw yourself in her arms. She puts her bag down. Not a single word is said. She comes into view, taking something out of her backpack but also splitting her attention between her doings and what’s happening in the film.
She ends up sitting down beside you, back against the headboard, reading through the pages of what you can only guess to be a script.
You decide to paint your nails since you have nothing better to do. You get up to search for nail polishes in your suitcase. You don’t know why you have so many. You don’t paint your nails that often. Because your skin is getting darker with each hour you spend tanning whenever you can, you end up torn between white nail polish or a nearly fluorescent orange.
You bite the inside of your cheek, eyes flicking to your very focused wife, “Cara,” You quietly start. She hums. You wished she looked up but you carry on nonetheless, “Which one?”
She looks at your hands for a second, she shrugs, looks down again and mutters, “Don’t care.”
You sit down with her, not liking the scowl on her pretty face one bit. You ignore her, carrying on with your doings and occasionally watching the film.
It’s not long before the commercials come on again and you’re waiting for your nails to dry. You go in the bathroom to dip your fingers in cold water to accelerate the process. You think maybe she’ll stop being mad at you if you manage to turn her on. You unlace your robe, letting it part slightly. When you go back in the room, you catch her looking at your legs, eyes immediately falling down as soon as she’s caught. And when you lie down and your stomach is completely exposed, you feel her eyes burning your skin.
But she does nothing. Cara’s still mad and not willing to give in. And, although you’re mildly upset about last night’s happenings, you didn’t come to Paris to be mad at her.
You take a deep breath before turning to her to kiss her shoulder. You look at her profile for a reaction but she’s still pretty much stoical. You do it again, keeping your eyes on her. When after your third try you realize she’s not going to budge, you move your kisses to her neck.
"Stop that. I’m trying to study." She mumbles, at last.
You ignore her, leaving a very wet kiss on her jaw.
"Stop." She says again, this time a bit more assertively.
"But you don’t mean that, ba–"
"You remember how you told me I was annoying you, last night? Well, you’re annoying me now. Let me study my lines." She pushes you away, literally and figuratively. You don’t know which hurts more.
She’s been giving you the silent treatment for about – you look at the clock on your phone – four hours now. And you’ve had diverse approaches to her anger.
First you felt rejected. You shrugged when you realized it was her loss if she didn’t want to have sex with your scorching self. And then, you felt a bit sad – side effects of rejection. Now you’re just bored. And still sad.
"D’you wanna go out for dinner?" She asks, voice dull like she doesn’t mean it.
"Do you?" You mock her.
You slowly turn your head to her, wondering why the fuck she’s just asked you if you wanted to go out when she clearly doesn’t.
"I’m not hungry, anyway." You lie, again flicking through the channels. You could die of boredom.
"Could you stop that? Just stay on one channel and watch that. It’s not like you understand what they’re saying anyway." She mutters, looking at you with a scowl.
You turn the television off and let the remote fall with a thud on the mattress. Five minutes later of staring at a black screen, you decide you’re going out before you say things you don’t mean.
"You’re insufferable." You mumble whilst looking for clothes to put on.
"You’re seriously behaving like a brat."
You feel like screaming at her and hitting her with a pillow over and over again and push her and just call her names until she stops acting like a twelve year old. Instead, you swallow it all and go in the bathroom to get ready. You take ages in the shower, and then you take ages fixing your hair nicely and making sure you smell divine.
When you come out, she’s still in the same position, sporting the same old scowl. Her foot taps the mattress incessantly.
You’re tempted to convince her to go out with you, but because you’ve tried that before, you decide to spare yourself of more embarrassment. You’re putting on a jacket and perfume when you feel her eyes burning your back.
"Where are you going?"
You roll your eyes.
You leave the room with that last line, gently closing the door behind you.
Guess you’re going to Pedro’s gallery, after all, just not with Cara.
The curious thing is that when you get to the hotel at a little past midnight, Cara’s gone. The script she was reading is seemingly untouched on the bed. You’ve got zero calls and zero texts from her and a trace of her perfume left in the air.
You fall on the bed with a thud, tired, and even though you’re wondering whom she’s out with and slightly scared she’s having fun with a certain someone and you’re not there to make sure nothing besides flirting happens, you somehow manage to fall asleep.
You wake up with a scoff.
It’s morning and Cara’s head is on your bare chest. Your arm is encircling her and there’s a sheet covering your naked bodies. You’re not sure how you got to this particular position but you’re not complaining.
She does it again and this time adds a very low, “Fuckers.” along with it.
"What?" You whisper, opening your eyes to find her scrolling through what seems to be an article on her phone.
"The press thinks you and I are having troubles in paradise. They took pictures of you at the gallery and they took pictures of me with friends in some café and they’re saying we have a shit ton of problems at home.”
You hold on tighter to her, slightly uncomfortable with what they’re writing about you. When you snap out of it, she’s scrolling through pictures of last night. Your free hand emerges from under the blanket to stop her thumb.
"You looked pretty." You say, voice raspy and filled with sleep. You caress her skin for a moment, forgetting about your silly fight. "Even with that horrible scowl – you looked pretty."
She stays quiet, staring at a picture of herself. You don’t even know what you’re arguing about anymore. Wanting to get a couple more hours of sleep, you close your eyes again.
"This is just a silly fight, right?" You ask, voice small.
"We’ve had worst."
She falls silent. You fall asleep.
Cara nudges you awake.
She’s kneeling by the bed, looking at you through bright blue eyes.
"We’ve got a train to catch." She explains softly, getting up so she can carry on with her doings.
You shower with the bathroom’s door open, occasionally having Cara coming in to gather her belongings. You go back in the bedroom feeling way hotter than you should. You pat your body with a towel, most of it already dry.
"I feel like I’m sweating already." You mumble, throwing words out to the air, not expecting her to say anything back.
She chuckles behind you, struggling to close her suitcase.
You share weak smiles through the mirror and then you put on knickers and a bra, a t-shirt and some trousers, wondering who was the asshat that forbade public nudity.
Afterwards, you copy her and throw your clothes in your suitcase.
"I’m ready." You mumble, nodding once.
"Ready to face the vultures downstairs?" She lightly jokes, grabbing her phone and her shades from the bedside table.
"As ready as you are."
You make way through the people waiting for her at the hotel’s entrance. Somehow, they guessed you were going home today and there are dozens of screaming fans, looking for a last shot with her. You walk ahead of Cara, holding her hand and pulling her through the crowd, ignoring cries for both of you and flashes and whatever else they’re asking of you.
When you feel her hand slipping from yours, you feel slight panic. It’s like you’re survivors in a zombie apocalypse and you’ve just lost your wife to a whole bunch of them.
You manage to zone out the shouting and black out the paparazzi, the fans and the curious, and then you go back to find her with an arm stretched upwards like she’s drowning.
She’s calling your name and ‘babe’ and ‘baby’ and all you can think of as you push bodies out of the way is that you’re going to look so mean in these pictures. Well, in your defense, they were mean first.
You reach for her hand and save her.
In the already moving car, she brings your still joined hands to her lips and murmurs, “Thanks for saving my life.”
"Are we not mad at each other anymore?" You ask, hoping this question is the trick to dissolve your stupid fight.
"I suck at being mad at you. I try, but it’s not my area of expertise." She cutely replies, looking out the window for a moment and then locking eyes with you.
You shake your head at her cheesiness and steal her a much-needed smooch.
When you have too much work in your hands, all you want to do is nothing. But now that you’ve got nothing to do, all you want to do is work. You’ve never been this bored in your whole entire life.
It’s eleven in a warm June night and you’re on your stomach on the couch, part of your face ridiculously shaped by the pillow your head’s resting on and calves thrown over Cara’s thighs. She’s divided her attention between the script she’s holding and the awful reality show that’s on right now.
"I don’t know what I’m going to do this summer." You sigh, squeezing your eyes shut as if you are hurting terribly, "You’re going to LA and I’m staying in this apartment watching stupid shows about stupid people, eating food that’ll make me look a whale by the end of the summer and going to stupid voice therapy. And what if I need surgery or something? I can’t–"
"Babe, relax." She chuckles very lightly, putting the script down so she can caress your legs soothingly. "You could always come to Los Angeles with me."
"I’ll fly to you whenever you want me to, but I don’t want to stay in California for God knows how many weeks. I’d be bored."
"Really? You’d be bored? With me?"
"You’d be the only good thing about the whole thing. The traffic is insane, the people are fake and obnoxious and– I just don’t like that city."
"Don’t hate because you’re having a bad day."
"Stop being so grumpy. It’s not the end of the world."
"It could be the end of my career."
"You’re so not getting laid tonight." You mumble, grabbing the remote to switch to another channel.
"Why not?" She cries, squeezing the back of your thighs.
"Because you’re being mean to me."
"Let me finish watching that episode." She says between brackets before carrying on your conversation, "How am I being mean?"
"You just are."
"Well, if you don’t satisfy my needs, tonight, I’m gonna have to search somewhere else."
You stare at the television not really knowing what’s happening and not really finding her joke very funny, either.
"Call Mila." You mutter so lowly you’re not sure she hears you.
"But why would I do that when I’ve got the hottest girl right here with me?"
"Because that girl isn’t having sex with you tonight."
"Can we cuddle, at least?" She murmurs, laying a hand on the back of one of your thighs.
You fail to keep a straight face on. Instead, a grin forms on your lips. She lets out a victorious giggle.
"You’re a sucker for cuddles." She says very quietly almost like you’re not supposed to hear it.
“Am not.” You weakly mutter.
She coos as she leans into you to press a kiss to your cheek. She’s momentarily distracted by what’s happening in the show, cheek rested on yours.
"I’m gonna start going to the gym, probably. Probably not. Maybe do some charity work. Donate blood. I don’t know. I do know if I stay inside all goddamned summer I’ll go mad."
"When I come back," She says, pulling away when she starts feeling uncomfortable, "We can go to every single festival and–"
She sighs and puffs out her cheeks, looking up in frustration.
"I’m just going to shut up."
You ignore her and carry on, “I think I’m going back to my parents’ for a week or so. I miss them.”
"That’s a good idea."
"I’m going to ask my dad to teach me how to drive."
"I thought you could drive."
"I can." You say, turning on your back and adjusting the pillow behind your head. She’s now dividing her attention between you and the television. "But I haven’t driven in a long time."
"Are you still thinking of getting a car?"
"I dunno. Maybe." You cross your hands on your stomach, staring at her pretty profile, "If we didn’t live in the city, I wouldn’t hesitate."
She takes her eyes off of the screen to look at you.
"What are you implying?"
"Absolutely nothing." You honestly and immediately reply.
Though, now that you think about it, Cara’s officially part of your family, now, and you’re going to have kids in the future. (Butterflies). You don’t know if you want them to grow up in an apartment. You want a backyard and pets. You want for them what you had as you grew up. Even better, if possible.
You realize you’ve zoned out, so you snap out of it and lock eyes with her again.
"What were you thinking about?"
"I was just daydreaming."
She pouts her bottom lip for a moment, slight frown on her features. She puts down the papers in her hands and moves around until she’s on you, chin on your chest.
"Why are you daydreaming? You’re happily married to the most perfect girl ever. You shouldn’t have to daydream."
You kiss the tip of her nose, smiling when she wrinkles it up and makes the cutest of faces.
"I think your modesty just flew out the window, my love."
"Wife, tell me what’s on your mind."
"If we have a kid–"
"When." She corrects.
"When we have a kid, I want him–"
"I’ll get back to you on that. When we have kid, I’d like him or her to grow up in a big house with a backyard and trees and fresh air and not just buildings and cars and pollution."
"There’s a park with trees and a lake and animals just around the corner, babe." She jokes, kissing your pout away when you frown. "I think that’s definitely something to consider."
You grin, satisfied with her answer.
"We have time."
Her head rests on your chest and her hands play with fabric of your shirt.
"So you want a girl." You begin, imagining the faint blush on her pink cheeks. "What if it’s a boy?"
"Then it’s a boy. But I’ll probably make a really cheesy happy dance if it’s a girl."
"Why do you want a girl so bad?"
She becomes silent for a few seconds, and then very quietly says, “Because the clothes are cuter.”
You both focus on the TV, falling silent for a couple of minutes. Your eyes are on the screen, but your mind is on how warm her back feels against your palms. When the credits start rolling, you feel sneaky hands slipping under your shirt.
She moves around until her lips are on your neck, leaving your skin slightly humid with each kiss.
"You know what I realized?" She asks before the tip of her tongue pokes out between her lips and carves a path from the bottom of your throat to your chin.
Your moan dies down when her face hovers over yours. She’s smirking, eyes darkening and a very recognizable glint of arousal in them.
"We haven’t had make up sex, yet." She sultrily murmurs, threatening to let her head fall so your mouths can clash against each other.
"Outrageous." You meaninglessly whisper when her lips near yours.
"Sofa sex or bed sex?"
"You married me, you should know the answer to that."
"Everywhere sex it is."
After Glastonbury, which was totally depressing and in which you were grumpy all throughout the performance of the artist that replaced you, Cara leaves to Los Angeles. It still makes you sad to watch her go, back turned to you, carrying a suitcase in a hand. It kills you to know she won’t be waiting for you when you come back home, tonight.
Distance can be healthy, though. You fear she’ll become bored of you if she stays with you for a long amount of time. You don’t want your feelings for each other to fade away with time.
The first few days are spent alone in your apartment, watching seasons of series Matilda has recommended you. And then, after running out of episodes to watch, you meet her at a café close to her house.
You spend a million years adoring her belly, as per usual, and after, you sit down, ordering tea to a man that looks an awful lot like Joe.
"How’s Matilda II?" You ask, smirk on your lips.
"Charlie says that name is too dictatorial – I don’t even know what he means by that. I like it."
"I like it, too. Reminds me of royalty."
"Exactly!" She cries, receiving a few startled stares. "He wouldn’t understand. He’s just a peasant."
She gets a couple of chuckles out of you, chuckling a couple of times herself.
"She’s been kicking like crazy." She gushes, hand on her belly as she speaks, "Sometimes I can’t even sleep because she kicks so hard I feel like she’s trying to tear a hole through my skin."
"Does it hurt?"
"No." She says, shaking her head at the same time, "It’s like a very light tapping. It’s almost ticklish. But sometimes she does it for so long I fear something’s wrong. According to my doctor, it’s perfectly normal, though."
Your chin is on the hand propped by your elbow and you’re smiling like an idiot, fascinated by all of this baby talk.
"You’ll understand my worries when you get pregnant. Which will happen soon, I hope."
It sounds more like a question than a statement.
You sit back, slightly uncomfortable.
You say, “Nah.” and shrug.
“Nah? What do you mean nah?” She copies your facial expression and shrug rather annoyingly.
"We got married, like, two months ago, M." You mumble, cheeks heating at your friend’s disappointment.
She shrugs normally this time.
"I don’t see your wife being a mother anytime soon, anyway."
"And why’s that, Matilda?" You ask, trying your best not to show annoyance.
"She’s always away from you, likes partying, drugs and alcohol and–"
"Like your husband is a saint."
"Compared to her, he is—"
“Hell, like you’re a saint.”
"I thought we were over this." You mutter, taking a small sip of your still scorching tea, "Cara will be an amazing mother like she’s an amazing wife."
She shakes her head disapprovingly, looking out the window for a moment.
"You’re so pathetically in love with her."
"Sue me for being pathetically in love with my wife." You sarcastically reply, not understanding why she’s being so mean all of the sudden.
"Whatever. I just want you to have a kid as quickly as possible so Charlotte and your spawn can best friends forever."
"What? It’s a pretty name." She mumbles, cheeks heating as she hides behind the cup she takes to her lips.
"Charlie and Charlotte. How cute." She throws a crumpled napkin at your face. You grin. "If she has red hair it’ll be even cuter. Who knew you could be so sappy?"
"Stop." She drags out the word, scowling. You smirk. She adds, "You don’t stop and I’ll ask someone else to be her godmother."
You stop immediately, eyes widening a little bit.
"Really? You want me to be your daughter’s godmother?"
She shrugs and justifies, “Well, every kid has to have a lesbian aunt.”
In August, a couple of days after Cara’s birthday, you get a phone call from a surprisingly calm Charlie saying he’s now the father to a healthy, albeit premature, baby girl. As he tells you Matilda is fine and currently sleeping, you realize he’s constantly yawning and sort of slurring his speech, fatigue winning him over. You let him go fifteen minutes of conversation in.
You really do want to go to the hospital immediately, but you’re in paradise with Cara. It’s four in the morning and she’s sleeping peacefully in the bedroom.
You join her in bed, getting under the covers as carefully as you can so she doesn’t wake up. When you feel her scooting closer to you and throwing a leg over yours, you realize she probably woke up at the same time as you did when your phone buzzed against the nightstand.
"Who was that?" She sleepily mumbles.
"Charlie. Matilda’s just had the baby." You kiss her forehead after you adjust yourself on the mattress.
"She’s a Leo like me!" She cheers very quietly, sleepily smiling. "Gonna get her a giant lion teddy bear and a lion onesie and a lion everything."
"Okay, lioness. Sleep."
She’s back to snoring seconds later.
A week later, you stand beside Cara, holding on to her arm as Charlie points out which one of the babies in the incubators in the room behind the window is Charlotte.
They all look the same, if you’re going to be honest – incredibly small, fragile, and tremendously adorable. What sets her apart from the others is when she opens her mouth to yawn, little limbs stretching out as if she’s reaching for the ceiling.
"Oh my Lord, look at that." Cara mumbles through a cheesy grin, "She’s roaring already."
You watch Cara’s profile, her eyes glistening in awe. You let your hand slide down her arm until you’re holding hers. She laces her fingers with yours.
"Do you think I can go in there and take one home with me?" She cutely asks, making you melt and Charlie laugh.
When he leaves to take a call, you hear Cara almost imperceptibly murmur, “I want one so bad.”
You hold her hand tighter and rest your head against her arm, not really knowing what to say.
It’s the beginning of September, Matilda and Charlotte have, at last, gone home and Cara’s biological clock is calling for her again. Well, it’s more like an alarm, really. You swear you hear it going off every time you walk in a toyshop or in a baby clothes shop because your wife says it’s your job as her godmother to spoil her rotten. And then you’ll just spend hours looking at her picking up little clothes and showing them to you with glistening eyes.
You’ve got to admit it’s fucking adorable.
You know she’s not going to sit you down and explicitly tell you that she wants to start a family with you. You think that little fight you had a few years ago over this very same subject created certain fears within her. And in complete honesty, you sort of like that it’s up to you to say something.
Besides, you haven’t really released music in awhile, and everything you come up with sounds so horrible it makes you cringe in embarrassment. You’ve made a promise to yourself – you’ll have the baby talk you’re your wife after releasing your next album. Desperate to make that happen, you take shelter in the studio.
It’s a routine by now – wake up at eight in the morning, work ‘till lunch which is usually at two or maybe a bit earlier, and then you’ll go back to working for the rest of the day until your eyelids feel so heavy you’re forced to go back home.
Cara’s home this whole month and part of October because she’s shooting a film in London. So, every day you open the door of your apartment, finding it dark except for the television lit at the end of the room. You place your key on the kitchen counter and then you’ll saunter over to the sofa to find your wife sleeping peacefully. You take her upstairs, put her to bed, shower and then you lie down with her, snuggle up close to her and fall asleep.
In the morning, you wake up to both of your alarm clocks shrieking.
“Shit, I forgot to turn this bloody thing off—“ You hear her mumble, separating from you with a groan.
You turn yours off as well. And then you meet at the center of the mattress, cuddling close to each other. Her head’s hidden in your neck and your legs are tangled in the messiest of ways. You caress the side of her body from her ribcage to her hipbone, but apparently your touch is too light. She squirms and chuckles.
“No.” She drags the word and whimpers like a puppy would, lips puckering in a little kiss, “It’s torture.”
“Grumpy.” You whisper, kissing her forehead, lingering. You whimper like she did. “I don’t want to go to work.”
“Saturday?” You cry, voice cracking. She hums. “Oh my God, I lost track of time. I thought it was, like… Wednesday or something.”
Her hand comes to play with your earlobe.
“I never see you anymore.” She says very quietly, “I’m finally home for more than a month and you decide to spend your days confined to a recording booth.”
You’d like to say that’s not true. But it is.
“You care more about your music than for your wife.”
“Don’t say that.” You sigh, “You know that’s nonsense.”
“You get up super early, come home late, and when you do come home at decent hours, you bring work with you.”
By now, you’re feeling so guilty you’re tempted to just quit your album and take her away to some remote island and never leave again just so she can’t accuse you of not having time for her.
You prop your head on your elbow and take a hand to her face, thumbing her cheek for moments before you lean down to kiss her plump lips. Wanting to show her how much you always want her, you take that same hand to her chest and then you let it slide down until you’re met with her sex.
Her gasp is quiet and imperceptible.
“I didn’t mean sexy times.” She whispers, pulling away. You can’t see her in the dark, but you’re sure her eyes look pleading.
“I’m taking you out for dinner, tonight, and after, we can go to the cinema or something, and when we get back I’ll give you a super special massage with oils and everything—“
“Happy ending massage?”
Her hand covers yours as you take the initiative to start exploring her.
You make breakfast after sex. And afterwards, you fall asleep to wake up at four in the afternoon. It’s happened before, but it was so long ago that it feels like a first.
“Baby,” She whispers against the back of your neck, “I’m craving bacon.”
“You ate bacon this morning.”
“But I want more.”
You comply with her wishes.
Minutes later, you watch her eat, loving the little smile on her lips as she munches away.
“My label’s opening a studio in New York.” You say, taking a sip of the mug filled with tea between your hands before putting it down on the bedside table, “I was thinking, maybe when you have to go to Los Angeles, I could stay there and it’d be easier for you to fly to me or for me to fly to you.”
She nods, still not being able to talk because her mouth’s full to the brink.
“We should get an apartment there.” She suggests after she swallows, “I’m tired of hotels. Remember last time in Switzerland? We were having great sex and the people in the room next to ours were banging the wall and telling us to keep it down.”
“We’ll soundproof the walls and even make a room for us to play.” She smirks, wiggling her eyebrows, “If you catch my drift.”
“With velvet, red walls, toys, swings and all of that?”
“You read my mind.”
“No offense, darling, but I don’t need artificial means to make you scream.” You say. Her smirk deepens, “And neither do you.”
She lets out a silly giggle. You mock her. She throws you a deadly glare, cheeks pink. You catch your reflection in the mirror at the end of the room and realize your hair is a mess. You get up, intending to do something about it. You comb it carefully, hissing when you find a knot, and you’re tying it up in a high ponytail when you see Cara moving around the bed until she’s facing you, taking another piece of bacon to her mouth and then sucking the very tips of her fingers as she eyes you suggestively.
“Your bum is out of this world.”
“I like yours better.”
“You kidding?” She cries, furrowing her eyebrows as if what you’ve just said is a blasphemy, “Mine’s dull. Yours is perfectly round and perky and very, very spankable.”
You’re shaking your head by now and you can’t wipe the foolish grin on your face.
“Yum.” She mumbles.
You turn around, done with your hair, and go back to bed, kneeling on the mattress.
“You talking about me or the bacon?”
“Both. I can definitely feel the love you poured into preparing this delicious meal for your very annoying wife.”
“My lovely wife.” You correct, leaning down to put your lips to her forehead, “So very lovely.”
“Gimme a kiss.” She imperceptibly mumbles, mouth full as she brings your lips to hers by the back of your neck.
When her lips part, you part from her.
“Are you aware you just transferred part of the food you were chewing to my mouth?” You say, playfully grimacing, “What do you think you are? A bird?”
“A bird of paradise.”
She gets up and moves the tray to the floor.
“Hold on. I gotta stretch.”
She stretches her naked body for a couple of minutes, cracking bones and moaning groans and allowing you to ogle her magnificent features.
When she bends over, you mumble, “And you say your bum is dull.”
Cara’s head peeks through her parted legs, face slightly flushed from being upside down. She’s got her lips pulled to a side and you think she’s trying to wink.
“Prepare yourself.” She says as you push yourself up until your back’s against the headboard. “Baby, I’m going to blow your mind.”
She asks you for her phone and you throw it to her. As soon as it’s in her hands, she focuses on searching for something. It’s not long before a familiar song with an African kind of rhythm starts playing.
And then she starts dancing— well, it’s not dancing. That can’t be considered dancing. She’s just making weird limb movements like she’s having a seizure and she’s wiggling her arms like she wants to take off, and she spins and twirls and by now you’re laughing like you’ve gone mad because you’ve never seen anything quite like it. And when she adds grunts and what she thinks to be birdcalls, you fall to the side and hide your face in the duvet, crying from laughing and feeling like you could asphyxiate.
You feel the bed sinking and look up to find her panting but chuckling.
“Are you turned on?” She asks, pushing you on your back, “Or do I need to keep courting you with my mating dance?”
You look at her through blurry eyes, beaming.
“That was beautiful.” You lie, giggling a couple of times. You hold your face between her hands and thumb her cheeks, feeling an immense wave of affection for her.
Her head starts lowering, lips closer to yours with every fraction of second that passes.
“Do you want me to do it again?” She whispers, breath hitting your lips divinely.
“I thought we were going to mate.”
Then, instead of being rough and competitive and eager and just trying to make each other orgasm as many times as possible, you make sweet, tender love, taking your time with one another and simply falling in love with each other’s touch all over again.
You’re both in post-orgasmic daze. Your skins are glued and you’re not sure if it’s from the perspiration of your doings or if you just want to be as close to each other, always – like you wish to be one.
You’re resting on your side and Cara’s spooning you, hand on your chest, lips on your shoulder blade. Your eyes are closed and it’s the first time in years that the butterflies don’t let you fall asleep.
“Do you ever think of having kids?” You quietly ask.
You swear you feel her heart skipping a beat.
“All the time.” She confesses in a whisper, breath warming your skin. You smile. “Do you?”
“All the time.”
You’re hesitant as you say, “I’m not saying to try… you know, getting pregnant— I’m not saying to try now, but after I finish this next album, when things have calmed down a little bit—“
“Why not now?”
"I want to have a baby when I know nothing will stop me from focusing solely on you and our son—“
“Whichever.” You go on, voice tired, “I’ve got a good feeling about this next one.”
“Cara,” You sigh her name, holding her hand at your chest and bringing it to your lips, “I love you with all I have but sometimes I feel like you’re too stubborn to respect my decisions.”
She falls silent. You feel her kissing you where your shoulder and neck meet.
"I just really want a baby.”
You feel something in your stomach churning.
“Do you want me to tell you how hearing you say that makes me feel?” You begin, voice as quiet as ever. Her lips kiss you again, so you go on, “I felt the same a few years ago when we went away and you somehow got it in your head that you wanted me to get pregnant. Is this why you married me? To have a kid? You know, you could’ve stayed single to do that.” You pause and let the subtle anger get the best of you, “Or fucked some guy.” You go on after composing yourself, “Is that all you want me for? To mother your kids?”
You feel her wanting to separate from you but you don’t let her, otherwise your pacific confrontation will turn into World War III.
"Do you really think I’m that monster you’re painting of me?" She speaks normally this time, and you think the calmness hovering above you is starting to dissipate.
You kiss her hand a million times and she melts against you once more, body molding to yours.
“Do you want me to tell you how hearing you reject me makes me feel?” She copies you after moments of silence. When you nod, she takes a deep breath before saying, “As cheesy as it sounds, we’re only getting older and someday you’ll probably lose all interest in me because you’ll finally realize I’m not that special after all and the only thing linking me to you will be our son or daughter and maybe then you’ll see in them what made me so special and you won’t leave me.”
You turn around in her embrace and look at her, trying to make out the lines of her face in the now dark room. You hold her in your arms, letting her rest her head on your shoulder. You kiss her hair, heartbroken at her little confession.
You stay silent for a little bit.
"You want a baby for insurance then, huh?" You lightly joke, caressing her back when you feel her forehead on your neck.
Her chuckles are weak as her hand comes to play with your earlobe.
"I’m scared that as the years go by and my body ages you won’t find me interesting anymore."
"That’s mean." You mumble, truly offended to some point, "I’m not that superficial, Cara." She shrugs. You shake your head and then you say, "As cheesy as it sounds," You mock her, kissing her head for a moment when she makes a little protest sound, "We’ve known each other for nearly ten years and you still look exactly the same as when we first met. Hell, now that I got you to marry me I think you look even prettier."
She giggles and coos at your extreme corniness. You feel her lips kissing your chest a few times.
"I’m so fucking terrified of these promises, though. They sound so good now but in a few years they might be empty and broken and I’ll think back to this moment and wonder when everything got so fucked up, you know?"
You shake your head because right now, the idea of not feeling this immensity of emotions towards her seems pretty unimaginable and absurd.
"All these years we’ve been together– Cara, sometimes it hits me that you asking me to move in with you wasn’t last week, it was nearly five years ago. Time goes by so quickly. One day, you’ll be holding me as tightly as you are right now, I’ll be at peace and suddenly it’ll hit me that we didn’t get married yesterday – we got married fifty years ago and things will be exactly the same. I’ll probably still find you ridiculously attractive with a beanie on your head and a leather jacket and sneakers and skinny jeans, because time is a concept and you will always be twenty-one to me."
As the seconds pass and she doesn’t say anything, you wonder if she fell asleep. That’s until you feel your skin becoming humid. Realizing she’s started crying, you pull away to turn on the lamplight.
"Lovely, why are you crying?" You ask, worried because her bottom lip’s trembling and her eyes are drowning in tears.
"That’s the prettiest thing anyone’s ever said to me." She whispers, snuffling a couple of times as she wipes her tears away. “Also, my period’s due in a couple of days.”
You help her, smiling as you carefully thumb the skin beneath her eyes. You kiss her to make her pout disappear. As soon as you pull away, she yawns consequently making you yawn as well.
“Do you think I can sleep for a little bit before our romantic date?” She cutely asks.
You turn off the light, darkness embracing you both ever so gently.
Two weeks go by and you’re still stuck. You literally can’t play anything right, the lyrics you come up with are lame and whenever you hear whatever you’ve recorded so far, you feel like digging up a hole and bury yourself alive.
What you think you need right now, is to get away from the city and go somewhere where nobody can bother you and you can wake up to birds chirping and bright sun, blue skies and fresh air – some place where there is no dullness.
You’ve been feeling so desperate these past few days you’ve even went back to your old apartment to see if you could somehow feel awful nostalgia and feed off of it. It doesn’t help, so you spend afternoons at Joe’s, sat on an old sofa in the corner, guitar on your lap, peach tea on the table – it’s still the same old lonely coffee shop you’ve always found comfort in, and Joe’s still the same old gentle man (with a beer belly, now).
It seems to work. You manage to write a few verses, and when you feel tired and ready to go home, you find the room filled with people and a football game being projected on the wall at the end of the room as well as in the old plasma screen that you remember perfectly well.
Now you’re starting to feel nostalgic.
All that’s missing is Cara walking through that door, lock eyes with her and fall in love all over again. And just as if she’s read your thoughts, your phone buzzes with an incoming call from her.
“Hello, my love.” You mumble through a grin as you set down your guitar and let yourself relax against the sofa.
“Hello, darling.” You hear her throw the keys on the kitchen counter, “Where are you?”
“At Joe’s?” She cries, surprised, “What are you doing there?”
“Oh, you know, reminiscing. Just thinking about the good old times.” You pause for a second, “Are you finished working for the day? Come meet me.”
“Let me just jump in the shower real quick, alright?”
Half an hour later, you’re just messing around with chords and playing whatever comes to your mind when you hear the bell chiming as the door opens. Your stomach flutters and your heart skips a beat when you see the woman of your dreams walking in, beanie on her head, shades on, leather jacket, cool tee, black trousers, red converse. Her neck twists in every direction until she finds you. You wave, suddenly shy. There’s a smirk plastered on her face as she saunters over to you. You get up on autopilot.
You’re in each other’s arms as soon as she reaches you. Her hand comes to the back of your head, smoothing out your hair as you hide your face in her neck, inhaling the scent of her perfume. You peck her when you pull away, and then she sits opposite you.
“Definitely feel the nostalgic vibe.” She quietly says, soft smile as she takes her beanie and jacket off and pulls her hair back with the help of her sunglasses.
“Right? That’s why I came here. Maybe it will inspire me or something.”
“Still having trouble with that?”
“Lots of trouble.” You mutter, pouting for a moment, “But I don’t want to talk about it. Tell me about your day.”
You have dinner as she vents to you how much of a dick the director of the film she’s shooting is and how much she can’t wait to be done with it.
“At least I can get away for a few days with Fashion Week appearances and all of that.”
As she takes a sip of her Coke, you smile sadly at her.
“Never thought I’d hear you talk about fashion as an escape from your current reality.”
She shakes her head and you can see she’s truly annoyed.
“Tell me about it.” She sinks into her chair a little, “He’s a sexist and a pig and if I could quit, I would.”
“Why can’t you quit, babe?” You rest your elbows on the table and prop your head on them, challenging her, “Do it. Quit.”
She sighs and focuses on the straw in her drink.
“You know I can’t do that two months in.”
Dramatically, she pushes the plate to a side and lets her head fall down on the table with a dull thud. Your hands automatically fly to the back of her head, smoothing out her long, blonde locks.
“Lovely,” You begin, soft voice. She hums, resting her palms beside her head, “I want to— I need to get away for a little while.”
Her head shoots up.
“Did you kill someone?”
“Some escort girls in an apartment uptown, some homeless people, maybe five or ten.” You pause, looking her dead in the eye as you try to recall Bateman’s panicked call to his lawyer in American Psycho, “Last week I killed another girl with a chainsaw— I had to, she almost got away. There was someone else there, maybe a model,” Her eyes widen, “I can’t remember but she's dead too. I even... well, I ate some of their brains and I tried to cook a little—“
“Escort girls?” A beat, “You tried to cook?”
“What does it taste like?”
She giggles and you can’t help but to giggle with her, adoring her for going along with your childish games. You take a hand to her cheek and thumb it for a moment. She leans into your touch before kissing your palm.
“Seriously, babe, I need to get away. I’m too stressed. I feel like I’m asphyxiating in this goddamned city.”
“Wait,” She backtracks, “You mean, you need to go away now?”
“As soon as possible.”
“You’re not coming to Paris and Milan with me?”
She falls silent again.
“After that, I’ve got another couple of weeks of shooting.”
You quickly figure out where she’s going with this.
“Can’t you wait for me?”
“Sweetheart, I want to wait for you.” You hold her hands over the table.
She simply looks at you with sad eyes, and then she looks down at your hands before focusing on the occasional passer-by, expecting a ‘but’.
“I’ll wait.” You tell her, swallowing your desperation.
She perks up a little, gripping your hands tighter.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Bedarra Island. It’s paradise, baby. Literally. It’s supposed to be mega calm and they have these super modern houses in the rain forest and the beach is minutes away—“
“You’re so cute.”
“I’m serious, babe. I’m desperate.”
A grin shows on her lips.
“I think you could go, like, a few days before I finish filming.” She begins, and you think it hurts her a little bit to say it, “You can get used to the time zone and get over jet lag and all of that, just so you can start working as soon as possible.”
You’re left smiling at her for a little bit, feeling a wave of love washing over you whilst thinking you’ve married the perfect woman. She’s looking down, smiling and scrunching up her nose like she always does when she gets shy.
Joe’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You nod, and he starts gathering your empty plates. When you realize he’s doing so with certain difficulty, already carrying a few cups on a tray in a hand, you decide to do something about it.
“Need a hand?”
You shake your head, finding his stubbornness adorable and then you help him carry everything to the counter. When you’re done, he shoots you a half embarrassed, half thankful look, and then he shoos you away.
“I’d totally forgotten you used to work here.” Cara says when you slump down on the sit in front of her.
As soon as she says it, a couple of slightly drunken men stumble their way to you and ask for pictures with both of you. You look at Cara and try to decipher her grin and excited nod. It has been awhile since you’ve seen her as happy as she is right now and you wonder what put her in this mood. You’d think she’d be thinking ‘There goes my peace.’. Instead, when they invite you both over to their table to watch the game with them, she gets up and pulls you by the hand, humidly kissing your cheek. She lets them paint her cheeks with blue and white stripes and when you realize she knows most of the chants by heart, you discover her secret love for football.
You watch the rest of the game on her lap, sharing her beer. And even though you don’t like its bitter taste, you realize somehow, just for tonight, the simplicity of the happiness you see in her eyes and smile as she tilts the bottle on your lips is enough to make up for it.
On the first Monday of October, you leave for Australia and Cara stays behind. You’re (unfortunately) used to see her go, but not used to walk away from her, so there’s a weird empty kind of feeling within you.
At five in the morning, you wake up to your wife’s nudge.
You turn into her embrace and let yourself revel in her warmth for seconds before you have to get up to get prepare for your departure. You’ll see each other in a week, a voice in your head tells you.
"As much as I don’t want you to go, it’s time to get up, lovely." She whispers in your ear, kissing it a few times.
You shower as she makes you breakfast, and before you go downstairs, you put on comfortable clothing.
Cara whistles as best as she can at five in the morning when she sees you.
"I love it when you wear my clothes." She says through a sleepy grin and a yawn.
You greet her with a smooch. She slaps your bottom before you sit at the counter, leaning on her elbows opposite you.
"Just so you know, I’m only wearing your sweater." You tell her as you take a sip of your morning tea. And then you cheekily add, "And your favourite pair of boxers."
She seems to wake up completely at that.
"After breakfast, before you go, you’re going to pull down your trousers and let me take a picture of you like that."
She pauses and then she shivers dramatically.
"You’re the one wearing my boxers. I bet you’re going to touch yourself with them in your mouth."
Your lips form a tiny, perfect ‘o’.
"You’re especially naughty this morning."
She smirks divinely and nods mischievously.
"I’m only seeing you on Sunday or something, I need something to help me fantasize." Her voice’s low and sultry as she carries on, "What do you think that picture I’m taking of you in a bit is for?"
You shake your head as if to get rid of that image, thighs clenching involuntarily to release some of the sexual tension she’s creating in you.
"You didn’t deny it, though." She mumbles, smirk deepening.
"You know what."
You blush a little, hiding your red cheeks behind the toast you just took to your mouth.
"I would do what you said had you been wearing them. Touching myself to boxers I wore – sounds a bit too narcissistic."
After breakfast, she makes you pull your trousers down. They’re at your knees, and she’s asked you to ride your sweatshirt up a little so she can see your stomach.
"I’m filming you instead." She mumbles, grinning when you roll your eyes. "Shake your booty for me, baby."
You throw her a glare.
"C’mon." She moans, coming closer to you. Her free hand fondles one of your buttocks. "Twerk for me."
"I’ll twerk for you in the land down under."
She lets out a silly giggle and disguises it by nipping at your earlobe.
"We’re making our third porno there, and this time there’ll be an introduction with a sexy dance and sexy music and all of that."
You shake your head at her naughtiness as you pull your trousers up again.
"No, wait." She pouts and whimpers, coming close to you so she can halt your doings.
Her arms wrap around you in the tenderest of embraces and you can only hold her as sweetly as she’s holding you.
"I have to go, baby, otherwise I’m going to miss my flight."
She separates from you so she can help you button up your trousers, and then she kisses your cheek, lingering. Moments later, you drag your suitcase to the door. She opens the door for you, and throws you a sad smile on your way out.
"I’ll talk to you in eighteen to twenty hours." You say, pecking her when she stays quiet.
You hug her again, leaving your lips on her neck as she pulls you so close to her it’s slightly uncomfortable.
"Go, love." She says, loosening her hold on you. You part from her with a bit of reluctance. She fixes your hair and your backpack straps on your shoulders as she says, "Have a safe flight and call me as soon as you step foot on land, okay?"
"I’ll text you. I don’t wanna wake you–"
"I love you."
"I love you."
Twenty-one hours later, you finally step into your house for the next few weeks – or whatever time you need to get something done.
It’s four o’clock and all you want to do is take off your clothes and sleep for a century. However, the beauty surrounding you doesn’t let you. You’ve always loved huge windows so you don’t feel your mild claustrophobia clouding your senses, and your bedroom walls are literally made of glass. You’ve got the balcony and the plunge pool on your right, and the forest on your left and below you. But the beach and the ocean are perfectly visible on the horizon. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as the Great Barrier Reef – if you don’t count seeing your naked wife stretching awake in the morning.
When you realize it’s only a matter of days until you get to see both at the same time, your stomach erupts in butterflies.
After nights of working and days of sleeping, it’s on your fourth day in Australia that your sleeping patterns start going back to normal. And until Cara arrives, you manage to finish a couple of tracks – rough demos – and make friends with another British couple on their honeymoon. You swear you’ve never seen men as hot as they are.
They usually take a stroll along the beach by sunset, hand in hand, and you watch them, feeling so ridiculously lonely without your baby to hold. It’s only been six days since you left, but missing Cara has started to feel physical. You notice it when you go back to the bad habit of not having breakfast, or when you don’t know which position to sleep in if she’s not here to hold you or when it’s so hard to get up in the morning and so hard to fall asleep at night.
But at last, on Monday, you wake up at a quarter past nine with a smile on your face, more than ready to face the world because in four hours you will be reunited with your love.
You tidy everything, shower after a relaxing swim in the warm ocean waters, make yourself look pretty and smelling great, and then you sit down and try working before she gets here.
It’s half past one when she calls you to say she’s just landed, and close to three when she texts you to say she’s nearly at the resort.
You really do try to walk normally as you make your way to the dock, but you find yourself jogging there a quarter of the way through.
And when you see her stepping off the boat at the end of the dock, you try to keep your calm again so you don’t look weird, but she’s wearing her hat, and shorts and the shirt she must’ve worn on the plane is now off of her and around her neck, bikini clad torso exposed to you, and you find yourself racing towards her.
She’s seen you and you think she’s smiling as hard as you are. She’s stopped at the end of the dock, legs slightly spread, arms wide open, eyes closed and head tilted back.
As soon as you reach her, you jump in her arms. Except you miscalculate the distance and end up smothering her face with your chest – not that either of you is complaining.
She lets you down, and when you part she’s got a dreamy glint in her eyes and her mouth’s gaping.
"Tan." She mumbles, eyes falling to your chest. Then, seconds later she blurts out, "Boobs."
You snort and pull her down for a quick kiss before the man that’s carrying her suitcases clears his throat, clearly embarrassed.
You walk ahead of him, carrying some of her bags yourselves.
"That was the best welcoming ever." She mumbles as you start making your way back, "You should let me motorboat you more often."
"Anytime, baby." You grin as you let your hand fly to the small of her back, threatening to slide down with each step you take. "Or have you forgotten they’re your property?"
"Jesus." She whispers.
You look at her profile and find her smirking and looking down. You quickly squeeze one of her buttocks. She yelps and you pull your hand away.
"Been thinking of grinding on you all week." You cheekily confess.
"Jesus Christ." Both Cara and the man behind you mutter, clearing his throat as if to compose himself.
You reach your house in record time, and after giving him a tip, you nearly shoo him out. With a wink and a smirk, you close the door on his face.
“I think I want to stay here forever.” You hear her talking, maybe more to herself than to you.
You lean against the doorframe and watch her admiring the view.
“Isn’t it perfect?”
She turns around, a little bit startled, and throws you a dreamy smile.
You tilt your head and smile innocently as your hand sneaks to your back to undo the string of your bikini top. You pull it over your neck and then you let it fall to the floor. Her eyes widen.
“Baby, what are you—“
You undo your shorts and pull them down along with the bottom half of your bikini, garments hitting the woodened floor with a quiet thud.
“—doing?” It comes out as a whisper.
She comes closer to you, hands flying to your waist as soon as she’s within reach. Her lips find your neck as your hands unlace the top half of her bikini.
“You’re such a bad wife.” She mumbles when she decides that particular part of your skin looks bruised enough.
“I mean it.”
You pout and take a step away from her to remind her that you are very much naked.
“You didn’t even ask me how my flight went or if I’m tired or if I’m hungry or if I want anything to drink.”
You drag her outside, feeling slightly dizzy when you remember her chest is on display for you.
“How was your flight?” You ask right before planting a couple of wet kisses on it.
“Are you tired?” You say against her, sliding down until you’re kneeling before her. You look at her as you unbutton her shorts, pulling them down. Her bikini bottoms follow.
“I don’t know.” She whispers when you kiss her navel, “Probably.”
“Are you hungry?”
She nods meekly.
“Of course you are. Thirsty?”
She repeats her motions.
You take her in the little pool, thankful for refreshing water in this scorching weather.
“I like this not-afraid-of-the-cold-water version of you.” She says, and when you’re about to reply, she holds her hand up for you to hold your thoughts and submerges her whole body for a moment before coming up again.
You forget what you’re saying when you focus on the drops of water contouring her nose and lips. She stares at you as she runs her fingers through her hair, cheeks pink.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
You shrug and let your body sink until the water’s by your neck. She copies you. Somehow, your sudden fiery desire for her has calmed down a little. You stare at her again.
“Stop that.” She whines, a little embarrassed.
She turns around from you and props her elbows on the pool wall, staring at the paradisiacal scenery she’s got all around her. You don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around her, head leaning on her shoulder, nose buried in her neck. Your hands widen on her stomach, trying to feel as much as they can.
“I adore that you’re being all cute and sweet,” Her voice’s raspy as she says it, head resting on yours, “But I’d really, really, really like to have sexy times before sleepy times because I think once I lie on that daybed over there I’m not waking up until tomorrow.”
You can’t help but hold her tighter at her confession. Maybe it’s not what she says, but how tenderly and gently she says it. You let her sit at the edge of the pool, and then you rest your head on her thighs. Her hands stroke your hair.
“You’re so unpredictable. I really did think we were going to have mind-blowing sex—“ She pauses to yawn, then she chuckles, losing track of she was saying.
You pull away to part her legs, settling between them. You look up at her, grinning as she rolls her eyes and tries pushing your head towards her sex. You kiss her inner thighs instead.
“At this rate I’m going to fall asleep during.” She mumbles, stomach muscles tense.
You ignore her disguised plead. Your kisses move to her navel and to her hipbones. You leave your mark there, and then you reach her pubic bone. Her scent truly is intoxicating, and you don’t know which one of you you’re teasing anymore.
“I’m seriously about to fall asleep.”
“Ask me nicely.”
“Oh, c’mon, babe, I’m mega turned on.”
You swim away from her, shaking your head in disappointment.
“Baby.” She calls for you, “Lovely, please.”
“You didn’t ask me nicely. You have to ask me nicely.”
She sighs and looks up, too proud to do it. You immerse most of your body ‘til your nose, looking at her innocently.
“You look like a hippo.”
You nearly giggle.
“Like that’s going to get me to eat you out.”
Her cute pout doesn’t budge you.
“Darling, love of mine, love of my life, my beautiful, beautiful wife, will you please come here and fuck me senseless?”
You scrunch up your face and shrug.
“I implore you, my Queen.”
This time, you can’t help but to let out the silliest of giggles.
“Come back to me.” She whines, stretching out her limbs for you.
You take hold of her calves and walk to her, kissing the top of her feet as soon as you can. From then on, you leave a trail of kisses up her legs, spreading them as your lips slide to her inner thighs. Moments later, she seems to be as patient as ever, but her glistening core shows otherwise. You decide to end her torture by putting an open mouthed kiss to her sex.
“Oh.” She gasps, letting out a weak chuckle. You do it again and her hands fly to your head.
You moan as you pull away for moment.
“You taste like chlorine.”
“Do I taste good?”
You prop yourself on your hand by her thighs and pull yourself up until you’re able to kiss her. Your tongues battle effortlessly. When you pull away, she smiles and takes a hand to your cheek, thumbing it for a couple of seconds before you finish what you’ve started.
It’s not long before a million of “Oh, God…” comes out of her mouth. She gasps, tenses up, pushes your head hard against her, bucks her hips, and then she releases the loudest moan so far. You keep up with your doings, she lets her torso fall back and in seconds, she repeats.
And even if you’re only a couple of orgasms in, the sigh that escapes her pretty lipsinforms you of her fatigue. You pull yourself up again, this time lying on her. She’s got a lazy smile and closed eyes, and her arms are stretched out beside her.
“Lets get you to bed before you fall asleep on the deck with your feet still in the water.”
She giggles and gets up with a lot of effort. You lead her to the daybed by the pool, to which she crawls on top and moves around until she finds a good spot to curl up and fall asleep. You rest beside her, combing her hair and just admiring her.
“You keep staring at me.” She whispers, hand resting on the space between your bodies.
You kiss it before kissing her forehead and laying your hand on hers.
“You’re just so beautiful.”
She cuddles closer to you, head hidden under your chin. Your legs are tangled and her lips find your chest to kiss it for as long as she’s awake. When you’re falling asleep with her and you realize you can’t tell your heartbeats apart, you wonder if you’ve started to merge into one.
Over the next couple of weeks, you work non-stop. And she hangs out with the few people she’s met down at the beach or wherever – you’re not keeping track of her whereabouts. By dinner, you really do want to go out with her and have a good time, but you barely have energy to keep your eyes open. She doesn’t say anything, but you know you’re disappointing her.
By your third week, on a Saturday, you have dinner with George and Joshua, the couple of newlyweds you met when you first got to the island. You finish eating at ten-ish, but you keep drinking until midnight. It’s their last night on the island, and even though you don’t know them that well, you just feel overwhelmingly sad that they’re leaving so soon.
“Well,” George starts, “We were thinking of carrying on with our little going away party in the mainland. What do you say?”
You’re tipsy, but Cara’s more than drunk. She cheers and nearly falls off her chair, giggling like a drunken idiot.
“Maybe some other day.” You mumble, struggling to hold her right.
They make sad murmuring sounds, but the look Joshua throws you is a knowing one.
“Ignore her.” Cara slurs, taking a hand to pinch your cheeks and squeeze your chin rather annoyingly, “She’s always uptight but I’ll go party with you. I know how to have a good time.” Then, she whispers loudly as if you can’t hear her, “Unlike some of us.”
You let go of her completely, rolling your eyes when she loses balance and yelps, a fit of giggles following.
“We’re probably going to stay in, after all,” Joshua says, elbowing his husband when he starts protesting, “Enjoy our last night here, if you know what I mean.”
Cara whistles, hand slipping under your dress to caress your inner thigh.
“I know what you mean.” She mumbles and you, somewhat caught in a daze, let her fingers tease your knickers. “I mean, I think I do. Can’t remember. My wife and I haven’t had sex in a week because she’s too busy fingering her guitar—“
“Cara.” You cut her off as abruptly as you can.
Awkward silence installs.
You get up slowly and silently, and apologize to Joshua and George for the both of you, cheeks permanently flushed. You go to help Cara when she refuses to stand up.
“I’m gonna have fun with George and Joshua.”
“Sweetheart, we’re staying in.” George mumbles, throwing you a sympathetic look.
“It’s okay. I can stay in with you. We can have a threesome. Or I can just watch. That’d be hot.”
“For fuck’s sake, Cara, you’re embarrassing yourself.” You mutter as you pull her up.
She throws her arms around you and plants a noisy kiss on your ear.
“You still love me, right? ‘Cause I still love you with all my heart and more than anything in this universe. Even if you don’t have time for me anymore.”
“Don’t be silly, baby.”
You go around the table to kiss their cheeks and apologize once more, and then you leave to your place, except your swear it takes at least forty-five minutes to reach it with Cara holding on to you, and you’re not exactly sober yourself.
She’s awfully silent for a drunk that usually sings and giggles.
“My head hurts.” She mumbles as you walk in the house.
“And I left my headache pills back home—“
“You left them on the counter, but I saw them and brought them.” She finds some sobriety left in her, still slurring most of her speech.
She manages to warm your heart anyway.
“Will you make me a cup of coffee, please?”
You do as she asks you to whilst she goes outside. Minutes later, mug in a hand, pill in the other, you sit down beside her, feet in the pool.
“Careful, it’s hot.”
She takes a sip and makes a face.
You’re left in comfortable silence after a couple of chuckles, just staring at the moon’s reflection on the water, along with the millions of stars you could never see in London’s night skies. The nocturnal wildlife was a bit frightening the first few days, but now it’s just peaceful. Peace and quiet with Cara by your side. You’d be lying if you said you’re going to adapt to the city’s busy environment just fine after weeks in paradise. Silently, you wish for your inspiration to only return in a couple of months so you can stay here for a little while longer.
Cara puts down the mug after taking the pill, gets up, takes off her shirt and shorts, her underwear follows, and then she goes in the water. She rests her arms on the deck, and her chin lies on her forearms.
She looks at you as she whispers, “Sing me a song.”
You let your back tilt back, supported by your arms, and get momentarily shy. You shake your head and wrinkle your nose.
“You sing me a song.”
“I’m too drunk.”
“Like that’s ever stopped you from singing.”
She groans before turning her head away. You smile fondly at her grumpiness and run your fingers through her damp hair. She moves her head to your lap, hands slipping under your dress to rest on your thighs. It rides up a little, and she puts her lips to one of your knees.
“I’m exhausted.” You mumble through a yawn, a hand caressing her hair.
She pulls away to show you a weak smile.
“Get some sleep, babe.”
You pull your legs out of the water, expecting her to follow you. When she doesn’t, you furrow your brows and ask, “Are you not coming with me?”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
You get ready for bed in record time, and by the time you’re under the covers, she still hasn’t got out of the pool. You rest on your side, head on the pillow, and, with heavy eyelids, you watch how her eyes are fixed on the horizon but her head turns every time the forest rustles.
The bed sinking behind you jolts you awake. You open your eyes to a dark room, curtains closed. Cara joins her cool body to your overly warm one and puts a kiss to your bare shoulder. You roll over to press your chests together. She kisses your forehead for a moment before you hide your face in her neck and fall back asleep, lips pressed to her throat.
The heat parted you during the night.
You wake up turned to a side, no arm around you but a body beside you. It makes you feel lonely, somehow. You don’t remember the last time you awakened without your limbs intertwined with Cara’s. You rest on your back and turn to her to find her on her stomach, head turned to you like she was watching you all night, a hand by her lips, the other probably hanging off the bed.
You decide to copy her position, except you bring a hand to her smooth back, stroking it from her shoulders to the dimples on the small of her back. She murmurs imperceptible sounds and then you feel her skin forming goosebumps under your fingertips. You don’t know if it’s your touch or if she’s actually cold, but you decide not to risk it as you pull a thin white sheet over your bodies.
She sighs in her profound sleep.
Your heart swells in your ribcage.
“God, I love you…”
It falls off your lips effortlessly like you didn’t have to think of ways to sort your words and pick the best way to express your thoughts. You will never say anything as sincere ever again.
The next time you wake up, you don’t think you’ve got any sleep in you left. You kiss your still sleeping wife’s forehead before getting ready for another day of work.
After showering and getting dressed, you order room service, not because you’re hungry, but because you’re pretty sure Cara must be starving.
Minutes later, tray in hands, you head to the bedroom again. You put it down before opening the curtains to let the bright midday sun illuminate the dark room. You hear a groan as you sit on the bed beside her, leaning down to kiss the side of her face a thousand times.
"Baby, I got us breakfast."
A lazy smile forms on her lips.
"I can smell it." She mumbles against the pillowcase. She’s slow to get up, rubbing her sleepy eyes for a moment before throwing you a cute smile.
You watch her stretching on her way to the bathroom, muscles perfectly outlined for a moment. You’re taking a strawberry to your lips when she comes back, hair tied up, body completely naked.
She lets out a loud yawn.
"I had the most horrible taste in my mouth." She mumbles before sitting down and copying your motions.
"What do you taste like now?"
Her body forms a bridge over the tray so she can show you. Your mouths part, your tongues come out to play and you feel her wanting to push the tray away as things quickly get heated.
You turn your head away from hers before she can accomplish her mission.
"Love, I want to have breakfast before–"
Her lips find your ear. She nips at your earlobe before whispering in it, “You can eat me. My juices are very nutritive.”
You can’t help but to giggle at her cheeky remark.
"Afterwards, baby." You say, managing to push her away.
She sighs and kneels on the bed again, silent as she chooses what to eat next.
"What are you doing today?" You ask, taking a glass full of orange juice to your lips.
She doesn’t give you an answer, instead focusing on the food before her. You wonder if she’s mad at you.
She hums, still looking down.
You just look at her, waiting for her to look back at you.
"It’s Sunday, today." Her voice is quiet and she seems hurt somehow.
Panic strikes you as it hits you that you probably forgot some important date. But it’s November. Nothing major happened in November. No birthdays, no anniversaries, no nothing.
"Beautiful Sunday morning, isn’t it?" You lamely try to make up for the fact you don’t know what the fuck is going on.
"You’ve been asking me what I’m doing for the rest of the day for three weeks." She pauses, not once looking at you. "Three bloody weeks and apart from a couple of days, we’ve done nothing together."
"I’m working, Cara. I can’t just–"
"Working?" She lifts her head up to laugh in your face. By now, you’re sure she wants to argue, because she’s very aware how much her condescending scoffs anger you. "You call what you’re doing working? Working." She shakes her head along with another scoff. Then, she gets up and starts walking in the direction of the bathroom, but she stops and turns around again, anger coming back in full force, "You sit outside, play the guitar and sing all day. You couldn’t do that back in our apartment? You had to come to Australia for enlightenment.”
Her words are like knives you’re trying so desperately to swallow but they’re just slitting your throat and you don’t know how much more you can take before you start saying things you’ll regret. You ignore your boiling insides and keep eating. You were hoping she’d leave you alone once and for all, maybe to shower or something so she cooled down a little, but no such luck.
Your back’s still turned to her when you hear her muttering. It annoys you to no end.
“God, I wish I had your job.”
“Right. Because putting on clothes and strutting up and down a runway or getting your picture taken must be so exhausting.” You look at her, patronizing expression, “You must be so tired. Poor you. Or memorizing a bunch of lines and then repeating them to a camera. You call that a job? Sounds to me like it has as much credibility as mine.”
She scoffs again.
Feeling restless, you get up and pick up the tray, walk past her and resist the urge to bump against her shoulder forcefully. You put it down by the entrance hall. When you come back, she’s busied herself with her phone. You distract yourself by making the bed. You pull the covers back and fix the pillows, all the while feeling her eyes burning you. When you slip on a shirt she threw on the floor because she couldn’t be bothered to fold it and put it away and nearly fall on your ass, your quiet anger decides to get a voice.
"I’m not your maid, Cara." You mutter, kicking said garment to a corner, "You should start cleaning up your own mess because I’m sick and tired of doing it for you."
She looks at you with eyes drowning in fury.
Next thing you know she’s stomping around the room, collecting her clothes, throwing them on the bed, picking up shoes, angrily tossing them across the room so they make a loud thud against the woodened floor. She’s grabbed her suitcase and is now throwing every single one of her belongings in it. You, once again, ignore her childish tantrum. If she wants to leave, you’ll let her. If she’s not happy here, then she can go. It’s up to her. You pick some shorts to put on so you can go work somewhere else calmer and then you leave her be in the bedroom to get your guitar and laptop from the living room area.
On your way out, you’re forced to go back in your room to get your phone from the bedside table.
"This is unbelievable." She whispers, weak for a moment. "I say I miss you, you see me packing and yet all you do is get your stuff so you can go work some place where I can’t bother you?"
"I’ll have time for you when I’m done with–"
“Why did I even bother to come?” She cries, hurling a pair of heels across the room. You cringe when they hit the floor, “We don’t spend any time together. I’m bored all the time—“
“What did you think I came here for? Pleasure? To get a tan?”
“You’re so ridiculously obsessed with your job you forget you have time for everything. You never make time for me anymore like you used to. I gave up work to follow you here!” She yells. Afterwards, there’s at least five seconds of heavy silence. You wouldn’t know what to tell her, and she insists in going on, “The least you could do is spend some time with me!”
“Piss off, Cara. I didn’t even ask you to come with me.”
You swear it just slips out of your mouth like word vomit. There’s horrible silence after that. Your heart tells you to apologize but your proud mind leaves you mute.
"You’re a fucking idiot, did you know that?" She dejectedly whispers, her eyes glisten and you really do think she’s trying her best not to cry.
Disguising your guilt with sarcasm, you mumble, “Please, go on with your insults. I’m curious to hear more.”
Lacking adjectives, she shouts, groans, kicks her bare foot on the floor and in an unforeseen fit of rage, she tosses her phone across the room as hard as she can. It hits the wall and the screen shatters in a million pieces, little pieces of glass everywhere.
You don’t know whether to find her annoying or if to be scared of this newfound aggressive side she’s got and you never knew she did. But, again, you camouflage what you truly feel. You put down your things on the bed and condescendingly slow clap it out for her doings like the total dick you can be.
She stalks to you with heavy feet and takes hold of your wrist with a hand and with the other she grips your upper arm as tight as she can. Her eyes are red and there are tears threatening to fall down her cheeks. But her jaw is clenched, her nostrils are flared and her breathing fast like she’s trying to control herself from doing the worst.
"You could what? Hit me?" You confidently say, voice slightly wavery, "Hit me. Hit me and I swear to God it’ll be the first and the last time you lay a hand on me, Cara.”
She doesn’t budge.
"Let go." You mutter, "You’re hurting me."
And just like that, the first tear falls from her eyes. Her grip loosens, and she takes a step away from you, immediately wiping her wet cheek with the back of her hand.
"I could never–" She shakes her head like she’s desperate for you to believe her, but she’s looking down at the floor like she saw the worst happening, too. "I’m gonna take a shower."
She flees from the scene like that. It’s only when the door closes behind her that you release a shaky breath. Your hands are trembling and you’re not sure if it is because you’re angry or frightened. You absentmindedly caress the mark of her fingers around your wrist, feeling your skin slightly burned from the strength she used.
What’s curious about this mess is that you knew she was right, and you were prepared to admit that you’re an asshole, but she lost every reason she had within her when she decided to get physical.
You walk around aimlessly for a little while before hiding yourself away on the deserted beach close to your house. The ocean calms you. The waves sound a lot like when you put your ear to her chest and hear emptiness with a meaning.
From them on, hours go by. You work and work and work. No breaks, no anything. It’s a good distraction. You just pour your heart into your composition. And by the time you think you’re done for the day, it’s close to eight in the evening and the sun’s nearly gone.
Cara drops down next to you and your heart nearly stops.
"Jesus Christ, woman." You mumble, putting a hand to your startled heart.
She smiles and says nothing.
"I was just getting ready to go back." You quietly inform her, putting away your pen and notepad.
"Did you manage to finish anything?" She tentatively asks, tight smile.
"A whole song. A couple more and we can go home."
“I’m going for a quick dip before the sun sets.” She says as she starts taking off her clothes. When she’s in her bikini, she takes off her wedding ring, puts it to her lips for a kiss and hands it to you like she always does before going in the ocean.
You pack your stuff, taking longer than necessary because you spend half of your time looking at her reach the water, and then at last diving under the waves with the sun disappearing in the horizon. What a sight. She spends no longer than five minutes just cooling off her warm body, and when she comes back, you watch her running to you, mesmerized by her toned, skin a shade darker than usual, body.
You hand her a towel and wedding ring back when she reaches you.
She dries off in silence.
"Listen, I–“ She clears her throat, “I really didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just really mad and sad and hurt, and you were saying all those things to spite me– I lost control. And I know I never apologize but I’m sorry." She pauses, "I’m so fucking sorry."
You look up at her, an ‘I’m sorry, too’ stuck in your throat. She lets her towel fall and then she kneels on the sand beside you so she can take your wrist in her hands. She brings it to her lips and kisses your skin a thousand times. And then your hand and fingertips follow.
"You’re, like, my most precious porcelain doll. I’d never do anything to break you." She mumbles against your palm.
Wary, but willing to forgive her, you take a hand to her cheek and thumb it.
"Does that mean you have other dolls?"
She pulls away to look at you with an amused expression, but you both become serious as you gaze into each other’s eyes. Your mouths meet halfway for a long, exquisite kiss. You don’t think she’s ever tasted as good as today, so you take your time to explore her. Her tongue tastes like strawberries and orange juice and mangos, but her lips and skin are like the ocean’s salty water.
Your hands and hers meet at the button of your shorts.
“Great minds think alike.” You both say at the same time, and you giggle against each other for a moment before she helps you taking them off.
She ends up on you, your shirt ridden up, and her lips attached to your chest. You moan here and there, parting your legs for her more and more as she turns you on like never before. When she pulls away, she kneels before you, joins your legs together again, and takes off your bikini bottoms teasingly slowly. Then she pulls hers down to her knees and lies between your legs again. She fumbles around with something down there until you feel a towel covering your doings.
"Don’t want a picture of my bottom on the newspapers." She mumbles through a cute smile.
You let your hand slip underneath her body until your fingers find her sex. Her head falls beside yours and she whispers a quiet, "Oh…” in your ear.
You postpone her pleasure when her fingers tease you from your navel to your core. You think you’re going to come in seconds.
"Holy fuck, you’ve never been this wet before." She mumbles against your neck, fingers stopping. "Is it because we’re doing it on the beach at sunset?"
"Cara, baby," You sigh, "Shut up and fuck me."
And fuck you she does. You don’t think five minutes go by before you’re writhing underneath her, pushing out the digits inside you with the sheer force of your orgasm.
"Mother of all that’s holy," She pulls away to reveal a drenched stomach and a soaked hand, "What just happened?"
You respond with trembling legs. Had your body not been suffering spasms, you would’ve come up with a smart remark. But you think you’re still going as she speaks.
“Look,” She shows you her hand, and you watch drops of the liquid you almost miraculously expelled sliding down her fingers and onto your own abdomen.
Your body calms down and you’re left looking at her ever so fondly.
You pull her body into yours and she melts against you, lips on your neck. You close your eyes, mellow, and bring your hands to her back, letting the few grains of sand that glued to your palms blend with the dry salt peeling off her skin. You sigh, slipping a hand under the towel until it’s resting on one of her buttocks.
You pinch it, and she yelps and pulls away.
“Baby, you’re crying.” She whispers, kissing your tears away.
“I am?” You chuckle, wanting to kiss her but not having the strength to do so, “I wouldn’t know.” Your hips buck into her involuntarily, “Fuck me, I’m still going.”
She holds your restless body down as she decides to kiss your neck as sloppily as she’s ever kissed it. It’s turning you on again and it reminds you that she’s still as horny as when you started – possibly even more – but you don’t think you have the strength to roll over and make her feel what you’ve just felt.
You open your eyes to a night lit by a million stars and bites at your earlobe.
“Hello, sleepyhead.” She pulls away to nuzzle your nose, kiss you ever so softly and then she just looks at you with a very tender smile, “Thanks for leaving me high and dry.”
“Did you take care of it yourself?”
Her head moves away before you can peck her.
You whine as she gets off of you in haste, getting up mumbling something about leg cramp. You watch her stretching, the unbuttoned shirt covering her naked torso making her tremendously sexy. Her abdomen flexes in the most delicious of ways and you find it hard to look at her face as you talk.
“Was I asleep for a long time?”
“A little over two hours, maybe.” She says, throwing you the hottest of smirks, “And I got us dinner and showered in the meanwhile ‘cause I’m superwoman.”
“Super sexy woman.”
She throws you a wink before yawning.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me, Cara Delevingne. Tonight, we’re making our third porno.”
“Good Lord. That orgasm was life changing, wasn’t it?” She whispers, mouth gaping in awe.
“It was. You can’t possibly imagine my level of arousal whenever you wear your shirts like that.”
She lets out a couple of naughty chuckles, flashing you for a single second. You sit up and copy her, leaving her far more flustered than she left you.
When your stomachs protest their hunger as if they’re synchronized, you eat dinner, which basically consists of a basket full of fruit. Not that you mind. You feed each other raspberries and strawberries, and you range from lovey dovey to acting like goofs by throwing food in each other’s mouth, cheering like lunatics every time you actually do catch something in your mouth.
Afterwards, you lie on your back, her head on your spread arm. You’ve been trying to figure out constellations, but it’s hard when her eyes are burning the side of your face. She teases your bottom lip with a wet strawberry, the cold water feeling oddly refreshing against your warm lips.
“Open up.” She quietly breaks the silence.
You shake your head.
She makes a little whining sound, and you sigh before taking a bite off the fruit.
“No more.” You whisper, juice slipping from the corner of your mouth.
She wipes it with her thumb and ends up eating the other half of the strawberry. Then, she snuggles closer to you, throwing a leg over your thighs. She keeps watching you.
“I want to get your initials tattooed on me.”
Your head snaps to hers.
“I’ve wanted to get a tattoo of something that reminded me of you ever since we got together.” She admits, then she sighs, “And now that we’re bonded to each other forever, I think it’s time I go ahead with it.”
You can only grin, heart beating faster than usual. You put a kiss to her shoulder and turn on your side, now watching her looking at the stars, cheeks slightly reddened.
“I want your initials on me, too.”
Now it’s her head that snaps to you.
“Where would you get it?”
“I’m being serious!” You cry, giggling when she throws you a glare. “Swear to God I’d get your initials on my butt cheek.”
“Obviously not in a huge font, but just three tiny letters on my butt cheek. I think it’d look cute.”
“I thought you’d say on your chest or something, close to your heart.”
“That’s so lame, babe.” You chuckle, pecking her pout real quickly before going on, “You love my bottom, so I mean, that’s where your heart is. On my bum.” A beat, “That sounded so wrong.”
“I think it sounded just right.” She whispers right before kissing you gently and slowly, making you feel like you’re levitating. When she pulls away, she asks, “Would you let me do it? Would you let me tattoo you?”
“That’s actually a good idea. At least you won’t spell your own name wrong.”
“Probably not. Probably.”
“Where would you get yours?”
She says nothing for a little bit. Then, she whispers, “My boob. Right above my heart.”
“You don’t fool me with that ‘lame’ crap, babe. I know you love my cheesiness.”
You chuckle and then gasp as an image comes to your head.
“I should get your boobs tattooed on my butt cheek, and you should get my bum tattooed on your boob. Right above your heart. Boom. Best idea ever.”
Before you can add anything to your epiphany, she’s kissing you hard and unrelenting. When she pulls away, your lips part with a pop.
“I fucking love you.” She mumbles through gritted teeth before smooching you again. Her kisses relocate on your neck and a hand slips under your shirt to settle on your chest, “You’re pure perfection, woman.”
“Someone’s getting a tad too excited.”
“Can you feel my boner poking your thigh?”
“Hey, that’s my line.”
“Had I brought the D you would’ve definitely felt my boner.”
“No D.” Your fingers run through her locks, smoothing it out very gently, “I want to feel all of you.”
Her head’s hovering over yours, suddenly, and her pretty eyes somehow manage to make you forget about the black sky painted with a million stars behind her.
“All of me?” She whispers, lips so close to yours it’s making you crave her kisses like never before. You dumbly nod, and she goes on, “You better get to work, then, because you owe me one hell of an orgasm.”
“I saw stars.”
“I’m gonna see stars, anyway.” She lamely jokes. Your quirked eyebrow urges her on, “But I really, really, really want to come so hard I pass out like you did.”
You grin mischievously, press your mouths together just so you can bite her bottom lip, and then you slide down her body and grant her her wish.
Two winters later, it’s February and it’s snowing.
You’re waiting for sleep to come, spread along the sofa and watching some film you’ve seen a million times before. Cara’s snoring lightly, head rested on your chest.
Your phone rings on the coffee table.
She groans and buries her face in your neck whilst you try reaching for it with a lot of difficulty. Thankfully, your half-sleeping wife has a very long arm and grabs it for you. You kiss the crown of her head as a quiet thank you.
When you see your best friend’s name flashing on the screen, you’re pretty sure she wants something for you. You saw her yesterday, so there’s not a lot of gossip to be shared.
“Why are you talking so quietly?” She skips semi-polite greetings, “Were you sleeping?”
“No. But Cara is.” You feel her lips lightly planting a kiss to your neck. You smile and kiss her head again.
“Love, I’ve got a huge favour to ask you.”
“Charlie’s dad passed away this afternoon.”
You sigh as you try sitting up a little bit, starting to feel uncomfortable. Cara holds on to you a little bit tighter.
“Is Charlie alright?”
“Given the circumstances. He’s sort of closed himself in our bedroom and won’t come out.” A sigh, “He’s leaving for Australia in the morning and I really wanted to go with him but I can’t leave Charlotte with my parents because they’re away in that cruise and I don’t have time to drive to any of my sisters’ and come back—“
“Matilda, I can look after her for a few days. God, love, you didn’t even have to ask.” You shake your head, feeling a little bit of your best friend’s pain.
After another fifteen or so minutes of talking – in which she also manages to convince you to drive them both to the airport – you both hang up.
“What happened?” Cara mumbles against your neck.
“Charlie’s dad passed away so they’re flying to Australia last minute. Charlotte’s spending a few days with us.” You summarize and then yawn, realizing you’ve started to feel sleepy.
“I like Char.”
“She likes you.”
You feel her smiling.
“It’ll be a good practice for us. Changing diapers and stuff like that. I can barely wait.”
You chuckle, kissing her forehead as best as you can a million times.
Minutes later, you call it a night.
In the morning, you wake up at the crack of dawn so you can go get Charlotte.
"Babe," You whisper in Cara’s ear. She groans. "I’m going to Matilda’s."
"Drive carefully." She mumbles, blindly taking a hand to your cheek, thumbing it for a tender moment, "Now let me sleep some more."
After getting ready in haste, you drive to your best friend’s. And when you get there, she opens the door and you find an exhausted looking Matilda staring at you and a nearly asleep Charlotte in her arms.
Charlie helps you set up Charlotte’s chair in your car, and you’ve got to admit it’s painful to watch him. He’s paler than usual, he’s got sad eyes but hard face lines and when things don’t work like he wants them to, he groans and punches the seat as hard as he can. He apologizes right after. You don’t say anything.
In the airport, your best friend hugs you and kisses her daughter’s forehead that is now holding on to you like she wants to go back to her mum’s embrace. She gives you a million recommendations, thanks you a hundred times more and then, at last, she drags herself away.
Charlotte falls asleep on your way back. And back in your building, in the lift, she starts waking up.
"Where’s Car?” Charlotte mumbles against your neck as you walk in your apartment.
"She’s sleeping. Do you want to sleep with her?"
You think she nods, so you take her upstairs and let her down on the bed. You watch her crawl to Cara, who’s already smiling because even if she’s pretending to be asleep, she’s awake and ready to smother Charlotte with soft kisses. When that happens and your apartment is filled with shrieks and giggles, your heart warms.
It’s not long before Charlotte’s asleep in Cara’s arms, and the latter’s staring at you through sleepy eyes.
"Come here, baby." She whispers and then yawns, "Come sleep with us."
You wake up to the faint sounds of a machine gun coming from the television downstairs. You figure Cara’s playing some videogame but then it occurs to you Charlotte’s staying over for a few days. Your body relaxes when you hear her asking Cara something.
After taking a quick shower, you descend the flight of stairs to find your wife sitting on the sofa, controller on her hands and leaning forward as she concentrates hard on the game, and Charlotte building castles of oversized Legos on the coffee table.
"Morning, babies." You mumble, leaning down to kiss Charlotte’s head, who replies something like ‘mownin’ and then you look at Cara, who mumbles a ‘mownin’ as well. “Have you eaten anything yet, Char?”
She nods a couple of times.
"I can take care of her." Cara mutters, not once taking her eyes off the screen.
You sense she might’ve felt offended by your innocent question. Feeling a little bit guilty, you walk to her, dare to run your fingers through her hair and ask, “Do you want a little good morning kiss?”
She pauses the game and tilts her head to you, closes her eyes and puckers her lips. What a sight. You lean down to kiss her, letting your lips linger on hers.
"You taste good." You mumble when you pull away.
"Orange juice. There’s some in the fridge." She wraps her arms around your legs, head resting on your stomach, "Do you want me to make you breakfast, baby?"
"No, lovely. But thank you for offering." You grin, kissing the crown of her head a million times.
She kisses your covered stomach and then returns to her game.
Minutes later, your head’s propped on your elbow on the kitchen counter as you take small sips of your orange juice, watching Cara absentmindedly answering Charlotte’s curious questions. There’s a permanent grin plastered on your face and you only notice it when you accidentally let out a silly giggle. You truly are overflowing with joy. And it’s all because this situation only serves as proof that Cara is perfect in every single way and she’ll be the best mother in the world. You really can’t wait until you get to see her holding a child in her arms – your child.
And then it hits you. What’s stopping you?
Closer to lunch, you’re kneeled beside Charlotte, watching her build some sort of tower that’s almost too tall for her to reach. You can hear Cara getting louder, tensing up as the game increases its level of difficulty, and you know a string of curses is going to come out of that mouth of hers if something goes wrong.
She chuckles very smugly at some point and mumbles, “Take that, you f—”
Your send her a warning glare. She flicks her eyes to you as a form of apology.
Charlotte is now staring intently at the screen. She seems as tense as Cara.
Suddenly she goes, “Kill, Car, kill!”
Matilda’s going to kill you, for sure. Imagine going out with your two-year-old, and in public having her pointing at people and yelling 'Kill!'. Well, you suppose children do tend to be the most honest of human beings.
Cara’s smirking rather smugly, proud like she’s just taught a parrot how to speak. She takes a hand to Charlotte’s head to ruffle her hair, but then, as she does it, there’s some explosion sound coming from the television, a loud beep and then the screen turns red.
Your wife cries, “Mother—”, but amidst all the commotion, she remembers there’s a four year old in the room, “—fudger!”
You snort as you add another plastic block to the tower. You feel a soft kick on your bottom and turn around to find a pouting Cara, looking down like a puppy would. You’ve seen this look a million times and it still gets you every time.
You leave Charlotte to build the tower on her own so you can kiss your wife’s faux sadness away.
You sit on the sofa, take the controller off of her hands and throw it somewhere behind you.
"I’m usually your lucky charm." You start, wrapping an arm around her, "What happened?"
"It only works when you’re sat on my lap."
So, minutes later, you’re sort of on her lap as she goes back to playing. Your bum’s on the sofa, but your legs are over her thighs and your arms are around her neck.
Charlotte’s gets up, stares at a tower made of red and yellow blocks. You’re about to congratulate her when unpredictably she kicks it down, scattering the Legos all over the table and floor.
"Charlotte!" You cry, sitting up correctly. Cara groans, apparently unfazed by her destruction. The little girl looks at you very innocently. "Why did you do that?"
"It makes me feel powful.” She answers without skipping a beat.
You stare at her not knowing whether to scold her or laugh at her smartass-ness.
"Pick everything up, Char." Cara mutters, not once pausing the game.
To your surprise, Charlotte doesn’t so much blink at Cara’s order. She complies with no trouble at all.
"She did the same thing with me whilst you were sleeping." Cara lowly starts as she urges you to go back to your previous position, "And said the exact same thing as well. Mark my words: like mother, like daughter.”
She does remind you a lot of your best friend – personality wise.
You sit back down in the previous position, though this time, Cara’s taking a break from the game and looking at you, soft smile on her lips.
"Motherfudger, Cara?" You ask, amused, "Really?"
"Stop it." She rolls her eyes and mumbles, "I was under a lot of pressure."
"Aw." You coo, putting your lips to her ear, "You grumpy wife of mine."
Just then, your stomach grumbles.
You pull away. Cara looks at you, smirking.
"Do you think Char’s ever had McDonald’s?"
McDonald’s was the best idea ever. Cara’s a motherfudging genius.
Of course Charlotte would love a good old Happy Meal. Who doesn’t? And that toy that came with it is something she’s fallen in love with – at least for the moment.
She’s been playing with it for hours now and she hasn’t got tired of it yet. When she yawns, you think it’s time for a nap.
Cara takes her in her arms to the room she’s sleeping in. You follow close behind, watching her fall asleep in your wife’s arms. You stop at the door, letting Cara take care of Charlotte with uttermost tenderness. She kisses her forehead very lightly so she doesn’t wake up.
"Told you I could take care of her." Cara says through a soft smile as you drop down on the sofa, immediately cuddling close to each other.
"I never doubted it for a second, baby." You quietly assure her as you push strands of hair behind her ear, "Not for one split second, my love."
Your heart warms when she looks down, suddenly shy, cheeks slightly red. You pull her face to you until your lips are touching.
Minutes later, you’re sprawled on Cara, watching some documentary about wildlife. Whilst her gaze is fixed on the moving pictures, you’ve been thinking of your future. Your stomach’s been constantly fluttering throughout the day as you watched Cara being so motherly. You’d seen her being all cute with kids, but never like this. This is something new, something way gentler. It makes you think of a child of your own.
Because your leg is thrown over her thighs but your body is half on her, half on the sofa, you manage to rest a hand on her abdomen. You snuggle closer to her and dare to slip a hand under her shirt, caressing her tummy as softly as you can. You treat her like there’s a baby inside of her already. You’re caught smiling before you can stop it.
"What are you up to?" She mumbles, looking at you as best as she can. You hide your face in her neck, pecking the skin you can find a couple of times.
You’re still smiling as you ignore her, stroking her stomach in abstract patterns.
"I was just thinking how pretty you’d look with a pregnant belly."
You feel her heart racing under your lips. She urges you up until your heads are resting on the pillow behind her. You look into her eyes as she looks into yours, serene expressions on your faces.
"You really think I’d look pretty with a pregnant belly?" She quietly asks, moving her head until the tip of your noses are touching.
"I think you’d look especially pretty with a pregnant belly. You always look pretty, love. Always." You confess, still kissing her stomach with your fingertips.
"You’re being so charming, today." She mumbles, closing her eyes for a couple of seconds.
You stay quiet, soft smile on your lips.
"What about when I’m super fat and moody?" She hesitantly goes on, "Would you still find me pretty?"
You press your lips to hers, kissing her for long moments.
"What do you think, you silly goose? You could be obese and I’d still love you all the same." You say, making her giggle, "I mean, as long as you didn’t make me carry you upstairs."
"That’s mean." She meaninglessly whispers between soft chuckles. Then, she puts hers lips to yours, "God," She sighs against your mouth, "I’m so in love with you it’s fucking ridiculous."
You pull away, smirking.
"You mean fudging ridiculous?" You snort when she rolls her eyes, "I’m sorry, babe, you know I don’t like to pass up an opportunity to make fun of you."
"That’s it." She mutters, pulling her head away from you, "I’m not telling you how much I love you anymore."
"Oh, love, don’t sulk." You go after her, noses touching again, "You know I have a way of ruining moments."
"You do." She mumbles, sliding down until your chin is atop her head.
She kisses your collarbones as you ask her, “Can you, please, carry on and tell me how much you love me?”
"To the moon and back."
"Really? That’s all you feel for me? I have to confess I am tremendously disappointed in your poetic skills."
"Can I try again?"
You, again, slip a hand under her shirt, but this time to caress the small of her back.
"You know how the universe is infinite? How nobody knows how far it goes? I love you like that."
Charlotte was easy to take care of during the day. At night, not so much. After dinner, she’s sleepy and from the little experience you have with kids, sleepy kids are not happy kids.
"I want mummy!" She weeps, tears staining her cheeks, snot dripping to her lips.
She’s already tucked in, McDonald’s toy on her hands, Cara on one side, you on the other.
"Oh, love… but your mum and dad are—"
She releases a loud cry, making you cringe. It’s breaking your heart because you really don’t know how to make her stop hurting.
"Babe, I think your phone’s ringing." Cara softly tells you, eyes squinting when Charlotte decides to start flaunting her arms and legs in fury.
You’re quick to leave to the living room, wondering how the hell Cara even managed to hear your phone ringing amidst the pandemonium that’s going on in that room. You find it on the coffee table, Matilda’s name flashing on the screen.
"Oh, thank God, Matilda. Your daughter–"
"What happened?" She frantically asks, voice raspy, “Is everything okay? Did she fall and hit her head? Don’t let her fall asleep–”
"No, babe, no!" You cut off her worried ramble with a soft chuckle.
Your best friend sighs, muttering a curse and a weak, “You scared me…”
"I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention. But your daughter’s been asking for you.” You pause, “Well, actually, she’s been crying for you, shrieking and weeping for you for the past half hour and we don’t know what to do–"
"Let me talk to her."
"Are you in Australia, already?" You ask whilst making way to the bedroom.
"No. We’re stopped in— Where is it that we’re stopped?" You hear Charlie’s muffled voice in the background providing her the answer, “—Singapore.”
When you reach your destination, to your surprise, Cara’s somehow managed to calm Charlotte down, her lips pressed to the side of the little girl’s head as she sobs very quietly.
"Char, d’you wanna talk to your mummy?" You ask, kneeling beside her.
She nods very sleepily, stretching out her hand for you.
Cara’s now stroking her silky hair in a soothing way. It would for sure make you fall asleep. And it’s going to make her fall asleep, too. Charlotte mumbles her day to her mum with her restricted vocabulary, and by the time Cara gives you back your phone, she’s tranquil and ready to drift off to a deep slumber.
You talk to Matilda until she has to go, following Cara to the other guest bedroom next to Charlotte’s room where you’ll be sleeping in, tonight. You both change into your pajamas.
"I’m going upstairs to study for a little bit." Cara mumbles, kissing your cheek very sweetly before doing as she said she would.
You decide to watch some television in the living room. But because there’s nothing on worth watching, you become bored and, somewhat sleepy, you find yourself doing research about artificial means to get pregnant.
Reading all about the process and what’s done and how it works leaves your insides all fluttery. And just thinking you’re really going ahead with this, having a baby with Cara, makes you want to bury your face in a pillow and scream out in joy.
Arms around your neck startle you.
"What are you doing?" Your wife mumbles in your ear, kissing it a couple of times.
"Just… bored.” You panic to open a new tab, sighing in relief when a blank page substitutes your research. She seems to busy with nipping at your ear, anyway.
You put your laptop to the side and tug at her arm to get her to sit down with you.
Instead of walking around the sofa like a normal person would, she jumps over it, grinning smugly at you when she lands on her butt, perfectly sat next to you.
“I’m too tired to focus.” She says, crawling onto your lap and hiding her face in your neck. Her hand plays with your earlobe and that’s how you know she’s bound to fall asleep in your arms. “Char wears me out.”
You chuckle, thinking back to Charlotte’s apparent never-ending energy.
"Charlotte loves you so much it’s crazy. And you’re the absolute best with children.” You let out a dreamy sigh, “You’ll be such a good mum, Cara."
She holds on tighter to you.
"So will you. We are going to be the best mums ever."
You let a few seconds go by as you try finding the best way to put what you’ve been thinking about all day.
"Love, do you think the next time we have sexy times, instead of being all hot like we always are, we can make a baby?"
Her gasp is quiet.
"A baby?” She whispers, “You want to have a baby with me?"
"A whole bunch of them."
She falls silent again.
"Do you really mean that?"
"If I was a man I’d tell you to stop taking the pill and throw the condoms away."
You hear her slightly quickened breathing in your ear.
"I don’t think you mean that."
You push her away from just a tiny bit, and then you take her face in between your hands.
"What do I have to tell you to convince you?" You ask, pushing strands of hair behind her ear.
She says nothing.
“I want to start a family with you, Cara. I want to mother a child with you.”
She still doesn’t say anything, looking down at the letters printed on your shirt.
“Baby,” You whisper, pouting a little, “What’s wrong? Do you not want to—” You heart breaks at the thought, and just saying it feels like acid burning your tongue, “Do you not want to have babies with me anymore?”
Her eyes snap to yours.
“I want to have, like, five kids with you. I want our family to be huge.” She begins, hopeful smile beginning to show, and you relax. “We’re going to be so happy.” She lets herself lean in until her forehead’s resting on yours, “But I’m scared.”
“So am I.” You confess, “I’m terrified.” But then, almost immediately, you add along with a chuckle, “But I’m more excited than anything.”
Cara pulls away to show you a huge grin. Her arms wrap around you as tight as ever and her lips are suddenly on your ear, noisily kissing it a few times before squealing very quietly. After a few giggly smooches, you show her what you found.
"We’d have to find a donor. And they say it can be a friend or something but I honestly— I hope our child doesn’t want to interact with her or his father. I want them to feel like we’re enough."
She nods softly.
"Don’t overthink things, baby." She says, pecking your cheek, "I was thinking maybe we could pick a donor based on their ancestors and what their interests are and all that– find the one that is the most like you."
You stay silent, sulking a little over the fact you’ll never get to see what your DNA mixed together could create. She sits beside you and puts your laptop on her thighs so she can read through the pages you’ve opened. In the meanwhile, your mind reels.
"Cara," You go on when she softly hums, "I hope by the time it’s my turn to be pregnant, it’s possible for our baby to be biological ours."
"Oh, love." She whispers, apparently still very focused on what she’s reading, "You have to understand that when God created human beings– he was pairing them, you know, making them soulmates, until he made us and got us together. And we were so hot he was like,” Her voice lowers almost comically, “'No way I'm letting them have biological kids. They'd create a whole new breed of super hot super intelligent beings, capable of putting normal human beings to shame.’'" By now you’re both chuckling, “It’s in the Bible!”
"What a story teller you are." You mumble, turning your head to hers so you can kiss her for a couple of seconds.
Afterwards, she wraps an arm around you as she carries on with her doings. She leaves her lips on your temple, and a hand strokes your hair. You knew she’d get you to fall asleep effortlessly.
It’s June when Cara makes a bunch of medical exams before you can actually try getting pregnant. When a few days before she reveals to you how anxious and restless she’s been, you decide to do them with her. Her smile melts you.
After it is confirmed that everything is alright, you move on to the next phase, which is picking a donor. Like she suggested, you end up choosing one with traits similar to yours – again, you sulk because you wish you didn’t have to pick at all. And it’s only a few days later when you find yourself in a room with a middle-aged doctor called Ann and Cara lied down on an exam table and ready for the first try.
"I tell this to all of my patients independently of all the tests they did and the percentages of success – you’re trying to get pregnant by artificial means." The doctor mumbles as she settles between Cara’s legs – what a strange sight, "It’s normal that you have to try a few times before you actually get pregnant."
Cara gasps quietly, holding on to your hand tighter.
"Does it hurt?" You mumble, ignoring the doctor, distressed for your wife.
She shakes her head.
"All I’m saying is to not give up. And obviously keep your head up." The doctor mumbles, rambling a little as she focuses, "If the first test’s negative, don’t feel down. Try again. Support each other. Hold each other through the worst." You kiss Cara’s hand as the doctor comes up from under the little sheet covering Cara’s lap, "I’m done here."
"Already?" Cara cries.
"Now you’ll stay here for half an hour, lied down." She looks at the clock, "At twenty to twelve you can go."
With handshakes and warm smiles, she leaves the room.
"So," You start, cheeky, "How does it feel to have some dude’s jizz in you?"
"Wonderful." She mumbles, throwing you a bright smile.
She makes a face and pokes her tongue out at you.
"We haven’t really discussed this, love," You start, leaning down until your heads on her chest, "But if you get pregnant before I go on tour in September, I’ll cancel everything."
"What?" She cries, "Babe, don’t even think about it. It’s a two months tour – I can go and visit you." She shakes her head quickly, "You can’t give up your career for me–"
"That’s drastic. It’s just a tour. And I’d be giving it up for you, yes, and for our son."
"If it’s a boy you’ll be so disappointed."
"I know it’s a girl. I can feel it in my bones."
"Whatever." You shrug, "I really don’t care, for as long as it has our last names on the birth certificate."
You don’t hesitate to do as she tells you to. You moan as you taste a faint trace of mint.
"You taste good."
"It’s the jizz – it’s good for your breath."
You pull away to gag.
"Lord, Cara, that’s disgusting."
She chuckles mischievously.
"Come here, Mother Teresa."
You peck her, and then you kiss her properly, very easily finding a steady rhythm to the motions of your mouths.
"I should’ve asked the doctor when we can have sex again." You whisper against her, pulling away for a second or two.
"Why? Eager to taste the jizz pouring out of me?"
"You’re the most disgusting human being ever." You mutter as you pull away, genuinely grossed out.
"It’s okay. My wife still loves me." She quietly says, closed eyes, hands behind her head, soft smile on her lips. "She’s a fool for loving me as much as she does, but I can’t complain."
Touched by the sudden kindness in her voice, you rest you head on her chest again.
“You’re a fool, Cara Delevingne.” You mumble, thumbing her cheek.
"Your fool, right?"
"My one and only."
Several days later, you find yourself sat on the counter of your en-suite, back against the mirror, faking calmness. Cara’s looking at a stick, waiting for it to ease your anxiety.
You pick your lips, hands trembling a little.
You look at your lap but you can see her bringing the pregnancy test to her eyes for a moment.
"Negative.” She says, looking at you through sad eyes, sad smile on her lips.
You hop off the counter, immediately embracing her in a loving hug. One of your hands comes to the back her head, holding her like she’s the most fragile of beings.
"It’s okay." You whisper in her ear, kissing it for a moment.
You let yourselves slump against each other, evidently dejected. The doctor did say it’s normal for this to happen, but the truth is that you thought maybe you were different and you swear something was telling you Cara would get pregnant at the first try.
She’s silent, probably wondering what went wrong.
You hold her tighter, caressing her as gently as you can.
"It’s okay, baby," You repeat, softer, "We can try again."
In July, you try again. Nothing.
In the second day of the month you make the third try. It breaks your heart how she greets the doctor with a hopeful glint in her eye and the saddest of smiles and says, “Third time is a charm, right?”
You’re next to her, caressing her face as the doctor preps everything. She’s a bit shaky, nervous, and not even your hand kisses she claims to love are capable of soothing her.
When the doctor moves between her legs, she throws you both an encouraging smile.
Cara nods. An urge surges in you.
The doctor throws you an expectant look.
"Can I– can I do it? You know, push the– the thingy." You blush, too nervous to think of the correct medical term.
She smiles and nods and this time it’s Cara that kisses your hand for good luck.
Just before her birthday, you fly out to some island with a name you can’t pronounce. There are a few pregnancy tests in your suitcase. But just looking at them or thinking of them makes your stomach churn. This whole situation gives you anxiety. And it’s not because she can’t get pregnant, but because you know her and since that second negative test she’s been different. She’ll force out chuckles, fake smiles and when she thinks no one’s looking at her, she’ll stare into nothing, eyes blank like her body’s here and her soul long gone. It’s killing you.
It takes you a whole two days to get used to the time difference. You spend a couple of nights just thinking about everything and nothing, watching her sleep and stroking her face almost imperceptibly. You love her when she’s sleeping, serene like there’s no sadness within her.
On the night of the eleventh to the twelfth, after midnight, you try to be as cheerful as you can be, trying to get her to dance and sing and to just be as bubbly as she always is on her birthday. You try giving her space when you think you might be smothering her, wanting her to have a good time with her friends, but she insists in being close to you all night. She hangs on to your arm and wraps yours around her like she can’t hold herself together.
She doesn’t drink a single glass of alcohol that night.
And when you get to your room, she hides herself under the covers and whispers for you to join her. She sounds like she could cry. Hand on her naked chest, lips on the nape of her neck, you lull her to sleep.
In the morning, you wake up cold in an empty bed.
Feeling like it’s too early for you to be awake, you roll over to confirm your suspicions. It’s twenty past six. The shower is running. What’s weird is that you can hear it continuously falling to the floor like there isn’t a body underneath. Your heart jolts at the worst possibility. You leap off the bed, already calling for her name. The door’s cracked open and you barge in in urgency.
You go for her immediately when you see her naked at the end of the room, sat on the floor under the water spray, head between her knees. Your breath gets caught in your throat as her head slowly rises until her crying eyes are locked with yours.
You sit with her and she crawls onto your lap, begging you to take her in your arms. She sobs against you, fingers digging into your flesh in desperation. The only words that come out of your mouth are, “I love you. Don’t cry.” and you repeat them over and over again.
You guess your luck didn’t work.
Back in London, she’s not the same.
When you say you’re going to call the clinic to schedule a new appointment, she nods and leaves the room but you can hear her whisper, “What’s the point?”
She reminds you of a dying flower and there’s nothing beautiful about it. It’s like the light in her eyes faded and you can’t do anything to put it back. You used to be enough. She’s always tired for sex, even when you say you just want to make her feel good, and she never kisses your ear good morning when she leaves to work like she used to. You feel like you’re dying with her. But you couldn’t possibly give up on the person who’s most important to you.
You wake up one day and you write her a song.
And on your way home that night, you buy her flowers and call her to tell her not to worry about dinner. You walk in your apartment with a McDonald’s bag in a hand and a bouquet in the other hidden behind your back. You place the food on the counter, and then you go to the living room area where you find her studying a script. You lean down for a smooch to which she reciprocates rather weakly, realizing you’re hiding something behind your back.
“What have you got there?” She curiously asks, sitting up.
You kneel beside her and reveal a dozen yellow tulips.
“For you, my love.”
She takes them in her hands, as gentle as ever, and she inspects them, eyebrows furrowed, eyes flicking to you occasionally, cheeks reddened, uncertain smile on her lips.
“What have I done to deserve flowers?”
You swear you see a little spark ignite in her eyes again as she lets out a loud laugh, calling you lame through a huge, cheesy grin. It makes your night. After, you watch her munching away a hamburger, and when you ask her about her day, she doesn’t wait until she’s swallowed. She blabbers all about it, mouth full, and you catch glimpses of your Cara. You make sure you memorize every little detail about this day because today is tomorrow’s yesterday and you’re not going to live forever so you might as well create fond memories off the little things in life.
Whenever you get home, that week, she’s changing the water in the vase where the flowers you gave her are in. It’s like she never does anything else and she’s desperately trying to avoid the unavoidable. But the petals are all over the counter and the flowers are naked and dead, and that touches you in inexplicable ways.
You’ve felt what she’s felt before. When she gives you flowers, you try to keep them alive for as long as you can, but their fate is inevitable. They die and you feel like somehow – and somewhat absurdly – you just killed part of her, too.
In the middle of the night, you wake up snuggled up to her, and whilst you wait for sleep to come back, your mind keeps replaying the very same picture of your kitchen counter covered in petals. And you remember how just a couple of weeks ago she reminded you of a dying flower. But she isn’t a flower. She’s a whole forest and she’s the one that provides and filters the air that you breathe.
So, before you leave for your tour, you give her a vase with the prettiest of orchids planted amidst the dirt.
"I don’t want to give you dead flowers." You tell her, "You deserve life."
By the time you have to go away until November, she’s nearly back to being the sun she’s always been. You don’t want to leave her, but she forces you in the airplane with promises she’ll go to you really soon.
On the weekend of your second performance, the night before your actual gig, she calls you to inform you she’s in your hotel, in room 1401, ready for you. You think you run faster than Road Runner.
She’s wearing a robe, slightly parted so you can catch glimpses of the lingerie underneath, heavy make-up and stripper heels that are awfully nostalgic. You devour her with your eyes for a few seconds before she pulls you inside. And she turns you on so badly, she only has time to close the door behind her before you’re pushing her against it, kneel before her and worship her.
That night you fuck like you’re strangers having a one-night fling. You’d missed sex with her. And on Sunday she goes away like you’re leaving each other for the first time. She sheds a tear or two and you nearly fall to your knees to beg her to stay.
If one week you’re rediscovering each other, on the other she looks radiant. You’d never seen her like this. She’s all cuddly and cute and charming and then she’s all naughty and sexy and a monster in bed. You almost can’t keep up with her. It’s the best feeling to have her back.
Two encounters later, you’re almost two months in and almost done with this tour. On the last week, you fly to Australia. You tell her not to come to you this time because it’d be pointless. She’d probably spend more time in an airplane than with you. And so she decides to spend a few days at her older sister’s in the countryside. You think that’s exactly what she needs.
You perform in two different cities. On Saturday, you pack for a last time to leave on Monday. It’s when you’re throwing into your suitcase a pair of knickers she left behind a few weeks ago, that it occurs to you you could actually just book a flight and go home right now. You’re more than ready to be welcomed with rain and cold and dull weather every day, but mostly you’re looking forward to throw yourself in your wife’s arms and kiss her until your lungs collapse. You don’t hesitate to do it.
That night, whilst you wait for your flight to be announced, you explore the airport and find the cutest stuffed lion. It reminds you of Cara and makes you feel closer to her, somehow. You think she’ll like it, too.
It’s almost a day later when you step foot in London. It’s seven in the morning and you’re tempted to kneel and kiss the floor like the Pope would. You strut around the airport like it’s your second home. You could probably be blindfolded and still know which way to go.
Cara’s still away at her sister’s so you think, maybe later, after you’ve slept for a while, you might surprise her. In your apartment, you collapse on your bed and pass out.
You’re awakened a little while later by your phone ringing beside you. You smile when you see who’s calling you.
"Hi, baby. Packed everything yet?" She asks as soon as you answer the phone.
"Cara,” You sigh, faking dejection, “There’s been a slight change of plans–"
You can almost hear her shoulders slumping down.
"Don’t tell me you’re not coming home on Monday."
"I’m not.” A beat, “I’m home already."
She’s awfully silent for a few seconds.
"What? Is this a joke?” Her voice cracks, “’Cause if it is, it’s not a funny one.”
"I’m currently lying on our bed and–" You pause, turning on your side to look for proof. You grab a script that she’s left by her pillow, "–you left behind a script with the title 'Untitled'.” You frown, “That’s original.”
"Oh Lord, I’m gonna cry–“ She mumbles. You think you hear her frantically moving around. “I’m going home to you–”
"Love, no— stay at your sister’s. Nature’s good for you." You say, genuinely not wanting her to come back just because of you.
"Come here. Get in your car and come here. My parents are coming over for lunch tomorrow and Poppy got here today and only you are missing. I’m going to be so sad if you don’t come meet me…"
"Will you let me rest for a little bit?" You mumble through a grin, completely sold, "Call me back at–" You look at the clock on your phone for a moment. It’s eleven in the morning and you could really sleep a little more, "–six?"
It’s exactly six in the evening when your phone jolts you awake.
You talk to her for a couple of minutes and after you hang up, you take a shower and change clothes. Your stomach’s all fluttery at the thought of being with her again, at last.
Your heart picks up pace as the gates open for you. Your hands feel a bit sweaty against the steering wheel as you very slowly drive through the entrance.
When you reach the house, you nearly lose it and leave your car right where it is because Cara’s right by the door, one of your huge jumpers on and arms crossed at her chest like she’s cold.
She’s grinning adorably and you realize you are, too, when your cheeks start hurting – though she looks cute and you just look like an idiot. You park your car by the few others you see at the end of the driveway and by the time you’re turning the engine off, you can already see her running to you through the rearview mirror.
As soon as you step out, you meet her halfway for the tightest of hugs. It’s you that lifts her up, even if you’re shorter than her. When her feet are back on the ground, she kisses you ever so tenderly, arms wrapping around your lower back until she’s lifting you.
She pulls away to whisper, “Your hair looks so long.”
"And you look so pretty." You lamely start, although truly thinking she looks better than usual, "You look lovely. I’ve never seen you so beautiful."
"Oh, stop that." She says, pulling you in for another tight hug.
You part from each other when you hear a thunder roaring across the sky.
She insists in going back with you to your car to get your belongings.
"Did you manage to sleep for a little bit?" She asks as you open the door and stretch to reach for your phone and the stuffed lion you left on the passenger seat.
"Yeah." You say, voice strained. When you’re standing again, you add, "But just for a bit because I—" You press yourself close to her to kiss her and mumble against her, "–was too excited to see your lovely self."
She grins. You do, too, and hand your belongings to her so you can get your backpack from the backseat.
"After dinner, you can rest all you want." She goes on, "Who’s this cute little lion for?"
"I was stuck in the airport in Melbourne for hours so I explored everything and I ended up finding this sir right here. It reminded me of you."
"You’re such a sweetheart." She says. You find her holding it tight against her chest when you pull back. "This is the cutest teddy bear ever. I love it. I love you."
You’re blushing a little by the time she pulls you into her by taking a fistful of your sweater. She plants a gentle kiss on your lips, gradually parting them until she’s kissing you hard and leaving you breathless.
You only pull away when heavy, freezing cold rain starts falling on you.
After greeting everyone and playing with the kids for a few minutes before feeling exhausted all over again, and after going in the kitchen to help her sisters but being shooed out because you couldn’t stop yawning, you slump on the sofa, watching Cara interacting with her nieces through heavy lidded eyes.
She really does look beautiful. Her hair is shorter and brighter and her eyes, although slightly tired, are greener than ever. Or bluer. You really can’t tell. Even her skin looks so soft and warm and it’s begging you to touch it.
You’re feeling all tingly like a fifteen year old watching a crush from afar by the time she realizes she’s being watched and locks eyes with you. She blows you a kiss. You weakly blow her one back.
Throughout dinner, you’re constantly fighting off the way your body just wants to shut down for the night. You keep nodding off only to be jolted awake by your body losing balance and drooping forward.
When the people around the table are simply conversing, you rest your head on Cara’s shoulder and she wraps an arm around you, occasionally kissing your hair.
You’re again jolted awake by cutlery making a horrible, sharp sound against the plates as everyone gets up to take everything to the kitchen.
"Lets get you to bed, sleepyhead." She kisses your forehead before helping you up and taking you to the bedroom.
She showers with you in ten minutes (that has got to be some record for you) and then she tells you to get in bed on your stomach. You feel her straddling your thighs.
"Chloe told me about this great lotion she used to put on her belly when she was pregnant–" She pauses to squirt some on her hand, "–and it smells so good. It leaves your skin so soft. I’ve been putting it on for, like a month now–" Her hands start exploring your back in a heavenly way. You sigh. "–and it really does makes wonders."
"Maybe that’s why you look like you’re glowing." You sleepily joke. She chuckles. "Maybe that’s why all pregnant women look so pretty and glowy. They probably use that lotion."
"Seriously, babe, you look so fucking pretty it’s not even funny. I think you’re like wine – you get better as the years go by."
That makes her release a very raspy laugh.
"Your jokes are very lame when you’re sleepy."
You whimper weakly as she touches every single muscle on your back, always with the right amount of pressure. She stays silent after that. You end up falling asleep with her hands still on you.
You wake up to a gentle nudge in the morning. It’s still way too early for you.
"Baby," She whispers in your ear, "It’s past noon. My parents will be here any second, now."
"I’m so sleepy." You pout, genuinely miserable, "Let me sleep."
With a sigh and a growing grumpiness, you toss the covers back, get up and stalk to the bathroom to shower and get dressed.
When you come back, the curtains are pulled back and the windows are wide opened to reveal the bluest of skies and let in fresh, pure air in a Sunday morning.
You walk out of the room in a surprisingly great mood, following the vague traces of delicious food being cooked in the kitchen. You mumble good morning’s when you walk in the room. The three sisters are lined up at the counter, back turned to you. Only two look back to shoot you grins and how did you sleep’s.
You stay at the entrance, shoulder against the frame as you talk to them.
Cara’s ignoring you because of your abrupt behaviour when you woke up and you deserve every bit of her grumpiness.
You forget for a moment her sisters are beside her and gently embrace her, your hands on her stomach. You kiss her shoulder blade, and then you get on the tip of your toes to whisper in her ear, “I’m sorry I’m an idiot.”
She melts into you, head falling back so she can kiss your hair. Her hands rest on yours and you hold her tighter for a moment, lips to her neck, until you’re reminded you are not alone when her sisters start talking. You part from her with pink cheeks and clear your throat before asking, “How can I help?”
You’re ordered to chop an onion and you obey. What you sort of forgot was that onions make your eyes burn like hell, and when your eyes are blurry with tears and there’s a knife in your hand, you’re bound to end up with a cut on your palm.
You gasp when it happens.
“Goddamn it, woman.” You can’t see, but you can hear your wife speaking as she leads you somewhere, “This is what happens every time I put a knife in your hands.” She mutters as she leads you to the sink to wash the cut.
“Does it hurt too badly?” She asks, kissing your temple for a second.
“I can barely feel it. It’s just this bloody onion— Oh, God, my eyes burn so bad, Cara.” You whimper, wishing she’d throw water on your eyes instead of focusing on your hand, “Is this normal?”
You get a chuckle out of her. You try rolling your eyes, glad you’re entertaining her with your misfortunes. As if she’s heard you, she brings her now cold, wet fingertips to your eyelids, stroking them softly.
“Much.” You open your eyes, sighing in relief.
“You’re welcome.” She sarcastically adds when you don’t verbally express your gratitude.
You smack her bottom quite loudly. She yelps and throws you a glare over her shoulder, red cheeks as someone in the room snorts.
“I’ll thank you later.”
Cara eats a lot. But it’s a relative kind of a lot. It’s a lot compared to you, but not a lot compared to a teenager. Today, she’s eating a whole fucking lot. It’s like she’s eating for her and for a football team.
Everyone’s already finished and she’s still munching away. You’re the one that’ll have to deal with her when she complains about her tummy aching later on.
At last, though, she slowly puts down the fork and the knife, wiping her lips on the napkin before taking the glass of water to her lips.
"Done." She sighs, gently caressing her stomach in circles as she leans back. She turns to you and throws you a cute, innocent smile.
You skip desert, feeling like you’d blow up if you ate anything else. So now you’re idly participating in the conversation, mostly staring at Cara’s side profile as she eats away. When she’s finished, she stares at the plate for a little while. You think she’s going to be sick.
"You okay?" You ask, hand on the small of her back.
"Fine." She whispers, nodding a couple of times. You kiss her temple and she shoots you a little smile. Then, she hesitantly adds, "Can you come with me outside for a second?"
You take a sip of your water before you get up, holding your hand out for her.
You put on a coat and then you help her put on hers, making sure she’s warm and cozy and ready to go out in the cold.
Your hands are intertwined, but you’re not sure where you’re going. You’re following her through a dirt path in the woods, and you sincerely hope she remembers the way back.
“Is this the part you confess you are a vampire, take off your clothes and show me your skin glowing under the sun?”
“You just want me to take off my clothes.”
“True. We could make a sexy adaption of Hansel and Gretel, or Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Forget Hansel and Gretel. That’s too incestuous for me— and a witch almost cooks them alive.” She says, and then you feel her lips on your ear, “I’d much rather play a wolf and eat you.”
“Except you eat my grandma first.”
“You really do have a talent to ruin moments.”
You laugh and afterwards, you fall silent, simply enjoying each other’s company and the nature surrounding you. You breathe in and out this fresh air like it’s lighter and doesn’t make your lungs as heavy as when you’re in the city.
You stop by a quiet stream, and she mumbles that she doesn’t want to go any further because she won’t remember the way back. You stand there for a little while.
"Baby," She starts, turning you. Her eyes glisten and there’s a small smile on her lips, threatening to grow bigger if given the chance. You push strands of hair behind her ear as the wind softly blows. "You remember that last time we— we tried?”
You stare at her for a few seconds before nodding very slowly.
"I did all of those tests and they were all negative. You saw them." She goes on and you keep nodding, feeling a small pang of hurt. "After you left, it all crashed down on me again. I felt this heavy weight on my shoulders and when you were with me you’d help me, but all by myself I just wanted to disappear because I thought 'if I can't get pregnant, she'll see me as a disappointment, as a failure'.”
"How could you think that, baby?" You quietly ask, stepping closer to her, "That’s absurd. I’d never think that of you."
Her lips touch your forehead for long moments.
“I went back to the doctors because I needed to know what was wrong with me.”
By now your heart’s cracked. To know she suffered so much whilst you were gone and never once told you about it, makes you hurt for her in unimaginable ways.
"Why didn’t you tell me?" You interrupt her, sad eyes, hands on her shoulders, "Cara, love, it’s okay that you can’t get pregnant. You’re not less to me than you were before."
Her smile is soft but threatens to grow into a grin.
"She said, the doctor– she said there was nothing wrong with me–"
You imperceptibly let out a relieved sigh.
"–and that I was four weeks pregnant."
Your mind goes blank.
You’re not sure if your heart’s stopped or if it’s going so fast it sounds like one very long beat.
"We’re having a baby?" Your voice cracks into a whisper.
She nods, smile finally turning into a grin.
Your reaction after that is almost immediate. You let out an embarrassing squeal, and you jump and you howl and you make a happy dance and when you come down from ecstasy, you find her laughing at your antics. All you can think of is if your baby will have the same raspy laugh as she does. And her smile. And if he or she will wrinkle their nose and poke their tongue out like she does when she’s embarrassed. It hits you that it won’t be long now until you get to find out all of that. You’re left staring at her for a few seconds, grinning like you’ve gone mad. And then you feel your cheeks wet with tears of joy.
"Oh, lovely…" She takes you in her arms, letting your happy tears stain the warmth of her neck.
You melt against her, holding her as carefully as you can.
"I’m gonna be a mum?" You murmur against her.
She keeps nodding, a hand smoothing out your hair.
You pull away to rest your forehead on hers. You breathe slowly, taking in all of what’s to come.
But you gasp as something hits you.
"Hold on– I’ve been gone for almost two months—" You stop to think, pulling away from the embrace, "You’re two months pregnant?" You cry, brows furrowed, "The whole time I was out?"
She’s grinning as she wipes away what’s left of your tears.
"Ten weeks. You have to get used to counting in weeks from now on, babe.”
You make the math in your head.
“Two months and two weeks?” You cry again, eyes widened.
“Had I told you I was pregnant you would’ve cancelled the tour, wouldn’t you?”
"Cara, of course. I need to be with you always, from now on."
"My sisters took good care of me." She assures you, embracing you and hiding her face in your neck, "And I wanted to surprise you."
“All those times we met—“ You whisper, weak. “I feel bad for not noticing it.”
“Tell me about it. I was so embarrassed when the doctor told me I was four weeks pregnant. I would’ve thought I would notice my body changing. Even now, my belly is slightly rounder and my boobs have grown—“
“The perks of being pregnant.”
She pulls away to pout.
“I’m just joking, baby. You know how in love I am with your boobies.”
You hold her again and she makes grumpy sounds against your neck. Your mind was like a blank page moments ago, but now that you’re starting to think properly again, it has begun to reel with questions.
“Have you been going to the doctor?” You ask and she nods, “Is everything alright? Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl, yet?”
She pulls away to giggle at your questionnaire.
"I’ve been waiting for you to come home to find out. But I know it’s a girl. I’m so sure it’s crazy. I’ve even had dreams of her."
"Shh." You hush her, hand flying to her coat-covered stomach, "What if it’s a boy? He can hear you." Before she can say anything, you add, "Can we go back so I can see your belly?"
Cara literally walks in the house and announces, “She knows!”, and then everyone proceeds to hug you and congratulate you, and even if overwhelmed by joy, you feel a bit disappointed everyone already knew but you.
On the sofa, she’s sat down and you’re kneeled before her with her nieces and nephew sat down beside you, finding it all curious.
She starts riding up her shirt and you stop breathing for the moment. When creamy white skin comes into view, your eyes glisten. Her usually rock hard abdomen has now transformed into a small bump just like she’s drunk a lot of beer.
"Can I touch?" You dumbly ask, eyes glued to her baby bump.
"Obviously. It’s your kid in here."
Your hands tremble as you very slowly take them to her belly. And when your palms touch her skin, hands widening so you can feel as much as you can, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Her stomach grumbles and you, startled, pulled away.
"Babe, relax. It’s just my tummy complaining because I ate too much." She explains, amused smile on her lips.
You ignore the light blush on your cheeks as you, once more, put your hands to her baby bump. You really could climb up the highest mountain right now and yell out that you’re going to mother the daughter (or son) of the love of your life.
Without hesitation at all, you lean in and let your lips kiss her navel. A hand flies to your hair. You swear you feel her heart beating fast and steady under your touch.
When a flash goes off beside you, your body’s automatic response consists of your stomach pitting until your brain has time to register you are safe in the confines of her sister’s home and whoever’s taking pictures is family.
You abstract yourself from everyone but her.
There is life within her. She’s got a baby growing in her. She’s got your baby in her. Your child. You rest your cheek on her stomach, close your eyes and let it sink in.
Your heart jumps every time you think of it.
That night, when you go home, you’re so happy not even the stupid vultures waiting outside your door can turn your permanent smile into a frown.
You open the door on her side for her, you carry her bags, you open the door to your apartment and let her in first, and when you close it behind you, you find her smirking as she puts everything away.
"You’re finally treating me like royalty."
"I always treat you like you’re my Queen." You say, pouting a little. After she lets out a breathy laugh in disbelief at your words, you go on, "I’ve given you countless foot massages."
"True. I could really use one right now."
The television is on but the show is long forgotten. Her ankles are thrown over your thighs as your hands work magic on her. You’re massaging her feet and she’s been moaning like you’re touching her in all the right places. To say you are turned on is an understatement.
"This baby feels heavy already." She mumbles, looking at your doings and then at you.
"You feel heavy because you ate like an elephant, not because our baby–" You close your eyes at the unexpected wave of butterflies wanting to break through you. You forget what you were saying.
She smiles very softly.
"You’re so cute." She mumbles, hand on her exposed tummy.
You snap out of it to throw her a smile as soft as hers.
"I was so disappointed you didn’t notice my baby bump, yesterday, when we were showering." She confesses.
"I was practically sleepwalking." You stop your doings for a moment before she wiggles her feet for you to go on. "I’m nearly asleep now."
She smiles at you fondly before focusing her attention on the television. It lasts for about ten seconds.
"Do you want to rub lotion on my belly?" She asks, turning her head to you again.
You kiss the top of the foot you’re doing before getting up and helping her up. After the lights are all off downstairs, you both climb up the stairs.
"I’m not disabled, you know." She mumbles when you reach the top of the staircase.
You realize her comment has got to do with the fact you automatically wrapped an arm around her to support her way up the stairs. You blush and move away from her, walking in the bathroom first so you can hide your red cheeks from her.
"I’m sorry, I– I just don’t know how to behave now that you’re pregnant and–"
"Babe, just act normally." She smiles encouragingly, starting to take her clothes off.
You take off your shirt.
"But my baby is growing in you!" You cry, lips forming a grin, "I can’t act normally."
She comes close to you.
She pecks you before helping you take the rest of your clothes off.
In the shower, she’s got her back turned to you when you hear her say, “Did you know that pregnant women should orgasm at least five times a day?”
"Really!" She turns around, smirk telling you a whole different story.
"So you should get a vibrator incorporated in your knickers or something, to help you out with your little situation." You tease her, adoring her pouting bottom lip.
"With a wife like mine I don’t need no fancy toys." She counters, telling you all you want to hear, "Will you do that for me? Five orgasms when I get home from work?"
Your face falls.
"Work?" You furrow your eyebrows, "What do you mean by that? You’re still working?"
She looks annoyed as she washes the foam off her body.
"Like I told you, I’m pregnant – not disabled."
"Are you out of your mind?" Your voice rises, "Cara–"
"What?" She abruptly cuts you off, "I’m ten weeks in. I can hide my belly and I can still do pretty much everything like if I wasn’t pregnant. Just–"
"You don’t work in an office. You don’t sit around all day signing papers. You do crazy stunts for films and you work for, like, fifteen hours a day. You can’t do that anymore, babe! Not whilst you’re pregnant." You explain, voice slightly frustrated.
"You can’t forbid me from working. You’re not my doctor." She mutters, turning off the water.
"I’m your child’s mother. Don’t I get a say in this, too?"
You finish your argument like that, wrapping a towel around you as you step off the shower. You both get ready for bed in silence. And when you’re pulling the covers back so you can lie down and get much needed sleep, she quietly speaks up.
"Do you still want to rub lotion on me?"
"Of course, lovely." You tell her, expression serene like you weren’t just bickering moments ago.
She stares straight at you. Her bottom lip starts trembling, her eyes well up with tears and you panic.
"Baby, what’s wrong?" You nearly throw yourself to the mattress, scooting close to her, truly worried about this sudden change of mood.
"It’s just that– that you’re always so sweet to me– even when we fight– and I’ve missed you so much—“
She makes you lie down on your back to throw half of her body on you and then she decides to mumble reasons to justify this unexpected crying session against your neck.
“Cara, baby, you need to get some sleep.” You quietly tell her when she stops talking, thinking that maybe what she really needs is some rest. She doesn’t move. When you yawn, you add, “We both do.”
Her body feels heavenly against yours. You’d miss her warmth. You let your bodies mold against one another, caressing her from the tip of her spine to the small of her back. It’s only when you’re nearly asleep that you realize her grip on you has loosened.
She snores very lightly against you.
With agility and flexibility you didn’t know you had, you manage to pull the covers over your exhausted bodies before drifting off to a deep slumber.
You wake up countless times during the night – a couple of times because Cara has to use the bathroom and then the third time, and the most unpleasant of all, she decides the bed is hers and hers only and in her sleep, she pushes you to the edge of the mattress and throws a couple of limbs over your body.
You sleepily get up and walk around the bed, lie on her side of the bed and drape an arm over her back, hoping it’ll somehow calm her restless sleep.
And hours later, there’s a fourth time. You’d say it’s probably around eight in the morning when you wake up to a cold, empty bed. It hits you that it’s Monday and Cara’s probably gone to work already. You feel unfamiliar sadness and worry settling within you. You’ve just come back from a two months tour. You want to be with her for a ridiculous amount of time to catch up on caresses your body’s been craving.
For a week, the routine is always the same – wake up alone, eat breakfast alone, go for a morning run alone, eat lunch alone (or with some friend), go to studio, come back to an empty apartment, make dinner alone, eat dinner alone, watch whatever is on alone, fall asleep on the sofa with no one to cuddle up to and wake up to a kiss on your forehead and her honey-coated voice saying, “Let’s go to bed, baby.”
But Sundays are sacred to you. You finally wake up pressed to a warm body. Your hand’s resting on her belly and her hand’s resting on yours. You press a kiss to the nape of her neck.
“Baby,” She starts, voice raspy. You hum, still half asleep. “I’m hungry.”
“Baby,” She says again. You press yourself closer to her. “We’re hungry.”
“Me and the baby. The baby and I. We’re hungry.”
Your eyes shoot open. You’re up in seconds. You freshen up in the bathroom, tie your hair up and back in the bedroom, you throw on a tee and some knickers. She rolls on her back to watch you getting dressed, hand behind her head, torso exposed to you, loving smile on her lips. She’s got bed hair and sleepy eyes and you can’t resist throwing yourself on the bed again to press your lips to hers in a very tender kiss.
You only manage to eat half of your breakfast – not because you get full very quickly, but because you eat slowly and by the time Cara’s done with hers, you still haven’t finished yours, so she throws you puppy dog eyes when she asks you if she can have the rest of your food.
"This baby is going to come out so fat." She mumbles, mouth full.
You giggle, turning on your stomach as you watch her eat. You hug her pillow and she throws you a dopey smile when the crumbles fall to her lap.
"You’re cleaning the bed afterwards." You say, not being able to stop a grin from forming on your lips when she leans down to noisily smooch a corner of your lips.
She puts the tray on the floor and gets up to stretch, her naked body fully on display for you. Your eyes stop on her chest.
She gets back under the covers when she shivers, immediately scooting close to you.
"You’re wearing too many clothes."
And then she proceeds to get you as naked as she is. You end up on your side, facing each other.
"Our Sunday mornings keep getting better and better." She whispers, nose touching yours.
"It’s my favourite part of the week – Sunday mornings in bed with you."
She smiles when your lips touch.
"And we still have to take a shower together. Really looking forward to that."
"Me too. You really do stink, love." You joke, giggling when she whimpers and pouts.
"Why are you being so mean to your pregnant wife?" She whispers, pout growing.
You stop breathing for a moment. It always hits you so unexpectedly that she’s pregnant. It’s surreal.
"You know I didn’t mean it." You apologize, scared she’ll start crying or something.
She starts laughing – at first softly, and then mischievously.
"Oh, baby, you are so whipped." She throws herself on you, chuckling, "I love being pregnant. You’ll do anything for me."
You roll you eyes, slightly embarrassed at the truth. You’re quiet for a bit after that, silence comfortable.
"You should come to Los Angeles with me so we can spend the next few Sundays together, too."
Your frown is evident.
"I can’t believe you’re still going. Do they even know you’re pregnant?" You ask, trying hard not to show your annoyance.
She rolls her eyes.
"Of course they know I’m pregnant." Her voice becomes incredibly irritating, "Besides, Poppy’s there so I won’t be alone."
You don’t say anything because you don’t think she’s finished speaking just yet.
"I’m pregnant and you still don’t want to come with me to Los Angeles." She scoffs, shakes her head and sits up, genuinely annoyed.
And so are you.
"You’re joking." You mutter. "For two months you hid from me you were pregnant – even when we got together – because I would cancel the tour if I did know and now you’re accusing me of not wanting to be with you? What a joke." You pause for a few seconds, then add, "You know I don’t like following you around like I don’t have a life of my own." When she rolls her eyes, you finish, "I don’t even want you to go!"
"Yeah, well, it’s my job. Unfortunately, it’s on the other side of the world but what can you do?" She gets up, talking with her back turned to you as she walks towards the bathroom, "You haven’t been here for a week and you’re already bossing me around like you’re the voice of reason. Stop smothering me."
You stare at the door she’s closed behind her. You’re left wondering if you do smother her. You’ve tried your best not to be clingy or better, pathetically clingy, and you thought you were doing a good job. Apparently not.
When she comes out, you’ve got a book in your hands, glasses on and you’re feeling as insecure as ever.
She gets in bed again. For a couple of seconds, she stares at the ceiling. And then she turns to you, head propped on her elbow.
"But you’ll stay in New York, right?" She asks, voice small, "Like you said you would if I had to go back to LA."
Her eyes burn the side of your face until she lets her head fall on the pillow with a thump.
"Try not to sound so excited about it." She speaks under her breath.
She pulls the covers up to her lips when you slowly turn your head to her, finding her innocently looking at you. There’s a glint in her eye. It’s like she’s trying to provoke you.
"I knew pregnant women had weird moods but you’re just impossible." You shake your head as you go back to reading.
For minutes she’s quiet. You know she’s still watching you. What you don’t know is what going on in that pretty little head of hers.
"Can I have ice cream for lunch?" She randomly asks, making you halt for a second only.
She sighs like a child would.
"What are you reading?"
"What’s it about?"
"This woman that’s trying to read peacefully but her wife just won’t shut up."
She scoots closer to you until her head’s on your shoulder.
"Can I read it with you?"
She’s honestly reminding you so much of a child. And it would be endearing, really, if not for the fact that, in minutes, she’ll probably start yelling at you because of a little thing. She moves around until her head’s comfortably reposing on your chest, and her arms have somehow managed to wrap around you.
After countless “Can I turn the page?” and “No, go back. I’m not done reading it, yet.”, she becomes restless. It’s either an itching limb or a numb arm, and your peace has faded.
"Baby," She begins, innocent voice, "Does this book not have sexy times?"
"I would know if you let me read it."
"Skip to the chapter where the pretty woman and her terribly annoying wife have mind-blowing morning sex."
She parts from you until her chin’s on your shoulder. She’s smiling mischievously at you, and you can’t help but to laugh at her adorableness.
"Chapter sixty nine?"
You fold the tip of the page you’re on before drowning in a sea of blankets with her.
Three weeks later, you find yourself in a bathtub in your apartment in New York after hours in the studio.
You’ve got soft music playing in the background, warm water engulfing your tired body and the most amazing scent coming from the burning candles on the counter when your phone rings.
Thinking it’s probably Cara, you let it ring, deciding that you’ll call her back in a little bit when you feel like you’ve had enough of this heavenly bath. Not long after, twenty or so minutes later, you’re putting on a robe when your phone rings again.
You rush to the bedroom, smile on your face because you’re feeling as peaceful as ever and more than eager to spend hours on the phone with your beautiful wife. Except, when you look at the caller ID, you see her sister’s name instead of hers.
Your hopeful self leads to you to believe she’s probably having dinner with her sister, and her phone died and she has to tell you something and she couldn’t wait until she got home so she’s now calling you from her sister’s phone.
But when you pick up, the blood drains from your face as she says, "She fainted on set and I’m at the hospital with her– and she’s fine, I think." Your heart starts beating again at that, "But she’s lost a bit of blood so they want to keep her here for a few hours more. But she’s fine. She’s fine. I know she is."
You’re a walking dead and do everything almost automatically – from embarking on a plane to Los Angeles to listening to the doctor saying that it’s normal for the bleeding to happen and that the baby’s fine and that there’s nothing to worry about, but she can’t strain herself like she apparently was during the shooting of the film. What shocks you the most is the woman with a tired looking face that rushes to you and introduces herself as the director for the film Cara’s in and mumbles a million apologies and repeats over and over again, “I didn’t know she’s pregnant. I swear to God I didn’t.”
You sit next to your baby, crying all night because you don’t think you’ve ever felt like you had so much to lose like when you saw her lying on a hospital bed. And in the next afternoon, you take her home – which is currently the apartment you have in this goddamned city.
You haven’t spoken a word to each other ever since she woke up. You think she’s waiting for you to tell her ‘I told you so’ but you don’t. You haven’t slept in nearly a day. Your eyes are bloodshot and they burn and your lips are all wounded because you tend to pick them when you’re anxious and you really just want to go back to London and take care of her properly and feel safe again.
"Are you hungry?" She quietly asks as soon as you step in the apartment.
"No. Are you?"
She nods and mumbles whilst opening the fridge’s door, “I’ve got pizza around here somewhere—”
"For Christ’s sake, you’re not eating two days old pizza, Cara." Your tired voice cracks.
You fall silent again as you cook something decent for her. She’s watching cartoons in the living room when you set the plate on the coffee table.
She mumbles, “Thank you, love.” before you leave her to take a shower and put on fresh clothes, her eyes following you until she can’t see you anymore.
Half an hour later, dressed and smelling nice again, you search for her suitcase. And when you find it, you throw it on the bed, open all of the drawers and start throwing all of her clothes in.
"What are you doing?" She comes in, clearly agitated. Her eyebrows furrow and her arms cross at her chest.
"Packing for you. Go sit back down." You mumble before turning around to grab the clothes she’s got hanging in the closet.
"What? Why?" She starts taking the clothes out of the suitcase again. "I’m not done with filming–"
"They didn’t know you were pregnant!" You cry, abruptly stopping your doings.
She looks away, bubble burst.
"They ought to fire you, Cara." You slowly say, loud and clear, "You deserve it."
Then, getting angry, you toss the clothes you’re holding in the suitcase, “You’re a fucking liar. How could you lie to me? How could you risk your life to play a stupid role? And the baby–” You scoff, “Did you even think about our baby?” You find yourself getting angrier, “Do you even think at all?”
"Don’t yell at me." She whispers when you shut up, eyes finding the carpet terribly interesting.
You go to reach for a couple of jackets in the closet when anger washes all over your again.
"You know what?" You mutter as you throw them on the bed, "You want to stay and work, and kill yourself– kill the baby– kill us? Go ahead. I’m not stopping you. I’m not staying here to watch."
She brings her hands to her eyes as the first sob hits her.
Like you told her, you don’t stay to watch.
You leave Los Angeles without her.
You swear this city is cursed. Like Barcelona feels magical, LA feels haunting. It always leaves you empty and distressed.
In the plane to New York, you fall asleep for minutes before jolting awake from a horrible nightmare involving blood and little limbs and a drowning in tears Cara. You touch your cheeks to find them wet.
Back in your apartment, you had intended to pack up your things and fly to London as soon as possible, but to think you’ll be an ocean away from her makes you terribly anxious. So you stay.
Exhaustion takes over for hours. You wake up abruptly. Your eyes fly open to nothing. You’re clothed, on the duvet and you feel like you were just hit by a truck. Your heart feels dull against your ribcage and you feel the weirdest of butterflies when you think of Cara. At the same time, your stomach pits.
It’s two in the afternoon and she’s surely awake by now, or so you hope. As so many times before, you put your phone to your ear and you wait for her to pick up.
"Hello?" Her voice cracks and she snuffles, nasal.
"How are you?"
"I was just thinking of you."
"How did you sleep?"
"Not very well." She whispers. "I feel sore."
"You need a lot of rest."
You swear you hear her nod.
"I signed the papers and all of that legal stuff to quit the film." She quietly informs you.
You stay silent for a little while, just hearing her breathing.
"Are you coming home?" You say at last, feeling serenity.
"Yeah." A beat, "I’m just finishing packing. I mean," She chuckles weakly, "You’ve done most of the job for me, already."
You smile softly, letting her charm break through your bad temper.
"You’re not in London yet, though, are you?"
"Do you think I can meet you there in New York and then we’ll go back together?"
You cringe a little as soon as you say it, because you try so hard to play a hard exterior and yet all it takes is for her to speak softly in your ear for you to forget all about it.
"At the hospital…" She starts, hesitant, "You were crying all night.”
You say nothing.
"I never meant for this to happen."
"I know that, Cara." You quietly and softly tell her, "And I know how much you love your job. But you’ve got to start thinking about the consequences of your acts. All I want is for you to be well and for our baby to be healthy."
Again, you picture her small, nodding along to your speech.
You fall silent again.
"If I… Would you–" She sighs, "Never mind."
You don’t force her. Whatever it is, she’ll ask you later when she’s found the right way to put it.
The news that Cara’s pregnant spread like wildfire.
In New York, the couple of paparazzi outside your apartment are surprisingly nice about it. They greet you both like they’ve known you for ages. Your smiles form easily as they congratulate you.
You pack your stuff, and finally, you head home.
You sleep for the whole flight, only waking up to your wife’s nudges. She shoots you a soft smile and you don’t hesitate to kiss her forehead, the cloud of tension hovering above you quickly dissipating.
It’s just outside your building that things get ugly.
You might be mad and sad and slightly disappointed with Cara, but you still love her to death, and she’s pregnant with your child, therefore, any threaten to her is a threaten to you. And when what seems to be a million vultures planted outside your apartment – somehow having guessed your whereabouts – realize you’re coming their way, things get out of control.
Even with a couple of bodyguards, you’re literally trying to breakthrough a huge mob, flashes blinding you, shouts in your ears, pushes here and there. You’re holding Cara’s hand tightly, tightening your grip when you feel like she might slip away.
But what you hear next has you stopping dead in your tracks.
"Who’s the baby’s father?" Somehow this man’s voice is louder than the rest, "Who did you fuck to get pregnant, Cara?" And you’re nearly forgetting about it when he adds, "Did you pay for some guy to fuck you? Should have come to me ‘cause I would’ve done it for free." A scoff, "Fucking sluts."
You can’t remember exactly what happens next. All you know is you feel your hand empty and cold without Cara’s to hold, anger blinding you, a strength you didn’t know you had in you overcoming you and next thing you know there’s a million of curses coming out of your mouth and you’re lunging for his face. You hit something hard before you feel hands wrapping around your torso and pulling you away from this mess.
You’re suddenly inside of the building, still stunned with what came over you, eyes wide, fist clenched, breathing hard. You’re aware you’re in the lift when the doors chime open.
You don’t move.
"Baby," She whispers, lips touching your ear. You close your eyes at the touch, "Let’s go inside, my love."
You let her guide you in your apartment. You leave your suitcases at the entrance. Feeling your hand starting to hurt, you rush to the sink in the kitchen to put it under cold water.
Your eyes widen when you see your knuckles turning black.
"What have I done?" You breathe out.
Cara’s beside you, rolling your sleeve up so it doesn’t get wet. There’s silence after that. Her snort startles you. Your eyes snap to hers. She’s laughing. And you realize even if trying to punch some low life paparazzo and probably breaking his camera was completely childish and reckless of you, he had it coming. You don’t know how you haven’t lost it before.
You’ll laugh with her now and think about the consequences later.
A few days later, you go to your first ever ultrasound with Cara. You’re a bit nervous and you think she is, too, because apparently the doctor she usually visits had to leave for her own maternity leave.
As soon as you get there, you’re both introduced to a technician whose name is Melissa, a woman who looks about your age and that seems to be incredibly chirpy – you like her already.
Because Cara has apparently decided she was going to be shy for today, you’re the one who has to tell her about the Los Angeles incident.
Again, she’s told she can’t push herself too hard otherwise she might put in danger her life and the baby’s. Your stomach pits at the thought of having to go through all of the scare again.
Still, when the visual part comes, all is forgotten.
Cara’s relaxed on the on the exam table, a hand behind her head. You’re sat next to her, focused on the woman’s doings. You’re slightly bent forward, your head propped on your elbow on the exam table. Her other hand has threaded through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. She’s watching you when she gasps.
"Sorry." The technician apologizes, smiling sympathetically, "They haven’t invented a warm gel yet."
You put a warm kiss to Cara’s forehead, hoping it’ll take her mind off of the uncomfortableness.
She touches your wife’s belly with the transducer for long moments, obviously searching for something. Cara’s tense. You can feel it in the way her hand movements have slowed down. But, when you hear a weird rhythmic sound coming from the machine, she relaxes.
You’re finally hearing your baby’s heart beating, and yet, all you can think is that he or she have the most unsynchronized heart beat ever – if that’s even possible.
"Is this normal?" Cara asks, noticing it, too, "It sounds so uneven."
"That’s because this is the sound of two hearts beating." She nonchalantly explains, throwing her a quick dismissive smile.
Ironically, with all this heart talk, you think yours stops beating.
"What are you saying?" You ask in a mumble. You quickly turn to Cara, "What’s she saying?"
She looks frightened.
"Don’t ask me. I have no idea what’s going on."
"You’re currently growing two very healthy babies in you." She turns to both of you again, turning the screen to you as well. You can clearly make out two forming bodies, both facing forward, one’s head’s on the other’s chest as if it were sleeping. Your heart swells. "You didn’t know?"
Your mouth is hanging open. Sometimes you’d wonder whether or not you were ready to take care of a child when you can’t eat without staining your shirt. And now you’ll have to mother two kids at once.
"This is mad." Cara whispers, taking her hand away from you to bring it to her face. "How– how’s it possible?"
"You’d never heard of women giving birth to twins?" The technician jokingly asks, obviously trying to lighten the mood.
"No– I mean, at the hospital, a few days ago, they didn’t mention–" She stops for a moment. And then adds almost in a hiss, "–twins."
"It happens. Perhaps they assumed you knew? Luckily, today they’re both very visible–" She points at the growing bodies, "–see? Maybe a few days ago one of them was hidden. It’s quite common. And I’ve no doubt they’re identical – they share the same placenta."
“Double terror.” Cara whispers.
"We’re doomed." You mumble. Two mini-Cara’s. You laugh before you can stop it. "From now on I’ll have to take care of three of you. Can’t wait."
"You’re so sweet." Cara sarcastically replies, a loving, little smile on her lips.
You lace her hand that was previously on your hair with yours, bringing it to your lips. You stay like that as if you were going to kiss it forever.
"Now, would you like to know their sex or is it too much for one day?"
You both nod.
"Alright. Place your bets."
"One of each."
"I bet it’s two girls." She convinces herself with a nod. "If I’m right you’ll let me eat junk food for dinner. I’m really craving some fried chicken."
You seal your bet with a handshake.
"On the right–“ She pauses for a couple of seconds, “—you’ve got a girl."
You grin when your wife hisses out a low ‘yes’.
"And on the left–" Hesitant moments pass. At last, she turns to you, throws you a huge smile and says, "Guess you’re gonna have to get your woman some fried chicken."
Cara literally squeals in joy. She pulls you in a tight hug, kissing your ear a million times and whispering countless thank you’s in it. You don’t know what she’s thanking you for.
"Sorry." She says when she lets you go, wiping tears away from her eyes with the back of her hand, "Weird emotions."
That morning, you leave with the first picture of your daughters in your wallet.
It’s Christmas Eve, she’s sixteen weeks in and it’s the first time ever you’re spending it in your apartment.
The tree is up and decorated and there are a gazillion presents under it. The whole apartment smells of cinnamon and Cara singing Christmas songs in the kitchen can be heard throughout the whole place.
That’s how wake up in the morning of the twenty-fourth, which coincidentally is a Sunday. You think you’ve said it before, but they just keep getting better and better.
After you put on clothes, you descend the staircase. The rain falls hard against the window at the end of the room. Perfect to stay in all cosy and cuddled up to each other.
In the kitchen, you find her with her back turned to you, still singing away. Her hair’s up in the messiest of buns, she’s got a black shirt on, grey sweats and sneakers and you can’t help but to think you’ve got the hottest wife ever.
By the tray of tree shaped cookies on the counter, you quickly figure out what she’s been doing. You’re about to steal one when she turns around suddenly and halts you with a slap on your hand.
"Harsh." You pout, caressing your reddening skin.
"I want a good morning kiss, first."
You quickly press your bodies together, feeling her baby bump on your belly. You smile as you wrap your arms around her and put your lips to hers in a sweet kiss. Thinking you’re very smart, you sneak a hand to the cookies only to have her intertwining her hands with yours. You groan as she chuckles devilishly.
"Greet your daughters, now."
You don’t hesitate to kneel before her, lift her shirt up and kiss her belly a thousand times.
"Morning, babies." You mumble against her skin before kissing her again. When you get up, you find her smiling fondly at you. "Your belly is growing so fast."
"Is that you subtly telling me I’m fat?" She thinks she tricks you into thinking she’s joking but you know her well enough to know all of her fears and insecurities.
"You’re the sexiest pregnant woman ever, babe." You peck her, holding her hands tighter, "I’d do you right here if I wasn’t so hungry."
There’s a soft blush on her cheeks and a shy smile on her lips.
"Can I please have a cookie, now?" You do your best whiny voice, pouting along with it.
She finally lets you eat one cookie only, but you only manage to bite off the tip of the pine tree before she says, “Let me have a bite.”
You take it to her lips. She takes a bite and moans at the taste. When you go for another bite, she whimpers. You sigh before letting her eat some more. When she’s done, you’re left with practically crumbles.
"Babe, you’ve got to understand–" She talks with a mouth full, putting a hand to her lips to stop the food from falling out. "–I’ve got two more mouths to feed now."
"Right, I forgot you had to feed those little monsters inside of you."
"These little monsters will be the cutest, fiercest, most talented monsters ever." She gushes, taking your hands in hers when she reads your mind and catches you eyeing the tray again. “No more cookies for you.”
You’re left pouting and hungry.
You sit at the counter and watch her for minutes, talking back and forth about whatever. Your eyes are glued to her bum and how phenomenal it looks. And her never ending legs. And her long neck. When she bends over to put something in the oven, your eyes fall to her behind again.
"Darling, have I ever told you what a fantastic work of art your bottom is? I swear it was sculpted by gods."
She looks at you with a quirked eyebrow.
"It really turns me on." You admit, biting your bottom lip, "I’ve got a raging boner, right now."
Her eyes lock with yours as she simply unlaces the string of her sweats.
Everything is as normal and hot as always until she takes her shirt off whilst you’re going down her and you look up only to find her face partially blocked by her belly. You really do try to distract yourself by focusing on her taste or on how round her boobs feel in your hands, but you forget every time and try locking eyes her. It honestly feels like your sinning. You’re fucking your wife and your daughters are right there.
And then, as your face is buried in her sex and her moans fill your ears, you think of what she said earlier. If everything she eats goes to the babies, then when she’s going down on you–
She shouts out your name and holds on to your head tightly. A string of fucks follows.
"Oh my fuck–" A spasm, "–fucking God." She sighs heavily, breathing hard, arm shielding her eyes, "Jesus fucking Christ."
You keep kissing her thighs, smiling to hide away your internal panic. When she says something about making you feel good, you go down on her again. And again. And again.
Afterwards, she yawns.
"Baby," She whispers, eyes semi-closed, "I’m so tired."
"Rest for a bit, love."
"Watch the cookies, ‘kay?"
You peck her forehead before letting her fall asleep peacefully.
As you watch the oven attentively, you decide to search if it’s alright for your pregnant wife to perform oral sex on you. There are a lot of articles about STD’s and even one of a woman who died because her husband ate her out and apparently he was either so good or so bad (the latter, probably) the poor woman ended up dead. But you still don’t know if she can go down on you. It just really bothers thinking that she might be feeding your daughters– you cringe just as a loud ring pulls you out of your thoughts. Never mind.
Carefully, you pull the tray of cookies out of the oven and set it on the counter.
Upstairs when you’re showering, you remember you’re still mega turned on. You remember your doubts and insecurities about sex with her, sigh and decide to get off on your own.
You’ve got five months to go, and you think from now on you’ll have to resort to your hand and to hers.
It seems to you that the months have been going way too fast. If time keeps going by like this, one day you’ll wake up and your daughters will be grown and ready to move out. Frightening.
In February, you fly out to Brazil to promote your music, and Cara tags along – you wouldn’t have gone otherwise, and besides, she’ll never say no to a trip to Brazil, especially during Carnaval.
On your third night, you accidentally run into a couple of your old university friends. And amongst them is a four months fling of yours called Henry.
He’s tall, handsome, well spoken, has got great taste in music and is apparently successful. He’s done well in life. He’s a good catch. Had you never met Cara, you’d definitely consider him.
You talk to him for long moments, truly curious of how’s been and what he’s been up to. Apart from Matilda, you lost every connection to people you’d met during university. You end up in some bar, drinking and catching up. Cara’s been incredibly clingy, despite her odd quietness. You think poor Henry has already been killed a thousand different ways in her head. It’s close to midnight when she mumbles in your ear that she’s really tired and wants to sleep.
You end up leaving with a grin on your face and promises of meeting for dinner with his girlfriend when you’re back in London. What are the odds of meeting someone that lives in the same city as you an ocean away from home?
On your way back to the hotel, she lets go of your hand.
"You’ve fucked him haven’t you?"
Her bluntness catches you by surprise off for a moment.
"I have, yes." You say, ignoring the urge to roll your eyes. It’d only make her angrier.
She’s quiet after that. As you walk back to your room, you notice she’s being very short to you. You ignore it, again scared if you say something she’ll explode on you. You’re in silence as you get rid of your clothes to get in bed. You’re really looking forward to a good night of rest. You sit at the edge of the mattress and feel the bed sinking on her side.
"You’re not sleeping with me, tonight." She mumbles.
You shake your head at her grumpiness.
But you proceed to lie down beside her anyway.
"Did you not hear what I’ve just said?"
You ignore her, turning your back to her.
Next thing you know, she’s getting off the bed and putting on clothes. Startled, you sit up.
"Where are you going?"
"I don’t know. Somewhere far away from you."
You’ve had enough.
"What have I done?" You cry, getting up as well.
Now she’s the one ignoring you.
Taking a deep breath, you get dressed in haste. She needs space from you and even if you don’t get why, you’ll give it to her anyway.
"Stay." You quietly say after getting your phone, the key and some money. "I’ll go."
"Don’t go acting like a martyr so I pity you."
You roll your eyes. She can be so stupid towards you sometimes.
"You’re not going anywhere at one in the morning." You mutter, starting to wonder where you’re going at this hour of the night. "Rest."
She watches you go, quiet. You don’t know what’s going on in her pretty little head but you’re pretty sure she’s already regretting her sudden, unexpected burst.
Outside, you look to your sides. You’ve got hotel doors to your left, hotel doors to your right, lifts at the end of the room, stairs beside them, and nothing to do. You slide down the wall next to your room’s door until you’re sitting on the floor. You resort to playing with your phone for a bit, reply to texts, blush and smile uneasily to the couple of elderlies that pass by and throw you odd looks, and then when all of that is done you rest your head between your knees as you wait for either sleep to come, or for Cara to come looking for you, or for Cara to fall asleep so that you can sneak in without having her shoo you back out again.
Fifty minutes later of nothing, you decide to try your luck. You very quietly fumble with your key card and the slot, and then you open the door as silently as possible.
You halt when you see the television is on. You’re almost tempted to turn away and walk out, mumbling apologies and that you’ll try again later.
"I thought you were sleeping already." You say when you find her with her back against the headboard, shirt pulled up to her chest so her baby bump is showing, "Do you want me to go?"
She’s quiet and apparently ignoring you. Still, you take that as some form of consent for you to stay. You change into your underwear. But then you think maybe she doesn’t want to feel your naked body next to her, so you make the horrendous effort of throwing a shirt on.
You go in the bathroom to get ready for bed. You can’t help but to smile when you hear her giggle at something she’s watching. When you come out, you remember to wear sad eyes so she forgets about being mad and lets you cuddle up to her.
You sit down next to her, trying not to disturb her too much, afraid that you’ll somehow manage to annoy her again.
Your eyes fall on the bottle of lotion lying forgotten between you.
"Did you already put on lo–"
You pout for a second. You truly wish you could’ve done it yourself like every other night where you’ll rub the lotion all over her belly and you’ll coo sweet words against her navel like your babies can hear you. Rejected, you turn on your side, facing away from her. Several minutes later, you’re falling asleep when you hear her gasp. Startled, you sit up and look at her. Her mouth’s gaping and a hand rests on her belly.
"What’s wrong?" You panic, "Is it the babies? Are you hurt?"
“No, I just thought I—“
She abruptly takes hold of your hand so she can rest it on her navel. It’s around then you realize what she’s trying to show you. When you feel something twitching under your palm, you stop breathing for a moment. You look at Cara and Cara looks at you. You’re both breathless for the next couple of seconds. Suddenly, you, again, feel a light fluttering underneath your hand.
“Holy shit.” You whisper. As the soft tapping continues, you feel a very familiar burning in your eyes. You stare at Cara in awe.
“Our babies are kicking.” She says, voice a little weak.
Forgetting all about the fact that she’s probably still mad at you, you move around on the bed until you are able to rest your ear on her baby bump.
After seconds of quietness, you kiss her bellybutton and whisper, “Hi, babies.”
You feel Cara’s hand coming to your head, gently stroking your hair.
Feeling something swelling inside of you, you go on, “I love you.”
Cara gasps for the millionth time, tonight.
“They’re doing it again.” She says. Then pauses before adding, “Might be ‘cause my heart’s racing like mad.”
You can’t help but to giggle. You pull away to find her smiling so very softly and then you get an immense urge to kiss her. So, you push your body up until you’re able to press your lips to hers. You don’t know if she’s still annoyed, but you don’t hesitate to do it.
“I think they started kicking because they were trying to say ‘Mummy stop being mad at mum’.” You mumble in a very sad voice when you pull away from the kiss.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.” She starts, pulling your head to hers so she can nuzzle your nose, “Using your own daughters to win me over.”
You prop yourself on one side, keeping a hand on her belly and hoping your babies will once more mark their presence.
"They clearly don’t like it when we argue." You feel another twitch, "See?" You calmly say even if you feel like screaming until your lungs collapse because you’re so damn happy.
"Oh, Lord," Cara mumbles through a grin, "You three are going to be a fantastic trio. No doubt."
You giggle and plant a humid kiss to her cheek.
"I’m sleepy." She whispers, yawning for effect.
You turn off the television and then you take off your shirt, already feeling too hot for Brazil’s warm night.
"Love," You start once you’ve lied back down. She’s looking at you very intently, "Turn off the light. I thought you wanted to sleep?"
"You turn off the light."
"But it’s on your side–"
Her eyes are unforgiving. You sigh before you try reaching the lamplight across her. But because your arm is too short, you have to kneel before her and then make a little bridge over body with your own, which results in nearly smothering Cara with your chest.
But, finally, you accomplish your strenuous mission.
She turns it back on when you’re already back to sitting on the bed.
"Are you serious?" You look at her, body breaking down in dejection.
"It’s still on." She very innocently says, voice resembling a child’s.
Not very sure of what game she’s trying to play with you, you once more turn off the light with mild difficulty.
Only to have her turn it on once you’re sat back on your side of the mattress.
"I’m going to be honest here," She starts, pushing herself up until her head’s against the headboard, "I just really want your boobies on my face."
"Shh!" You hush her abruptly, "They can hear you."
She simply looks at you.
"Are you for real?" She monotonously asks, "You’re going to deprive me of sex–"
"Love, are you aware of a pregnant woman’s sex drive?"
"But they can–"
"Baby, please." She sits up, eyes a little disappointed. Then, she once again rushes to take your hand in hers, except this time she slips it under her knickers. Your eyes widen when you feel her very wet, scorching heat, "I’m really turned on."
"When these babies are born, we won’t have sex for a long time. We won’t have alone time for a long time. Hell, we’ll probably not have time to sleep." She desperately tries to convince you, voice wavering when you almost imperceptibly move your fingers, "My sisters told me–"
"My hand’s down your pants and you’re talking about our daughters and your sisters."
She pouts at you.
"Please, baby. I’m so turned on I’ll be done in five minutes and then we can go to sleep and–"
"You’re going to be a pillow queen?" You playfully put on a stern face, but inside you’re actually a bit worried you’re going to start being left high and dry.
"Of course not." She rolls her eyes and then she turns on her side propping her head on her elbow. Seductively, she stares up at you and smiles, "I’m actually craving you pretty bad, right now."
For a second you’re turned on. And then your face falls. For a month you’ve been able to convince her that you’re not up for oral, and because you’d worn her out her first few rounds, she was more than happy to simply give you a hand. But your panic has somehow managed to blow your plans as you blurt your thoughts out.
"Oh God, no. Cara. No. We can’t. You can’t." You freak out. You get up, feeling incredibly fidgety, "Whatever you eat goes to the baby and–"
"Ew, oh my God. Why did you even go there?" She cries, "Oh, Lord, I feel sick."
You halt your thoughts.
"Are you just saying that? Or are you actually feeling sick?"
"I’m not sick." She mutters as she gets up. Whatever ‘sickness’ she had in her is completely gone when she nears you, pressing herself close to you as best as she can, "I’m really horny." She wraps her arms around your neck, swaying you from side to side, "And I won’t be able to fall asleep if you don’t do something about it."
You sigh, giving up on any attempt of convincing her of not going ahead with this. She wiggles out of her knickers, taking your hand in hers and guiding it down her body until you’re met with burning heat.
You leave little marks on her neck as she humps your hand. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this desperate. She comes with a shout. But, when she’s done, she wants more. You’re thrown on the bed and she doesn’t hesitate to straddle you. Except, after a heated fifteen seconds kiss, she moves up until she’s on your face. Literally.
"This is so wrong." You meaninglessly whisper, finding your arousal incredibly sinful when you realize you can’t see her face, blocked by her belly.
All is forgotten when you feel a hand slipping into your knickers.
You feel tingles all over your body. And you’re not sure why. But they feel good. They feel fucking incredible, actually. As you slowly emerge from a deep slumber, you realize the pleasure you’re feeling is concentrated at the bottom of your stomach. Maybe you’ve just had an amazing sex dream.
But then you feel warm hands holding your thighs apart, and the familiar stroke of a tongue all over your sex. You let out a moan, lazy smile on your face, and think this is definitely the best way to wake up.
You hold Cara’s head over the bed sheet, bucking your hips into her.
You’re struck by panic when you remember the babies.
You struggle to turn on the light. You push the covers aside when everything’s lit, revealing a smirking Cara, red cheeks, disheveled hair.
She kisses your core.
"What are you doing down there? Come here–" Your voice cracks as you strain to pull her up by her shoulder. "Cara, I told you–"
"Relax." She strokes your thighs, "I did a Google search to see if I could eat you out or not ‘cause of the babies and I totally can. And I really needed to taste you–" She places an open mouthed kiss to your sex and moans as you gasp, "–so fucking bad."
You stare at her with half opened eyes, consumed by pleasure. You fall back, not knowing if she’s being honest or not and not really caring either, turn off the light and pull the covers back over her head.
Holy and shit are the first words you say as soon as you come down from your fifth or sixth orgasm. You don’t know. You sort of stopped counting after your third.
And then a million of curses come out as you realize maybe you haven’t yet stopped orgasming. You feel Cara’s tongue in a long, last stroke before she comes up, hair sticking to her forehead.
You tremble as she decides to coat your chest with wet kisses.
"What’s got into you?" You shakily mumble, closing your eyes at the sensations.
"I’m incredibly horny. I’m going down on you again in a bit."
"Don’t you want me to–"
"I want you to keep moaning and pulling my hair."
Well, you can definitely do that.
Six months in, or as Cara insists in putting it, twenty-four weeks in, she’s impossible. After you’ve decorated your babies’ room, spending days painting it and building furniture, Cara’s mood starts changing. It’s like her grumpiness has become a chronic disease.
You’ve had your ugly fights, usually over jealousy or important stuff, and you do bicker a bit sometimes. But nowadays you seem to spend your nights sleeping on the sofa because you did or said something wrong and she’ll give you the silence treatment for hours or she just yells at you and you resort to biting your tongue, not wanting to propel her anger.
For example, this afternoon, you got home at three after having lunch with a couple of producers you’re working with, and as soon as you walked in your apartment, you found her stretched across the sofa, arm over her eyes, television and curtains half-closed, making the room considerably darker.
You put down your belongings and take off your coat, even though you’re still going to studio in a bit. You could’ve gone there straight off the restaurant, but you wanted to check on your pregnant wife (and even if you left for a couple of hours only, you’ve got to admit you’ve missed her a little).
"Baby," She quietly moans out, stretching an arm out towards you, "I need your cuddles."
You walk fast to her, judging by her whiny voice and the state she’s in that she’s got a horrible headache. You kneel beside her and kiss her belly first and then her lips.
"Did you bring any food back?" She whispers as you take hold of her hand, putting to your lips.
"No, baby. Are you hungry?"
"I texted you to bring something back."
"I’m sorry, love. I didn’t check my phone. Did you not have lunch?"
"My back hurts terribly and my head is constantly throbbing. I can’t get up."
"Oh, lovely…" Your heart breaks. You can’t even explain the pain you feel when you know she’s suffering. "I’ll make you something. What are you craving?"
"Your grilled cheese sandwiches, bacon, the slice of pizza we didn’t eat last night and salad."
You nearly have to write down all of her requests. With a kiss to her forehead and a caress to her baby bump, you leave to comply with her wishes.
A little while later, you watch her eat at the coffee table, kneeled because she claims her back doesn’t hurt so much like this.
"Do you want me to give you a massage before I go?" You quietly ask, hand on the small of her back.
"Before you go where?"
"Back to the studio."
"But I’m feeling sick."
"I just have to talk with Charlie about a couple of things I’ve been working on–"
By now, you know you’ve got to shut up and glue your lips together, lock them and throw the key away.
"Don’t. Just go. I don’t want your massages."
You take a hand to her hair but she pulls her head away.
"Stop annoying me. Go."
You look at her with sad eyes, but she’s still looking down at the plate.
"Will you let me kiss you goodbye?"
"Can I kiss my daughters goodbye, then?"
She puts down the fork and pulls away from the table, lifts her shirt up and throws you an expectant look. You kneel before her, rest your hands on the sides of her belly and kiss her skin a few times.
"Bye, babies." You mumble against her navel.
After a dejected sigh, you get up to leave.
You peck the crown of her head as quickly as you can before she starts protesting.
As you open the door, you hear her say loud and clear, “Bring ice cream!”
That’s all you’re good for, these days.
You cancel on Charlie and head to Matilda’s instead so you can vent.
You’re in her living room, sat on the sofa with Charlotte in your arms, Matilda sprawled on the sofa opposite to yours, legs thrown over Francisca’s lap.
"Ah, so the novelty of being married and living happily ever after is starting to wear off." She says, stupid smirk on her lips.
"I was with Cara for six years before we got married. Do you really think because she’s acting all grumpy I’m going to love her any less than I do when she’s all rainbows and sunshine?"
Charlotte makes this adorable giggly sound, hand touching your cheek affectionately. You kiss it and allow yourself to distract yourself for a moment.
"It goes downhill from here." Matilda dramatically mumbles, eyes closed and ready to doze off any moment now.
Francisca slaps her thigh making her yelp.
"Don’t be mean."
You share weak smiles with her before turning to your best friend and defying her, “Would you like me to prove you wrong?”
"I’ve been married to Charlie for a while now, babe. I know how things work."
"I refuse to believe that." Francisca mumbles, shaking her head, "It’s all a matter of priorities. If you make of someone you love your world, nothing can go wrong."
"Completely agree." You nod, thinking that Cara’s definitely your number one priority, along with your babies.
"That’s fairy tale bullshit."
"To you." You mutter, "Not to me."
Matilda makes a groaning sound, dismissing you with a wave.
"Talk to her." Francisca encourages you, "Sometimes, no matter how right you are, you have to give in and let go of your stubbornness. It’s all about equilibrium.”
You listen to her wise words attentively.
“God, I don’t even want to imagine what you’re going through. She’s already annoying when she’s not pregnant, and now she’s got two babies inside of her.” Matilda grumbles. You clench your jaw, feeling your anger starting to boil. When she adds, “Disgusting.”, you blow up.
You let Charlotte off your lap.
“I don’t know what is going on between you and Charlie, and to be perfectly frank, I don’t even know if I care. Your marriage has been doomed since the beginning. I told you that. And you knew that! You knew he texted other girls whilst he was still with you and you still took him back anyway.”
Your accusations keep flowing out of you and there’s no way you can’t stop them. Matilda’s sat up, staring at you through slightly widened eyes.
“Now, don’t lash out on Cara because your marriage is a complete failure.”
You shut up as soon as you say it. You’re breathing hard and you’re honestly tempted to get the fuck out of there because you’ve possibly just fucked up your greatest friendship.
Matilda’s face contorts in pain, and then she lets out a sob. She hides her face in her hands as she cries and you rush to her. You kneel before her and try hugging her along with Francisca.
She sobs as quietly as she can, but Charlotte notices anyway. She comes closer to her mother, face pained as well, and asks as best as she can why her mummy’s crying and if she’s hurt. Your heart shatters at the sight.
“I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.” You hear your wife’s voice in your head, “I’m a fucking idiot.”
She calms down with your lips on the side of her head, holding her close to your chest whilst Francisca distracts Charlotte.
“We’re probably getting a divorce.” She whispers when they’re both out of the room, “We’ve been fighting like mad for the past few months, even before we went to Australia—“ Her voice weakens again, “He’s said our marriage was a mistake and the only good thing that came out of it was Charlotte and—“ She breathes shakily, stopping for long moments, “—I think he’s been cheating on me.”
“Oh, baby…” You hold her as tightly as you can, biting your tongue before an ‘I told you so’ comes out. You’ve done enough damage for the day.
As you hold her, you wonder what really went on with Charlie and Matilda. Sure, they weren’t the best combo, but they got along alright. Or so it seemed. Selfishly, your head manages to twist the situation and mold it to your case. All you can think of is Cara and your mind shouting the word divorce from every corner of your head.
You’re being ridiculous, you decide, she’s just pregnant. Her hormones are crazy for the time being.
On your way out, your phone buzzes in your hands.
Not 'Vanilla flavoured, please, thank you and I love you'.
Back home, as soon as you open the door, she’s lunging for the bag in your hands. No 'Hi, hello, how was work? You forgot to take your coat – a kiss – Don’t want you to catch a cold, baby.’. Nope. Instead, she grabs a spoon and a bowl of vanilla ice cream and leaves to the living room again. You resort to sighing and copy her, though you pick a different flavour because vanilla ice cream should never be eaten on its own. Blasphemy.
You sit down next to her, knowing exactly what she’s going to ask you next.
“What flavour is that?”
“Strawberry, vanilla and crushed cookies.”
She falls silent, head turning to the television. You count the seconds – which are exactly five – before she turns to you again.
“Can I have some?”
You tilt your bowl towards her, but she shakes her head.
“Feed me, ‘cause if I don’t like it, I don’t want my spoon to taste like it.”
You obey. And, as expected, she likes it. A lot. In fact, she likes it so much, she sounds like she’s orgasming every time you take a spoonful to her mouth.
“I’d like some, too.” You mumble when she asks for more.
She makes this quiet whimpering sound that she knows can win you over whenever, and then she proceeds to eat her vanilla ice cream with sad eyes. With a sigh, you go to trade bowls with her, but she shakes her head.
“Don’t want it anymore.” A very annoying shrug, “Wasn’t that good anyway.”
“C’mon, babe, don’t be like that.”
Ignoring you, she actually turns up the volume of the television to drown you out (or something, because you’re really not saying much at l).
“My back hurts. I want to stretch.” She says, and you know exactly what that means.
You get up to move to the other sofa, shoulders slumped, dejected posture in general. You really were looking forward to get your cuddle on. Twenty minutes into being lied down, feeling like you could fall asleep, you take off your shoes and get comfortable.
"How was your meeting with Charlie?"
"I went to Matilda’s."
You cringe when you shut up. Why do you have to be so damn honest all the time?
"You skipped taking care of me so you could go see your best friend."
"It wasn’t like that."
You can really feel the atmosphere shifting and her usual bubbly energy turning into a negative, heavy one.
"I needed to talk to her."
"It doesn’t matter."
Silence installs. You can hear her mind reeling, searching for new ways to yell at you and to tell you you’re not sleeping with her tonight.
"Are you fucking somebody else?"
That gets you to open your eyes.
"Don’t be silly, baby."
You turn your head to her, hoping to find her looking at you. She’s still watching television.
"Then why did you not want to take care of me? Do you think I’m a burden now that I can’t work and literally just stay home all day? Do I bore you? Is that it?"
Her voice ranges from dull to heartbreaking, like she’s trying to act nonchalant but still aching.
"I just wanted to talk for a little bit with her. She’s going through a hard time with Charlie—"
"You didn’t answer my questions."
"Because they’re ridiculous."
"Oh, so now you’re saying I’m ridiculous."
You sigh and sit up. You run your fingers through your hair and punctuate each word with frustration, “I didn’t say that, did I?”
She sits up as well and then after a couple of seconds of struggling, she gets up.
"God, you’re annoying." She mumbles as she walks past you.
You let out a laugh.
"Right, I’m annoying."
She either doesn’t hear you or pretends that she doesn’t. Either way, it’s better like this.
When you’ve rested for a couple of hours, you decide it’s time to take care of dinner.
On your way to the kitchen, you hear her calling your name from upstairs. You don’t reply until you’re halfway the steps, feeling like there’s no need to be yelling.
She’s on the bed, lying on her back, computer propped by her belly, head on your pillow and she’s looking as sweet as ever.
"Baby," She starts, sugarcoated voice.
"Do we have olives?"
You throw her a quizzical stare.
"I don’t think so. Why?"
Her eyes soften and a little smile forms on her lips.
"I’m craving olives."
Your shoulders slump down.
"Can’t you postpone your cravings to tomorrow?"
She ignores you.
"Can you go get me some?"
Again, you sigh for the millionth time today and go back downstairs so you can put your shoes back on.
Turns out it’s raining outside. By the time you go in the store, you’re drenched. And when you get back to your apartment, you’re literally soaked from head to toe.
She’s in the kitchen, taking care of dinner herself, phone to her ear. You can’t resist kissing her cheek when you reach her. And when she sees you she grins and throws you a thumbs up, and then turns away so she can carry on with her conversation.
A thumbs up? Seriously?
You warm up in the shower, grumpy and muttering where she can’t hear you. You let it all out to your reflection, glad that it understands you and agrees with you in everything you say. When you’re done, you walk back in the room bare naked, towel thrown over your shoulders, to find Cara sat at the edge of the bed.
You try acting nonchalant, searching for warm attire, but she keeps staring at you.
"What is it that you want this time?" You mumble as you throw one of her sweaters on.
"I’m cold so yes sweater."
"But it’s hiding your sexiness."
"It’s alright. I’m not trying to seduce you."
She sighs before letting herself fall back on the bed. You’re aware of her eyes on you through the mirror on the vanity as you comb your long, wet locks.
"Your daughters are kicking."
You drop what you’re doing so you can feel them. Her shirt’s pulled up by the time you reach the bed. You rest your hands on Cara’s pregnant belly and can’t help but to giggle when you feel a particularly strong tap under your palm.
"That’s one–" She mumbles as she takes your other hand to the side of her stomach, "–and here’s the other."
You’re imperceptibly caressing her bump when decides to rest her hands on yours.
"They’re playing football with my kidneys." She lightly jokes, earning a chuckle from you and a few kicks from your daughters.
"I think this one here—" You bring your hand to the right side of her belly, "—
is going to be a drummer like you or something. She’s got tons of rhythm.”
Cara laughs at that, shaking her head at you.
"The other one is so lazy and grumpy." She slides your hands to the other side, "She kicks occasionally, spends most of her time sleeping and I’m pretty sure she kicks her sister to be stop."
"Is she the sleepyhead on the ultrasound picture?"
"I think so."
You can’t resist the urge to kiss that side of her stomach.
"Hi, sleepyhead." A kick, "Be good to your sister." Another couple of kicks, "And don’t play with your mother’s kidneys."
The tapping ceases. You frown.
“What did I say?”
Because apparently your babies have decided to stop kicking for now, you push yourself off the bed. Cara’s hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you back again.
"Don’t be grumpy. Come back." She mumbles as you fall down with a thud, "Come snuggle."
You kiss her cheek before staring at the ceiling like she is.
"Why haven’t we talked about names, yet?" She says, quiet, like it’s a question with an answer capable of defining her.
She’s too busy yelling at you and you’re too busy pretending her bad moods don’t affect you.
"I like Francesca."
"I remember." She turns her head to you and you copy her, smiling softly at each other.
"You like Joanne. Or Joanna. Something along those lines."
Her soft smile gives into a grin.
You kiss her.
"Did we just name our daughters?"
"Joanne and Francesca." She smiles, then takes your hand in hers, kisses it and rests it on her belly.
You feel light tapping again. Excited, you turn on your side, prop yourself on your elbow and caress her baby bump, feeling twitches everywhere.
"Are they protesting?" You ask as she lets your forearm serve as a pillow behind her head.
"They’re rebellious like yourself." She looks at you with a mischievous glint in her eye, "I think it’s the grumpy one kicking and instigating her sister to kick as well."
"Grumpy like you."
"Stop calling her grumpy." You mutter, feeling a weird yet strong emotional bond with your unborn daughter, "Her name’s Francesca."
Your eyes are on how her hand’s softly caressing yours as you caress her baby bump, but she’s looking at you like you’re precious.
"You’re so sweet, my love."
"I can’t wait to see them." You say, ignoring your heating cheeks, "I hope they look like you, ‘cause when you were a baby you were the most adorable thing ever." You gush, leaning down to plant a hard smooch on her lips.
You pull away, but because her lips are still puckered, you kiss her again.
"I think they’ll look like you." She mumbles against you.
"And you say I’m sweet."
Because the twins have stopped protesting, probably asleep, you use the hand previously reposed on her belly to thumb her cheek. You look at her fondly. Her eyes are closed and there’s a little smile on her lips.
"They’ll have your hair and my nose,” She carefully traces your face as she speaks, “—my eyes and your lips–"
"Your legs and my bum."
"Hottest twins ever."
"Step aside Mary-Kate and Ashley."
"Exactly my thoughts."
Your stomach grumbles. Hers follows. All that’s missing is your daughters’ stomachs grumbling as well.
"C’mon, baby," You help her up with no struggle at all, "Let’s have dinner."
In April, two weeks in, you’re starting to feel very anxious because your wife can go into labor anytime now. The due date is the twenty-fifth but something tells you it’ll happen sooner than expected.
You haven’t even set foot in the studio, scared something happens whilst you’re gone. Surprisingly enough, though, Cara’s been in a great mood. She’s chirpy and mega cute, and you really can’t keep up with her anymore.
On Saturday, she wakes you up with gentle nudges. Yet, you jolt awake.
"What is it? Is it time?" You hurriedly ask, voice raspy, struggling to get up so you can go get ready.
"No, babe. Relax." She giggles, pushing your torso down again. She rests her head on your chest and listens to your quick heartbeat.
She calms your tense body by putting her lips to your sternum.
"I just missed you."
"Baby, that’s not possible." You kiss her forehead, "I’ve been next to you all night."
"Shush." She hushes you, throwing a leg over yours, "I’ve missed you–" Her hold on you tightens considerably and her head hides in your neck, "–so much."
Your chuckles are cut off when she bites hard on your neck. You gasp and protest your pain with a moan.
"Oh, baby, it hurts so good…"
Now she’s the one giggling.
"Marrying you was the best thing that’s ever happened to me."
Something hits you. Today’s the fourteenth of April and three years ago, you married Cara on this exact same day. The butterflies rage inside of you. You hum and kiss the crown of her head. You stay in silence for long moments, and you realize she probably thinks you don’t remember.
You put on a façade and tell her that you’re going out for a run real quick before coming back to get some work done. Her frown breaks your heart, but you kiss her and hug her, lingering as if you can make her feel better, and get dressed to go out.
It’s sunny and surprisingly warm, outside. The sky’s blue and clear, and the couple of vultures waiting for you downstairs can’t faze you. In fact, you’re so nice to them, you probably got them thinking you’re up to something.
Forty-five minutes after, you come back with a rose for each year you’ve been married between your lips, breakfast in a hand and a bag filled with whatever ingredients you need to cook a special dinner tonight.
Upstairs, you ring the doorbell with your forehead.
The door opens to reveal a messy haired Cara, in knickers and a top that’s more like a bra than anything, the cutest of blushes and an adorable smile.
"Give me a hand?" You mumble as best as you can with flowers between your teeth.
She goes for the hand carrying breakfast, and you walk in to place the rest on the counter.
"What’s all this?" She asks, inspecting the bags.
You point to the paper bag she carried.
"That’s anniversary breakfast." You say. You touch the other bag, "This is anniversary dinner." And then you come closer to her, holding the flowers in your hands, "And this is happy three years of being married to the love of my life, my soulmate, my everything."
"Oh, love…" She whispers as she takes them in her hands, a little pout on her bottom lip, "You make me melt."
"Wait ‘til you see me in an apron, cooking a fancy meal for you."
She’s looking all shy and you can’t resist pulling her in for a gentle hug, but her gigantic belly makes things ten times harder. You squat before her and hold her bump between your hands.
"Babies, I love you with all that I’ve got, but you are motherfudging cockblocks."
"They’ve been kicking like crazy, today." She admits as you urge her to sit down and eat breakfast, "That was actually why I woke up so early."
"Does it hurt?"
"A little." She sighs, "I’m just running out of patience."
You frown and hold her hand over the counter, trying to think of ways to take her mind off the pain. As soon as she starts eating, her face relaxes a little and you feel somehow relieved.
"If you’re cooking dinner, I’m cooking lunch."
"Absolutely not." You shake your head assertively, "Don’t even think about it."
A little smile forms on her lips.
"You’ve just reminded me of your father."
"You’re both as stubborn as a mule."
You blush but roll your eyes to conceal it. She’s grinning now, probably feeling victorious.
"After this, you’re going to lie down on the sofa so you can watch whatever, and then I’m going to massage your belly and have a talk with our daughters because they’ve been hurting you and that’s just not right."
"Don’t be too strict." She chuckles, "Poor babies haven’t even come out of the womb and their mum’s already lecturing them."
"Discipline starts at a young age." You jokingly mutter, strict posture.
She laughs and then as it subdues, her face becomes serene, and gradually darkening until you know something’s up.
"I lied–" She clears her throat, "–Well, I mean, I did wake up with pain, but I woke because of a nightmare. I’ve had it almost every night for the past week–"
"Tell me, baby."
"It’s, like, an outer body experience. I’m watching myself give birth to the babies and then the room becomes very agitated and I realize I’ve died—"
"Jesus Christ." You interrupt her, getting up so you can knock on the woodened table three times, "That’s horrible, baby." You breathe, feeling something tightening your chest and your throat, stomach pitting.
"If it ever comes down to me and the babies–"
"You. Always you. This dimension and the next, you."
She looks down at her mug.
"Please don’t break my heart like this, Cara…" You whisper, weak, "I wouldn’t have the strength to raise your children without you."
You prop your head on your elbows, hands on your forehead. You were anxious about the whole giving birth thing, but now you know you won’t be able to think of anything else.
"It’s just a silly dream." You gather up strength to smile, figuring out she’s already stressed enough and doesn’t need you to feed her worries and fears. You get up and quickly encircle your arms around her, lips on her ear, "Everything’s going to go well, baby."
"I’m scared." She whispers, leaning into your touch.
"In a few days, all these worries will sound silly, love." You hold her tighter, "Trust me."
She nods softly but it doesn’t convince you.
"We’ll be coming home, each of us holding our newborn daughters, and we’ll show them around the house, and ask them if they like their new bedroom, and then you’ll scold me for having left the window opened like you always do, because now the whole apartment’s cold, but Francesca will start crying and Joanne will follow and we’ll forget about bickering and just take care of our babies as best as we can."
You close your eyes because you really can’t wait.
"I think we’ll do just fine, don’t you?" She asks in a whisper, hands resting on yours at her belly.
You hum and nod, burying your nose in her neck.
Closer to the evening, around seven, you’re in the kitchen area preparing everything for dinner and Cara’s watching you and startling you every time she gasps and mumbles one of the babies kicked too hard. You’re taking a glass of water to your lips when she says she’s got to pee really badly. You chuckle as you help her up the stairs – it’s the fourth or fifth time in a couple of hours.
"I can’t wait ‘til I pop these two out." You hear her muttering from inside the bathroom. "I look so fat it’s not even funny." A pause, "Ew, double chin."
You laugh, finding her utterly adorable. You let yourself fall back onto the bed, eyes closed and just waiting for her to come back when you swear you hear her gasping again. Poor Cara.
"Uh-oh." She mutters, and she says something else but you can’t understand her. The door opens, a wide-eyed Cara, flushed cheeks and gaping mouth says, "I might have lied when I said that the babies were kicking me so hard they were hurting me."
You sit up in haste.
"What do you mean?"
"I think I’ve been having contractions all day. And I’ve been having a lot in these past couple of hours."
Your mind goes blank.
"Also, I think my water broke this morning." She speaks so quickly you can barely understand her, “I mean, it didn’t break like in the films where everything just comes out in a gush but it’s been coming out slowly and I called my sister and she said to cough and if more came out then I should go to the hospital immediately and I did and nothing happened but now I coughed again and liquid came out— a lot of it.”
And from then on, everything’s done in a hurry. You get everything you need whilst you bicker, well, it’s more like you telling her off for not having told you earlier and her gasping and holding on to something because now that the truth is out, the pain seems to have increased. So, you feel bad and swallow your mild anger.
You know she’s really suffering when you’re waiting for the lift and you remember you forgot your car keys. The look she throws you nearly kills you.
You’ve never run faster in your life.
And in the car, buckled up and ready to go, you do your best to drive fast and not hit anything (or anyone) in the process. Stopped at a red light, you realize your heart’s beating incredibly fast.
"Babe, the light’s green."
You look at her, and your eyes fall to how she’s gripping the seat so hard her knuckles have turned white for the moment.
"My heart’s going really fast." You whisper, feeling the blood draining from your face.
"Oh, for fucks sake, woman." She mutters, hands flying to your face. Her sweaty palms hold you between them, making you look into her blue eyes. Her soft smile calms you, "Please pass out at the hospital. Not in the middle of the road."
When you hear honks behind you, you snap out of it. You start nodding very quickly, realizing before your needs you’ve got Cara’s and your daughters’. A couple of minutes later, when you’re driving again, you hear Cara’s gasps becoming more and more frequent.
"How are you holding up?" You quietly ask, daring to take a peek at her pained face.
Her response’s almost immediate.
So you shut up. And you’re thankful she’s got her eyes closed when you take the wrong turn. You mutter a string of fucks that become lost in the music coming from the radio.
You let out a relieved sigh when you see the hospital
"Baby, do you want to wait here whilst I go get someone–"
"No. Park the car. We’ll go together. I can still walk." She says so quietly it’s almost like a whisper, "I don’t want to draw anyone’s attention to us."
You help her step off the car, insides warm when she shoots you a little smile. Neither of you can resist stealing each other a little loving smooch.
Inside, you’re led into a room and after quick examination, a doctor tells her she’ll probably stay the night because she hasn’t dilated enough to give birth. You settle in as she’s given something for the pain.
She’s mellow for a little while, dozing on and off whilst you make calls to family and friends, informing them of what’s happen. Your parents are on their way to see you, and you literally sit down and just stare into nothing as your mind reels and your eyes burn at the realization that in a few hours, you’ll be just like them – a parent.
It’s a bit past ten when her oldest sister arrives – she’s helping you with the whole thing, since she’s a midwife and Cara feels safer with her around – and it’s also about then Cara takes hold of your wrist and pulls you down to beg in your ear for you to call someone to give her something to take the pain away again.
You find the doctor from before having a talk with a couple of nurses, smirking and acting cocky with his stethoscope around his neck and his blue scrub, and you nearly push him against the wall to threaten him with a sword to his throat.
Your glare’s enough for now. And it turns out Cara’s more than ready to pop those two little monsters out.
So now, in the room, there’s a panting Cara, two nurses, her sister and the cocky doctor.
You’re in a corner as they prep everything, not wanting to get in the way. One of the nurses is showing her how to breathe, and then he turns to you, urges you closer and shows you how to breathe because apparently you’re not doing it properly.
Twenty minutes or so later, Cara’s feeling much calmer after the epidural.
"Come here." She tells you quietly amidst the urgent tension in the room.
You come closer to her, forearms on each side of her head. Your face hovers above hers, and you wonder how she can be so calm when she’s about to give birth. Twice.
"Nothing—" She whispers, arms locked behind your neck, "Nothing will ever top my anniversary gift to you."
"Joanne and Francesca."
You kiss for long, tender moments, pulling away for a few seconds to rest our forehead on hers before realizing everyone’s waiting for your snuggling session to be over so the sacrifice can commence. You realize you spoke out loud when Cara sends you a playful glare and a hand sneaks to your bum for a little squeeze.
It’s not long before you’ve got different voices telling her to push, and then she’ll grunt and fall back, hair glued to her forehead. You pull it back, hoping your caresses can soothe her panting.
But it’s only an hour later when things start to progress and you think you can finally see light at the end of the tunnel. No pun intended. Thankfully, you’re not curious to see what’s going on down there, otherwise you’re sure you’d be the one needing soothing.
"Fifteen seconds break and then I want a really strong push, Cara, and baby one will come out." Her sister mumbles, grinning from ear to ear like she’s more excited than anyone else in the room.
"I can see the head already–" Someone else mumbles – you don’t know who.
"Let her hold her first– my wife–" Cara turns to you, eyes semi closed, "–I want you to be the first to hold her."
"Okay, baby." You whisper, soft smile, glistening eyes.
"Get a grip, woman." Cara mumbles, weak smirk as she squeezes your hand.
There’s a countdown from five, there’s a symphony of push, push, push, Cara grunts, falls back, and then you hear a cry.
You go weak for seconds. One of the nurses rushes to you with a tiny little human in her arms, powerfully shrieking, skin coated with blood and other fluids, and you don’t even care because you swear her arms stretch out to you. It’s about then the shock dissipates and your maternal instincts kick in.
You hold your daughter in your arms for the first time, her fragile head against your chest, crying subduing a little.
"Cara," You mumble, turning to your wife with uttermost gentleness. She’s looking at you ever so lovingly, "Look at her, baby. She’s so beautiful."
You pass her on to your wife, heart swelling when you see a much more peaceful looking baby ready to fall asleep on her mother’s chest. She’s taken away from you when, after quick examination, it is determined Cara’s ready to push out baby number two.
"C’mon, lovely," You encourage in her ear, "A couple more pushes and we can meet the other baby."
And so it is. Another minute of grunts, panting, push, push, push, and you hear yet another cry.
You hold her in your arms, cries never once ceasing. This one’s much louder than the first, and when you panic a little and ask if something’s wrong, Cara’s sister laughs and says she’s just grumpy.
Your wife holds her for a couple of minutes until she stops crying, and you sit beside the bed, hand on the baby’s back, Cara’s lips to her little forehead.
“I think we’re finally meeting Francesca.” She says to you, her tired blue eyes looking prettier than ever, “She’s even lovelier than I imagined her to be.”
Your conversation’s cut short when she’s taken from you.
Cara’s left looking at you, hair disheveled, skin coated with her efforts. And she looks so beautiful. Your stomach flutters with butterflies just like when you first realized you were in love with her and would be for an eternity if she let you. You thumb her cheek, adoring how she leans into your touch as her breathing calms down. You kiss her face a thousand times.
"Thank you, baby." You whisper against her temple, "I love you."
Your head’s buried in her neck, lips to the skin right below her ear.
“Are you tired?” You whisper when you feel a hand stroking your hair.
You think she shakes her head.
“I’m excited to spend time with you and our daughters.” She says, and you can definitely hear her smiling, “Also, I’d love to feel my legs again so I can take a shower.”
“You do stink.” You pull away to grin mischievously. “Mummy.”
Her head turns away from you to hide a beam. She’s back almost immediately, wrinkling her nose and poking the tip her tongue out like she always does when she gets shy.
“Mummy.” She tastes the word, seconds later, “You’ll be a good mummy.”
“We’ll both be good mummies.”
“The way you held Joanne—“ She starts, stopping to shake her head and look away from you, “Baby—” She sighs, “—My Lord… You are so sweet.”
Right at that moment, before you blush and call her a sap, she sits up and makes these adorable, soft cooing sounds. You sit up straight as well as you realize her sister is coming your way, holding your babies in her arms. They’re each wrapped in white blankets, white beanies on their little heads. You can’t help but laugh at the sight.
“Like mother, like daughters.”
Their eyes are wide-opened, looking at everything with tremendous curiosity. They’re dark blue, threatening to turn a shade lighter, their hair nearly white and their nose is so adorable you just want to kiss it and poke it and tell them how much they look like Cara, but for now, they’re in your wife’s arms more than ready for their first real meal.
You watch everything, head propped by your elbows at the bed’s edge, feeling a quarter of her pain and discomfort every time she hisses. But mostly, you’re just falling in love with your daughters more and more every time they murmur soft sounds as if they’re thoroughly enjoying what’s happening.
Twenty minutes later, it’s a little past eleven, and your babies have fallen asleep on your wife’s chest. One by one, you lie them on their back on the little bed beside Cara’s. You watch your daughters for long moments, just taking in the simple fact they’re your daughters, yours and Cara’s, the woman that makes you feel the most, the woman of your dreams, the love of your life.
“Go home, love.” Cara whispers into the now gentle darkness of the room.
She’s taken a shower, and you’re both very ready to sleep for a little while before your babies awake and start crying for attention. You’ve put a pillow on her lap and rested your head on it, position slightly awkward, but her hands on your hair make you forget about the lack of comfort.
“Do you want me to go?” You pout, even though she can see.
“No. But you won’t get any rest—“
“I don’t mind. I want to be close to you and our babies.”
With an “Okay, baby.”, it doesn’t take much effort for you to fall asleep.
During the night, they wake up with cries so loud that make you jolt awake and literally fall off the chair. You don’t know if Cara wakes up with their shrieks or the loud thud of you hitting the floor.
She feeds them, moaning to you how she never expected it to hurt this much. You resort to kissing her forehead and the back of your babies’ heads, adoring the smell of their skin. And afterwards, when they’re still crying, you hold Joanne in your arms, and Cara holds Francesca. You pace around the room aimlessly whilst your wife sits at the edge of the bed not really trusting her still weak legs, trying to rock them to sleep.
When they stop crying and start breathing slowly again, you put them to bed once more, this time their little heads facing one another, a thumb by their thin, parted lips. Lord, how they remind you of Cara.
On the sixteenth, you get to go home.
The sun’s setting by the time you reach your building. You have no idea where the vultures might’ve hidden, but there’s not one in sight. Maybe they’ve decided to respect you for once.
Your daughters wake up as soon as you walk in your apartment. They don’t cry, but it’s like something tells them they’re home and as soon as you both set the car seats you’re carrying them on the dinner table, their blue eyes flutter open. Joanne makes a little sound and Francesca follows – they go on back and forth like this for a minute.
“It’s like they’re having a chat.” Cara mumbles, watching them with awe.
“Do you think they’re evaluating our apartment? Deciding on whether they like it or not?”
“We’d have to show them around for that.”
So, that’s what you do. Cara holds Joanne, you hold Francesca.
“This is the kitchen,” Your wife mumbles as she opens the fridge door. The light coming from it makes your daughter widen her eyes comically. Francesca’s just gripping onto your finger like her hand depends on it, “That container right there is filled with bacon. I would say I hope it’s your favourite food someday, but that’d create a lot of rivalries between myself and yourselves, therefore, I hope you like it but not that much.”
You chuckle, rewarding your wife with a cheek kiss for her adorableness.
“You are allowed to love your mother’s grilled cheese sandwiches, though. They’re heavenly.”
They make little sounds between them again. You think they approve.
“Next up – the living room.” Cara says, awfully energetic for someone who gave birth twenty-four hours ago, “It’s your turn, babe.”
“This a table.” You mumble when Francesca aimlessly makes you points towards the coffee table.
“That’s very instructing.” Cara snickers from the side. “Babies, you’d be interested to know, your mother and I conceived you on that table.”
“Cara!” You scold her playfulness, suppressing chortles of your own. “Babies,” You mock her, throwing her a glare, “In this house, lies will not be tolerated.”
“Very true. Lying’s horrible.” She wears a strict voice, and then, as she puts her lips to your ear, she whispers, “This authoritarian side of yours is incredibly arousing. Had I not been a wreck down there and about to pass out from exhaustion, I would have to have you, right now.”
Joanne’s sneeze cuts off your retort.
You both yelp, surprised. A fit of giggles follows as Francesca copies her. Seriously, will they do everything together?
When you lead them to their bedroom, you cringe as you realize you’ve left their window opened. You immediately rush to close it.
“This room’s freezing!” Cara mutters as she walks in behind you, “I can’t believe you left the window of their room opened. Out of all the windows in this apartment, you had to forget to close the one in the twins’ room.”
You recoil a little, feeling guilty.
“I’m sorry, I just really wanted to get rid of what was left of the smell of the paint and I—“
“They can’t sleep here. They’re bound to catch pneumonia.” She sighs angrily before shaking her head and walking out of the room. “Seriously, babe.” You hear her angry voice as she stalks down the hall.
“I forgot. I didn’t mean to do it.” You mumble as you follow her upstairs.
“You’ve got to start paying more attention.” She scolds you, annoying voice, “They depend on you completely. You can’t just—“
“We left in a hurry, Cara. I didn’t even remember to—“
“See, that’s your problem.” She shakes her head as she puts Joanne down on your bed, “You always forget something. It’s either forgetting to close a window or your car keys—“
“At least I don’t do it on purpose.” You copy her, lying Francesca next to her sister.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She cries, her loud voice surprising you.
“It means you should’ve told me when you suspected your water broke and—“
She scoffs and rolls her eyes.
“I was trying to keep you from worrying for nothing.”
“That makes no sense!”
Loud shrieks cut you off.
Both Francesca and Joanne decide they are not happy with all the commotion in the room, so they start crying and protesting the noise. You both take them in your arms, heart aching for whatever they’re feeling that’s upsetting them.
“I fed them just before we left the hospital.” Cara quietly tells you as she rocks Joanne, concerned look on her face, “They can’t possibly be hungry already.”
“I don’t know, baby.” You mumble, hushing your daughter with soft whispers in her ear when she lets out a particular loud cry, “Do you want me to call your sister?”
“No. We need to figure this out on our own.”
It makes you smile. It’s true, what she says. Besides, neither of you want to be the type of parents that always rush to the ER with their kids for nothing.
“Do you want to try feeding them, love?”
“Will you help me holding them or keeping me straight? Otherwise my back will hurt too much.”
And so you find yourself against the headboard with Cara sat between your legs, her torso’s weight limp against you. You help her holding your fragile newborns, putting light kisses to where her neck meets her shoulder every time she hisses in pain.
“Babe,” She mumbles a couple of minutes later. You hum, “I think they’ve fallen asleep.”
You do your best to move out from behind her without waking up the twins. You let out a breath of relief when your mission’s accomplished.
“I’ll help you—“
“No, baby. Get some rest. I can put them to bed on my own.”
Cara watches over the babies as you make a couple of quick trips to bring the Moses baskets upstairs. As you’ve done so many times by now, you put your daughters to their respective beds, swaddling them first and then lying them down. As per usual, you spend a couple of minutes just watching them, and when you’ve had enough – let’s face it, you’ll never have enough, but you’re too tired to stay up – you kiss their blanket covered tummies.
When you turn around, Cara’s heavy lidded but staring at you with loving eyes. It’s like she’s just waiting for you to join her in bed so she can fall asleep peacefully. You know the feeling.
Her torso’s bare-naked and she’s struggling to take her trousers off.
You help her, taking her socks off as well. You plant a little kiss on the heel of one of her feet before coming up and watching her take her knickers off. You do the same, except you keep a shirt on because you’re sure, in a couple of hours, you’ll have to get up again.
She throws you a sleepy smile to which you reciprocate just as sleepily, and then she turns off the lights.
Under the covers, you hold her from behind, hand on what remains of her baby bump. It’s just the habit. She hushes you when you plant a particularly noisy smooch on her shoulder blade.
“Can you hear them?” She whispers, and you both cease your own breathing.
You can hear them breathing, indeed, and sometimes they’ll make a couple of soft noises. The butterflies riot inside of you. You had almost forgotten tonight’s the very first night your daughters spend at home.
“Baby,” You quietly mumble against her skin, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. Thank you for our beautiful family.”
She turns around in your embrace, nose bumping against yours. Her lips touch your lips several times in soft kisses. She doesn’t need to say anything for you to know she feels exactly the same as you do. She moves down a little until her forehead rests on your chin. A hand slips under your shirt, widening like she wants to feel as much of you as she can. You’ve got your fingers laced with her hair, imperceptibly massaging her scalp, hand slowing down as you feel your body wanting to drift off into a deep slumber. She falls asleep shortly after you murmur I love you’s, head slipping under your chin.
Everything goes quiet after that.
You can hear your daughters’ peaceful breathing at the end of the bed, and you can hear your wife breathing against your chest.
It’s all you could’ve asked for.